#this turned into a different post for a minute there but i think it works together lol

[anxiouslypretty5]

my success story

last night, i told myself i would FINALLY induce the void state for fun or simply meditation purposes so i simply got comfy on my side and just affirmed “I am��� for 1 minute then i felt a floaty feeling and i got excited but i didn’t place my awareness on my body i kept affirming then my senses went out. it felt like peace, i was everything but nothing at once, thats when i affirmed for my void state list repeating the phrase “i have all my desires from my void state list right now. i have all that i want right now, i have my subliminal results from my void state list right now that are full and permanent.” then i felt some sort of excitement, i left the void state feeling weird but then i felt a sudden urge to turn on my light and look at myself through my phone, thinking nothing changed but OMGG i was wrong. when i turned on my camera my heart was beating so fast. i looked DIFFERENT i did NOT look the way i did before i felt literal tears in my eyes. i looked at my body and it also looked the way i desired, my voice sounded different i started taking pictures of myself and they all came out absolutely perfect, i went to the mirror in the bathroom just to sob because i looked completely different. i wanna say i cried for like 7 minutes straight, i felt so free and confident. my anxiety was gone, depression gone i felt like i was genuinely reborn. my first thing ever was to post a picture of myself on instagram and literally all my followers were confused to who that was, new people in my dms and it was just crazy (my account is private) so people who followed me were absolutely flabbergasted and confused. (which is what i wanted, i wanted people to be confused on how a person can change appearances over night or within a day when they didn’t look the same before.) the next morning i’m getting ready for school parents came and told me i’d be staying at my original school for about 3 days before we move out of the country and back to our home country. but when i went to school because i came a bit late its like i was walking in a movie eyes were on me everywhere i was getting attention (positively) and compliments back to back, a few jealousy there but who cares? my life is change for the complete better and i’m never looking back at my past ever again, if you would love to know what other things i manifested then i can list them here.

* money never ever being a problem for my parents anymore + bills not existing for my parents anymore

* inducing pure consciousness whenever and however i want

* no matter how i sleep i’m always comfy (i sleep weirdly sometimes)

* permanent “makeup” but it looks like extreme natural beauty (you guys will know me real soon, thats if i decide to be known worldwide)

* no more morning breathe

* my life feeling like 2000-2019

* theres always something fun going on

* immunity to racism

* top student in absolutely everything + straight a’s without EVER trying, even when i guess its always right

* weighing exactly 111lbs forever

* being able to shift to any reality i want without EVERY “trying” (like for example if i say i wanted to shift to sailor moon, then i would like instantly and everything would follow script)

* love confessions left to right

* my past being altered

* if i wanted to go back in time and change or do something then i would be able to do that. like as of now if i wanted to go back to the year i was in 9th grade and relive that year just to restart my high school experience then i can

* the embodiment of luck

* reminding people of my once desired aesthetics

* subliminals working instantly for me

theres so much more i can list but im off to enjoy my new life, i hope to see some of you around one day! im unforgettable <3 i wanna thank you, @cinefairy , @salemlunaa @etherealkissed88 @itsrlymine @empyrealoasis @luvmanifesting @luckykiwiii101 AND @b4ddprincess (idk why i can’t tag her)and a few others out there! it took me a while to actually understand and apply the loa to my advantage to manifest my dream life.

to everyone else, you can do this too! i struggled with circumstances but here i am sharing my success story! bye bye!!!

OMGGGG YAYYYYYY IM SO SO HAPPY FOR YOU, FINALLY A SUCCESS STORY IN MY INBOX 😓😓 CONGRATS BABY

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 5.1 | This Must Be The Place

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 23.9k Requested: No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, recreational drug use, intense emotional realizations, that moment when you know there's no going back, and two people fighting against what's becoming increasingly undeniable

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

Author's Note: There are moments that divide your life into "before" and "after." Moments that change the trajectory of everything that follows.

This chapter is all about that turning point. The slow realization that this isn't just a weekend fling. That connection—the kind that hits like a train and leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself.

For Joe, whose entire life has been defined by careful planning and deliberate choices, it's about recognizing that sometimes the most important things in life are the ones you never saw coming. It's about standing in a space that feels more like home than the place he's lived for years, and confronting what that might mean.

For Riley, who embraces spontaneity and lives in vibrant color, it's something else entirely. It's about the surprising vulnerability of actually caring what someone thinks—of wanting Joe to see and appreciate the world she's built. It's the unfamiliar feeling of wanting someone to stay, when she's always been comfortable with people passing through her life.

They're opposites in so many ways: his measured calculation against her joyful chaos; his carefully constructed world against her authentic, lived-in one. Neither of them came looking for this collision of worlds. Neither expected how perfectly these differences would complement each other, creating something neither has experienced before.

This chapter explores that pivotal moment when two people from completely different worlds suddenly find themselves standing on common ground—that exhilarating, terrifying space where you realize you're falling, and it's too late to stop.

I hope you feel every tremor, every aftershock, every moment of recognition as these two realize that whatever is happening between them, it's bigger than either of them anticipated.

Your comments on the last chapter absolutely blew me away. I can't wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! It's a long one.💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe's stomach tightened as the plane began its descent into Louis Armstrong International Airport. He gazed out the window, watching the Mississippi River snake through the city, its muddy waters glinting in the late afternoon sun. A restless energy thrummed in his chest, unfamiliar and irritating. He didn't get nervous before playoff games—so why did the thought of seeing Riley again have him checking his phone every five minutes?

As the driver pulled away from the airport, Joe took in the city's transformation. Mardi Gras had claimed every surface—purple, green, and gold banners draped from balconies, beads dangled from tree branches, and storefronts glowed with festive lights.

"You picked quite a time to visit," the driver commented, maneuvering around a barricade.

Joe smirked. "Yeah. I came down a few times in college, but it's been a while."

Back then, New Orleans had been a blur—teammates, booze, Bourbon Street, bad decisions. A weekend of chaos, gone by Monday. This already felt different.

By the time they reached his hotel in the Quarter, Joe understood why his agent had pulled strings to get him a room here. The streets were packed with people staking out spots along the parade route, the city already pulsing with energy.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the car and saw the historic mansion-style hotel—balconies wrapped in twinkling lights, right in the thick of it—that it hit him.

His assistant had booked the Quarter.

Joe exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. He'd told Mark and Bill he wasn't staying anywhere this public, wasn't taking that risk. He could already hear their reactions in his head.

Not a smart move, man. Too many cameras. Too much chaos.

He could've called, had her switch him to a quieter spot Uptown. But instead, he just grabbed his bag and walked inside.

Maybe he was being reckless. Maybe a small part of him liked that.

The manager greeted him with a broad smile, all Southern charm and warm hospitality.

"Mr. Burrow, we're delighted to have you with us," he said knowingly. "We've upgraded you to our finest suite—balcony overlooking the parade route."

Joe accepted the ornate key with a nod. "Appreciate that."

The manager lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Between us, we're booked solid. But when we heard you were coming…" He shrugged. "We made it work."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Yeah, I bet you did.

Upstairs, he stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the thick, sweet air. The hum of a streetcar rumbled in the distance, the faint strains of brass instruments floating up from somewhere nearby. The scent of powdered sugar and fried dough curled through the breeze.

He pulled out his phone.

Joe QB: Just landed. City looks wild.

Her response came almost immediately.

Riley: Wait till you see it with me. Still good for dinner tonight?

Joe QB: Absolutely. Can't wait to see you.

Riley: Rest up. You'll need your energy for this weekend!

Joe smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he typed again.

Joe QB: Forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. You okay with eating at my hotel? The restaurant here looks solid.

Riley: Yeah, it's pretty crazy out right now. I've been out all day and just got home—something quieter sounds perfect.

Joe exhaled, relieved. She got it without him having to explain. Another thing about her that just fit.

Riley paced her small back porch, her fingers trailing along the worn wooden railing. She’d spent the morning out with friends, then had lunch with Egan and Marcus at their spot in the Bywater—a proper New Orleans day before the full-on Carnival chaos set in. Now, finally home, she had time to breathe. To think.

The afternoon air held that particular New Orleans quality—humid and heavy with the scent of magnolias and something sweet from the corner store down the street. Her wind chimes, a gift from her mom, tinkled softly in the light breeze, nearly drowned out by the distant sounds of Carnival—brass bands tuning up, voices calling back and forth, the occasional burst of laughter from neighbors already deep in the spirit of the season.

Joe was coming. Today.

After weeks—no, just a couple of weeks—of texts and late-night calls that had quickly become the best part of her day, he was actually going to be here. In her city. In her world.

She exhaled, trying to shake off the restless energy buzzing under her skin.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: So lover boy lands today, huh?

Riley rolled her eyes, though there was no one to see it.

Riley: Shut up.

Haley: You’re nervous. I can feel it from here.

Riley: I’m not nervous. It’s just dinner.

Laura: Sure, sure. Just dinner with the guy you’ve been talking to every night for like two and a half weeks. The guy who cleared his schedule to come see you during Mardi Gras, no less—when the city is packed. Totally casual.

Haley: I need details. What are you wearing?

Riley: I hate both of you. I’ll send you pics later.

Laura: Love you too. Call us tomorrow with ALL the details.

Haley: And I mean ALL of them 👀

Riley set her phone down, shaking her head. They weren’t wrong.

She was nervous—which was ridiculous.

Riley Carter didn’t get nervous about men.

She’d been on stage in front of thousands, done live TV performances without breaking a sweat. But something about Joe Burrow made her feel off-balance in a way she wasn’t used to.

She tried to focus on work, flipping through pages of song lyrics for their new album. She should be working—there were still lyrics to refine, melodies to play with. But her mind kept drifting.

Would dinner be awkward after all this time talking but not seeing each other? Would the chemistry they’d felt in New York still be there?

She glanced at the notebook beside her, pages filled with scribbled phrases, half-finished verses. She wasn’t writing about him. Not directly. But maybe, in the margins of late-night thoughts, in the quiet lines she hadn’t shared yet, he was there anyway.

By the time evening arrived, Riley had changed outfits three times before finally settling on a vintage-inspired black dress with a dramatic slit up one side. The cinched belt at her waist added just enough structure, while the fringed shawl draped over her shoulders softened the look. She layered on gold necklaces that caught the light when she moved, the perfect touch of bohemian flair.

As she slid the vintage dress over her head, Riley felt the familiar calm settle over her. This was her element—creating a first impression, a visual story. The nervousness from earlier faded with each deliberate choice, replaced by the quiet certainty that had carried her through a hundred performances.

With each discarded outfit and final selection, Riley felt herself shift from the woman who'd been pacing her porch to the one who commanded stages. Dressing had always been her armor, her ritual, her way back to herself.

She snapped a quick mirror selfie and sent it to THE DOLLS  group chat.

Riley: Final verdict?

Laura: Holy. Shit.

Haley: 10/10. You look insane.

Laura: He’s gonna lose his mind.

Riley smirked, tucking her phone away.

She pulled her hair into a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils framing her face. It was that perfect balance—effortless but intentional. Exactly what she wanted.

She had just swiped on the final touch of lipstick when her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB: Can’t wait to see you.

A slow warmth spread through her chest.

Of course, he couldn’t.

She smiled, tucking her phone into her small crossbody bag, then grabbed her keys and headed out.

Joe's hotel suite was spacious and elegant, with high ceilings, antique furnishings, and tall windows that overlooked the lively streets below. He'd ordered dinner from room service well in advance, arranging for it to be set up on a small table near the windows, complete with candles and a bottle of wine. If they weren't going out, he still wanted the night to feel special.

He'd spent more time than he'd ever admit choosing his outfit—finally landing on a black button-down with a subtle texture, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with light-wash jeans. Clean, simple. Put-together without trying too hard. He wanted to look good for Riley but not like he was overthinking it.

He was nursing an Old Fashioned when a knock sounded at the door, and his pulse quickened. He'd spent the flight mentally preparing for this moment, reminding himself to play it cool—to not be as obviously affected by her as he'd been on Fallon. But all that preparation vanished the second he opened the door.

Riley stood in the hallway, and his breath caught.

Even after picturing this moment a dozen times, the sight of her still hit him like a perfect spiral to the chest.

She moved with easy confidence, her black dress dramatic yet effortless, the slit offering glimpses of long, toned legs as she walked. The fringed shawl draped around her shoulders gave her a bohemian flair that was uniquely Riley—a woman who didn't follow fashion rules but created her own. But it was her smile, warm and genuine, that had his mouth going dry.

"Hi," he said, his voice steady despite the effect she had on him.

Riley stepped in first, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, her hand resting briefly on his chest. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice warm. She glanced around the suite, taking in the details. "This place is gorgeous. Nice move with the room service."

Joe's eyes followed her as she moved further into the suite. "Glad you made it through that crowd out there," he said, stepping forward to pour her a glass of wine. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. "Red okay?"

Riley's smile widened. "Perfect. And it was worth braving the chaos to see you."

"You look amazing," he said, his tone appreciative but matter-of-fact as he handed her the glass.

"Thank you. I'm not even going to tell you how many outfits I tried on tonight, but I'm glad it was noticed."

Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Worth every minute you spent on it."

A slight flush touched her cheeks, something that rarely happened to Riley Carter. She covered it with a quick smile, her eyes lingering on his for a moment before she gestured toward the elegantly set table by the window.

"I really do appreciate this, by the way," Riley said, gesturing toward the elegantly set table by the window. "Eating in. It's crazy out there tonight."

Joe nodded, moving toward the table himself. "I forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. Didn't want to risk dinner turning into a meet-and-greet."

Riley laughed, following him. "Yeah, nothing kills the vibe like someone asking you to sign their baby in the middle of a meal."

Joe smirked, pulling out her chair. "Has that happened to you?"

"Actually, yes," Riley admitted, settling into the seat he offered. "I was two drinks in and signed the poor kid's onesie before my manager could stop me. Mom was thrilled, though."

Joe let out a real laugh, shaking his head. "That's insane. Please tell me there's a picture."

Riley smirked, picking up her drink. "Somewhere out there, I'm sure there is. Probably framed in that kid's nursery."

Whatever lingering awkwardness melted as they settled into the easy rhythm they'd built over weeks of late-night calls and teasing texts.

The food was incredible—blackened redfish for him, shrimp and grits for her, and shared appetizers of boudin balls that reminded Joe of his LSU days. As they ate, Riley told him about her life in New Orleans—the house she'd renovated almost entirely by herself during COVID, how their recording sessions had moved to the city, her eccentric neighbor who practiced trumpet at odd hours but made up for it with homemade desserts.

"I love my neighborhood," she said with a laugh, eyes bright as she sipped her drink. "Especially during Carnival. The parades don't run through my street, but we're close enough to catch them on Magazine. And I'm taking you to Muses tomorrow night."

Joe's fork paused midway to his mouth. His expression shifted, Mark and Bill's warnings already echoing in his head.

"I wasn't really planning on hitting the parades," he admitted, setting his fork down. "The crowds, the visibility—"

"Which is exactly why I asked for your shirt size the other day," Riley cut in, eyes glinting with mischief. "I've got the perfect disguise planned. Trust me, no one's going to recognize Joe Burrow in the middle of Mardi Gras when I'm done with you."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "A disguise?"

"Oh, you're in for it. And the parade's worth it—huge floats, incredible energy, and the best part? It's an all-female krewe, so the throws are next-level. You have to catch a shoe."

"A shoe?"

"Hand-decorated high heels. It's a thing," she explained, grinning. "They're coveted."

Joe shook his head, amused. "My Mardi Gras experience is mostly a blur of Bourbon Street and bad decisions."

Riley smirked. "A couple of drunken college weekends?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, tomorrow you're getting the real experience," she promised. "And seriously, don't worry about being recognized—I've got you covered."

Joe exhaled, still uncertain. He'd always been careful about situations like this—anywhere with too many cameras, too many variables. It wasn't that he minded being seen with Riley, but the thought of losing control of the night, of getting caught up in something messy, had his guard up.

Still, when he looked at her, at the easy confidence in her smile, the anticipation in her voice, he found himself making a decision.

"Okay," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "I trust you."

Riley's lips twitched. "You shouldn't," she teased.

As the meal progressed, Joe felt himself unwinding in a way he rarely did. Conversation flowed easily between them—her bandmates' antics in the studio, his superstitions in the locker room. She made him laugh, really laugh, and it struck him how much he'd missed that. How much he'd missed this—talking to someone who didn't expect anything from him beyond being himself.

Riley took a sip of her drink, then leaned in slightly. "I'm really happy you rearranged your schedule to come here. I know it was probably a headache. You must be booked solid even in the off-season."

Joe grinned, brushing it off. "I wanted to see you again."

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "That easy, huh?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. It was an easy choice."

She lifted an eyebrow, like she was waiting for him to elaborate.

Joe leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "Doesn't matter how crazy things are—if I want something, I make time for it."

Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

"You haven't even been here a full day," Riley pointed out, her voice quieter now. "And during the craziest time of year, no less."

"Doesn't matter," Joe said simply. He held her gaze, unwavering. "Already worth it."

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, and Joe felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

They lingered over dessert—warm bread pudding drizzled with bourbon sauce—but Joe found himself more interested in Riley than the food. The animated way she spoke with her hands, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the thoughtful pause before she answered his more serious questions.

"What?" Riley asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing," Joe said, smiling. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how different you are from what people assume," he admitted.

Riley tilted her head, intrigued. "Different how?"

Joe hesitated. "In interviews and on stage, you're this larger-than-life personality. But when we're together, you're…"

"Less?" Riley suggested, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

Joe shook his head. “No. More. More real. More you.”

The tension in her shoulders eased.

"It's nice," she admitted. "Not having to be 'on.'"

Joe nodded. "Same."

He glanced toward the balcony doors. "Want to step outside? The view's pretty incredible."

Riley smiled. "I'd like that."

The balcony was small but perfect, with a wrought iron railing and an unobstructed view of the oak-lined street below. The scene was quintessential New Orleans—streetcars rumbling past, people strolling with go-cups in hand, the occasional burst of music drifting up from somewhere nearby. With Mardi Gras in full swing, the energy was heightened—revelers in costumes, masks and beads catching the light as they passed.

"This is gorgeous," Riley said, leaning against the railing while Joe poured them each a drink from the room's well-stocked bar.

“It is,” he agreed, handing her a glass of bourbon before joining her. “There’s just something about the architecture here. It’s different—has a kind of charm you don’t see in newer cities. These old houses have so much character.”

Riley took a sip, her gaze drifting across the historic homes. "Me too. When I bought my place, I could've gone for something brand new—modern, sleek, no history—but that just didn't feel like me. I wanted something with soul."

Joe studied her in the dim light, struck by how effortlessly she belonged here. She didn't just live in this city—she was part of it, woven into its rhythm.

"I can't wait for you to show me tomorrow," he said.

Riley turned to face him, warmth flickering in her expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated for just a moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Come back with me tonight."

Joe raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Not to stay—unless you want to. Or not. Whatever," she added quickly, suddenly flustered.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. "That was impressively awkward."

"Yeah, well, you know what I meant," she huffed.

"I do," he said, still grinning. "And yeah, I'd like that."

They finished their drinks in easy silence, the hum of the city filling the spaces between them. When Riley set her empty glass on the small table, Joe knew she was ready to go.

"Let me grab my stuff," he said, stepping back inside.

While Joe packed, Riley arranged for a car. Ten minutes later, they were settled in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, the city lights blurring past the windows as they headed toward her neighborhood.

Joe glanced at her, noticing how she twisted the rings on her fingers. “Having second thoughts?”

Riley turned to him, moonlight casting soft shadows across her face. “No, just… wondering if this is your kind of scene.”

Joe shook his head, voice warm but firm. “Riley, I grew up in Athens, Ohio. Trust me, I’m not used to anything fancy.”

That earned him a real laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When the car pulled up in front of a narrow shotgun house painted periwinkle with coral trim, Joe felt a rush of curiosity. The ornate woodwork along the porch, the tall windows framed by salmon-colored shutters, the intricate details that stood out even in the dim glow of the streetlights—it was unlike any place he’d ever been, but somehow, it suited Riley perfectly.

The wide front porch had a welcoming, lived-in feel, with wicker chairs, a porch swing, and potted plants spilling over their containers. A soft glow shone through lace-curtained windows, and the whole place had an effortless charm, like it had been here forever, belonging to the city as much as the city belonged to it.

“This is me,” Riley said as she thanked the driver, her voice light but laced with something vulnerable.

Joe followed, taking in the street around them. Lush gardens spilled onto sidewalks, and other shotgun houses—each painted in its own distinctive colors—stood proudly, their porches strung with Carnival lights or decorated with hanging ferns. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, and a couple across the way waved to Riley as they rocked on their porch swing, plastic cups in hand.

Joe glanced back at the house. “I love it.” And he meant it.

Riley smiled, pleased as she led him up the steps. “It’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.” 

When she opened the door, Joe stepped into another world entirely. The narrow shotgun layout revealed itself as he looked down the hallway that ran the length of the house, rooms connected directly to each other, but it was the décor that caught him by surprise.

The walls were painted a deep, rich emerald green that somehow made the small space feel larger, more enveloping rather than confined. A massive ornate gold mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the warm light from vintage lamps and string lights draped across the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there were plants—hanging from macramé holders, perched on windowsills, sprawling across bookshelves. The furniture was a collection of vintage pieces that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did—a burgundy velvet sofa covered in patterned pillows, carved wooden tables that might have come from different continents, chairs that looked like they'd been rescued from elegant homes of another era.

For Mardi Gras, she'd added purple, green, and gold accents throughout—a garland draping over the mirror, a small Mardi Gras mask display on a shelf, and a bowl filled with vintage glass beads on the coffee table. It wasn't tacky or overdone, just enough to acknowledge the season in her own stylish way.

And yet, despite all the bold colors and eclectic details, the place didn't feel overwhelming. It felt warm. Lived-in. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.

Joe had spent years living in spaces that never felt fully his—team hotels, his modern, almost impersonal apartment in Cincinnati, the house he'd just bought but hadn't had time to make his own, the home he grew up in that hadn't felt like home since he left for college. Places that held him, but never quite held onto him.

But standing here in Riley's home, something shifted inside him—a tectonic plate of emotion he hadn't known existed suddenly moving. It wasn't just that her space was beautiful or interesting. It was that every corner of it seemed to breathe with her presence, to tell her story without a single word being spoken. Nothing was there by accident. Nothing was just for show.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there."

The lyric surfaced in his mind with such clarity it was as if someone had spoken it aloud. This Must Be the Place. His dad used to play that song on Sunday mornings, vinyl crackling on the old turntable while pancakes sizzled on the stove. The song that had been playing in the background of his life's happiest, most ordinary moments—yet he hadn't thought about it in years.

Something tightened in his chest, a physical sensation to match the emotional realization washing over him. He took a deep breath, feeling strangely like he might cry, though he couldn't have explained why.

What really captured his attention was the art. Every wall was a carefully curated gallery of framed pieces—antique portraits, botanical illustrations, butterfly specimens under glass, and what looked like vintage medical drawings, all housed in ornate gold frames of different sizes and styles. The effect was both chaotic and harmonious, like walking into the home of an eccentric collector who had gathered treasures from across time and space.

"Wow," Joe said, unable to hide his genuine amazement, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete rather than the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "This is… incredible."

Riley watched his reaction carefully, a hint of vulnerability in her posture. "It's a bit much for some people."

Joe wanted to tell her everything—that he just walked in and already felt more at home than in places he'd lived for years, that something in her careful curation of this space spoke to a part of him he'd been ignoring, that in just thirty seconds she'd managed to upend everything he thought he knew about himself and what he wanted.

But how did you say something like that without sounding unhinged? Instead, he let his eyes move over the space again, taking in the warmth, the layers of history, the unmistakable her in every detail.

"It's perfect," he said, turning to her with a smile that must have conveyed some fraction of what he was feeling, because her shoulders relaxed immediately. "It's so completely you."

And in that moment, though he couldn't have articulated it yet, something fundamental changed in him—as if entering her world had revealed a version of himself he hadn't known was possible.

"Tour?" Riley asked, gesturing down the hallway, unaware of the revelation still reverberating through him.

"Absolutely," Joe replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

She led him through the house—past the living room with its velvet sofa and record player in the corner, through a small dining area dominated by an antique table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Each room was another chapter of her story, and Joe found himself cataloging details he'd normally never notice—the worn spot on the arm of the sofa that spoke of hours spent reading there, the collection of vinyl records organized not alphabetically but in what must be some deeply personal system, the bowl of guitar picks on a side table.

Then they stepped into the kitchen, and something in Joe shifted again.

Unlike the dramatic dark walls of the living spaces, the kitchen was painted a soft sage green with open shelving displaying a collection of glassware and ceramics. A wooden dish rack sat beside the farmhouse sink beneath a window lined with small potted herbs and dried flowers hanging upside down. A linen curtain hung beneath the counter instead of cabinet doors, and an old wooden table with four simple chairs sat in the center of the room.

It wasn't just a kitchen—it was a sanctuary. The heart of this house that somehow already felt like it contained a piece of him.

His own kitchen in Cincinnati—sleek, modern, barely used—flashed through his mind. Takeout containers and protein shake bottles. A space designed for efficiency, not living. Not this... whatever this was that made his chest ache with a strange mixture of longing and recognition.

"This countertop was my one big splurge," Riley said, running a hand over the butcher block, oblivious to his internal earthquake. "Everything else I did myself, but I couldn't cheap out on this."

Joe leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself. "It's nice." An understatement. "I can see why you cook so much when you're here."

"Yeah," she shrugged, "after months on the road, I need a real kitchen."

He looked at her hands as they traced the grain of the wood—hands that wrote songs and played instruments, but also hands that had built this space from nothing. Hands that created home. The contrast with his own life—where other people arranged everything, where convenience trumped connection—felt suddenly, painfully stark.

"So, can we try cooking something in here tomorrow?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

Riley smirked, crossing her arms. “You wanna help me?”

“Absolutely,” Joe said, stepping closer. “I don’t mind taking direction.”

"Is that right?" Riley's voice dipped slightly, a slow smile playing at her lips. "Then I guess we're cooking breakfast tomorrow. And by breakfast, I mean brunch, because I'm not getting up before nine."

"I'll adjust my schedule," Joe replied, expression serious, eyes teasing, while inside, a voice whispered that he'd adjust far more than his schedule for this woman if she asked.

The air shifted, the space between them shrinking, charged with something beyond mere attraction. It was recognition. Understanding. A terrifying sense of potential.

Riley took a step toward him, eliminating the distance between them. "I should probably tell you," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "I've been thinking about kissing you again since New York."

Joe's pulse quickened, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips. The honesty in her admission—the vulnerability of wanting something and simply saying so—struck him with unexpected force. His world was full of strategy, calculation, never showing your hand. Yet here she was, laying her cards on the table without hesitation.

"That so?" he managed.

"Mmm," Riley nodded, her hands sliding up to rest on his chest. "I've got a pretty good imagination, but I'm curious if the reality measures up."

Joe's grip tightened at her waist, pulling her closer. A lifetime of careful restraint, of measured responses, and yet with her, everything felt inevitable. "Yeah? Only one way to find out."

The first touch was electric, not just a physical spark but something deeper—as if kissing her was another form of coming home, of recognizing something essential. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her fully against him. Riley made a soft sound of approval, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as she deepened the kiss. She tasted like the bourbon they'd shared on his balcony, and something uniquely her that made his head swim.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Riley rested her forehead against his, a smile playing at her lips.

"I'd say the reality holds up pretty well," she murmured.

Joe laughed softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. What he wanted to say was that nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for this—not just the kiss, but this entire night, this feeling of stumbling into something that might alter the entire course of his carefully planned life.

"I'd have to agree," he said instead, the understatement of the century.

Riley stepped back, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the house. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite spot."

He followed, like he suspected he might follow her anywhere now, this woman who had somehow, in the space of a single evening, made him question everything he thought he knew about what he wanted from life.

The back porch was as charming as the rest of the house—string lights crisscrossed overhead, providing a soft glow, and an outdoor loveseat faced a small yard where an ancient oak tree stood sentinel, its branches adorned with a few strands of Carnival beads that caught the light like stars fallen to earth. The tree had been there long before the house, before any of them, its roots deep and certain in ways Joe had never allowed himself to be.

They sat side by side, Riley with a glass of bourbon and Joe with a local beer she'd insisted he try. The night wrapped around them, the distant hum of the city mingling with the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. After a few minutes, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand settling on her waist with a rightness that startled him—as if they'd done this a hundred times before, as if his body remembered something his mind was just discovering.

"This is nice," Joe said, feeling a kind of peace he hadn't known in years—maybe ever. A peace that had nothing to do with winning or achievement or the constant forward momentum that had defined his life. "Really nice."

"It is," Riley agreed, her voice soft in the darkness. "Sometimes I forget how much I miss it when I'm in LA. Everything there is so…"

"Polished?" Joe suggested, thinking of his own carefully constructed public image, the way he'd learned to sand down his edges, to present only what was expected.

"Exactly," Riley nodded, her hair brushing against his neck. "Here, things aren't perfect. They're real."

Joe studied her profile in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the way shadows played across her face. He was struck again by how at ease she seemed here, how she fit so effortlessly into this eccentric, beautiful neighborhood—not trying to stand out or fit in, just existing as herself. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had earlier, stepping into her house—that seismic shift inside him, that recognition of something he'd been missing without knowing he was missing it.

The constant pressure to be Joe Burrow—franchise quarterback, leader, role model—it fell away here in this quiet backyard with this woman who saw through all of that to something more essential. Something he was just rediscovering himself.

"I can see why you love it," he said, the words inadequate for the revelation behind them. "It's nothing like Cincinnati."

Riley turned to face him, a smile playing at her lips, eyes searching his. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Joe didn't even have to think about it. "Good," he said, his voice sure in a way that surprised even him. "It’s good."

The moment stretched between them, comfortable and charged all at once. When Riley leaned in to kiss him again, it felt natural, inevitable, like the resolution of a chord that had been building since they first met. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, with a sense of exploration rather than urgency. Joe's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

There was no performance in it, no calculated move, no awareness of anything beyond this moment, this connection. For someone whose entire life had been mapped out in plays and strategies, the simple act of being present—fully, completely present—felt like its own revelation.

They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses that ranged from gentle to breathtaking, talking in between about everything and nothing. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the city quieting around them as the night deepened, as if the world was giving them this pocket of time outside its usual demands.

When their last drinks were finished, the conversation naturally turned to the day ahead.

"So what exactly is this disguise you have planned for me tomorrow?" Joe asked, curious but also aware of the familiar weight of caution returning—the reminder that outside this sanctuary, he was still Joe Burrow, with all the visibility that entailed.

Riley's eyes lit up with mischief, the soft porch light catching gold flecks in her irises. "It's Mardi Gras, baby. Nobody looks twice at anything. I'm thinking a hat, maybe some sunglasses, definitely a bandana. And beads. Lots of beads."

Joe raised an eyebrow, skeptical but feeling a new willingness to trust her, to step outside the careful boundaries he normally maintained. "You really think that'll work?"

"It will," Riley assured him, her confidence infectious. "Look, people are expecting Joe Burrow. They're not expecting some guy in aviators with a bandana over his face, looking like a tourist who's been day-drinking since noon."

Joe laughed, shaking his head, imagining himself transformed, anonymous in a way he rarely got to be anymore. "When you put it that way…"

"Trust me," Riley said, squeezing his hand, her fingers warm against his. "I know this city. And I know how to blend in when needed."

She yawned then, failing to stifle it behind her hand, and Joe glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was well past midnight. Time had become elastic, hours passing in what felt like minutes.

"Bedtime?" he asked, his voice softer now in the quiet night air, aware of a new intimacy in the simple question. 

"Yeah." Riley stretched her arms above her head, her movements slow and unhurried, comfortable in a way that spoke of absolute trust. "Today caught up with me."

Looking at her in this moment—relaxed, unguarded, beautiful in the most honest way—Joe felt that certainty again, that sense that he'd stumbled across something precious and rare. Something that might ask him to be more than he'd ever allowed himself to be, something that might require him to dismantle the careful walls he'd built around his life.

Riley stood from her chair, leading the way inside. Joe followed, still struck by how natural this all felt—being here in her space, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him like a second skin. His overnight bag was already by her bedroom door, where he'd left it earlier. The way she'd invited him had been so casual, so typically Riley, that any potential awkwardness had never even had the chance to exist.

 They moved through the house together, Riley turning off lights as they went. In her bedroom, the emerald-green walls glowed softly under the warm light of a bedside lamp. Like the rest of the house, the space was layered and lived-in—a vintage bed with an ornately carved headboard, mismatched pillows piled high, plants hanging near the window, framed art covering every inch of available wall space. It wasn't just decorated; it was curated. Every piece told a story. Every corner felt like her.

 And unlike his own bedroom—functional, minimal, a place for sleeping and nothing more—this room felt alive with meaning. He realized suddenly that he had always approached his living spaces as temporary, even after buying his house. Always waiting for the next contract, the next move, the next phase. Never fully inhabiting the present.

Riley nodded toward the far door. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change first."

 Joe grabbed his bag and disappeared inside. When he returned, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, Riley had already changed into sleep shorts and an oversized band tee, her hair piled into a loose bun.

The casual intimacy of it all settled over him like a revelation. This wasn't the practiced intimacy of hookups with women who wanted Joe Burrow in their bed. This was something else entirely—something honest, something that asked nothing of him but his presence.

No pretense. No expectations. Just this quiet, uncomplicated moment between them. 

When they finally crawled into bed, Riley curled into his side without hesitation, her head resting on his chest like they'd done this a hundred times before. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand instinctively trailing through her hair.

“This is nice,” Riley murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep.

“Very nice,” Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The understatement nearly made him laugh. "Nice" didn't begin to cover the profound shift happening inside him—as if after years of living according to carefully constructed plans and expectations, he was discovering what it meant to simply exist in a moment without analyzing it, optimizing it, or preparing for what came next.

As her breathing evened out, Joe lay awake for a little while longer, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city outside the open window. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he felt this settled. Not just comfortable—but right.

 The thought hit him the same way it had earlier, standing in her living room, that old song playing in the back of his mind.

“Maybe I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.”

The lyrics felt like prophecy now, as if they'd been waiting for this moment to reveal their meaning to him. Talking Heads couldn't have known about a quarterback from Ohio or a singer from New Orleans, and yet somehow they'd written the perfect words for this night, this feeling.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't set an alarm. Didn't think about practice schedules or media obligations or what came next.

He just held Riley closer, let his eyes slip shut, and let himself be. In this bed, in this house, with this woman—that felt like more than enough.

Joe woke to sunlight filtering softly through lace curtains and the distant sound of a saxophone drifting lazily from somewhere down the street. For a second, confusion hit—the unfamiliar ceiling above him, the warmth of someone tucked comfortably against his side. Then it all slid neatly into place: Riley. Her house. Falling asleep with her pressed softly against him.

He relaxed immediately, letting himself sink into the pillow, enjoying the rare, unhurried peace of the morning. There was no alarm ringing, no film study, no training session demanding his attention—just this moment, quiet and perfectly calm.

He glanced at his phone: 9:26 AM. Later than he'd slept in months, maybe longer, and somehow, he felt no rush to get up.

Riley stirred slightly, tightening her arm around his waist, pressing her face sleepily into his chest. Her hair was everywhere, tangled across her pillow, partially obscuring her face. Joe watched her quietly, noticing small details he hadn't gotten close enough to see the night before—the delicate tattoo behind her ear, the faint scatter of freckles over her nose. She looked peaceful, unguarded, completely different from anyone he'd ever known—nothing rehearsed or controlled, just effortlessly herself.

Her eyes fluttered slowly open, hazy and unfocused. "Morning," he murmured softly, brushing a stray strand of hair gently away from her cheek.

She made a muffled, sleepy noise against him. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine-thirty."

Riley groaned, pressing her face deeper against his chest. "Too early."

Joe chuckled quietly, sliding his fingers lazily through her hair. "Thought you said nine was acceptable?"

She sighed dramatically, voice muffled by his skin. "Nine is just the earliest acceptable hour. Not the one I prefer."

Despite her complaints, she didn't pull away—instead, she settled closer, relaxing comfortably against him. Her eyes opened again, softer this time, gaze steady on his face. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Best I have in forever," he admitted honestly, surprising himself with how easy it was to tell her something true.

Riley stretched lazily, catlike and comfortable, and Joe's attention sharpened instantly. His eyes drifted along the curves of her body, catching on the way her thin t-shirt had ridden up to expose a strip of smooth skin at her waist. He felt warmth spreading through him, slow and steady.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging playfully at her lips. "See something interesting?"

Instead of answering, Joe reached out deliberately, his hand sliding across that exposed skin with confident purpose. Riley's breath hitched audibly, her eyes suddenly fully alert.

"I've been waiting on you to make a move since New York, my guy," she said, the bluntness sending a thrill through him.

"Have you now?" Joe murmured, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Without hesitation, he shifted over her in one fluid motion, his weight pressing her into the mattress with deliberate pressure. His eyes locked with hers, taking in her surprised expression with quiet satisfaction.

"About damn time," Riley breathed, her hands immediately sliding up his back, pulling him closer.

Joe dipped his head, claiming her mouth with the same decisive confidence he brought to everything that mattered. No hesitation, no uncertainty - just clear intent. Riley responded immediately, arching beneath him, a small sound of approval escaping her.

He broke away just enough to see the challenge and desire flickering in her eyes. "Better late than never, right?"

"Just shut up and kiss me again," Riley laughed softly, tugging at his shirt impatiently.

Joe grinned and kissed her again, deeper this time, lingering until he felt her melt beneath him. When she tugged at the hem of his shirt again, he sat back just long enough to strip it off, tossing it aside with casual confidence.

Her eyes widened appreciatively as she took him in, openly admiring. "Jesus Christ, you're hot," she breathed, fingers immediately tracing the contours of his chest without hesitation.

Joe laughed under his breath, genuinely flattered by her candor. She wasn't shy, wasn't careful—just honest in a way that felt incredibly refreshing after years of carefully managed interactions.

He dipped his head again, kissing along her neck, letting his teeth graze her skin in a way that made her gasp. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and he looked at her with quiet intent. Riley immediately lifted her arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

He sat back slightly, just looking at her—no clever remarks or practiced compliments, just taking her in. Riley flushed slightly under his gaze but made no move to hide herself, bold and confident even now. When she reached up to touch him again, Joe caught her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above her head, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

Riley bit her lip, looking up at him with eyes full of playful defiance. "Okay, baby," she teased softly, testing his grip slightly. "You're in charge."

His free hand traced a deliberate path down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach, watching her reactions with focused attention. Riley was unlike anyone he'd been with before - completely unfiltered in her responses, every reaction genuine and unguarded.

When he finally released her wrists, Riley immediately reached for him, running her fingers appreciatively down his chest. Joe leaned down, kissing her deeply before trailing his mouth lower, following the path his hands had taken. Her hands slid into his hair, guiding him with a directness he found incredibly arousing.

"Joe—shit," she whispered sharply, urgency rising in her voice. "Stop fucking teasing me, please."

He glanced up, meeting her eyes with a slight smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his fingers into her shorts, slowly pulling them down her legs. Riley lifted her hips to help, kicking them off impatiently once they reached her ankles.

She was completely bare beneath him, her breathing uneven, body fully open and unguarded in a way that set his blood on fire. Rather than asking permission, Joe simply read her reactions, confident in his ability to understand what she wanted.

He pressed kisses up her inner thighs, feeling her muscles tense with anticipation. When he finally tasted her, Riley's breath caught sharply, her hips arching off the bed, fingers gripping his hair to guide him exactly where she wanted.

"Oh my god," she gasped breathlessly, completely unrestrained in her pleasure, pulling him deeper into the moment with her honesty. "Right there, don't stop."

He had no intention of stopping. The way she responded to him, open and vocal about exactly what she wanted, was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, voice breaking slightly as she tugged urgently at his hair. "Joe— right now."

He moved back up her body, eyes meeting hers. Riley reached blindly for the nightstand, knocking something aside before finding what she needed, pressing a condom urgently into his palm.

"These need to go first," she said, tugging impatiently at his sweatpants.

He shifted, trying to pull them off without breaking contact, but they caught around his ankle. After a brief struggle, he kicked them free, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed in the process. Riley's soft laugh made him smile despite himself.

"Smooth," she teased, laughing softly.

"Shut up," he murmured, kissing her quickly to silence the laugh, though he loved the sound of it.

Joe positioned himself above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. "Look at me," he said, his voice low with desire but steady with certainty.

Their gazes locked as he pushed into her slowly, groaning softly as pleasure shot through him. Riley's breath caught sharply, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as she adjusted to him.

"You good?" he asked, his voice rough but controlled.

"So fucking good," Riley gasped, matching his intensity effortlessly. "Don't you dare stop."

Joe began to move with deliberate, deep thrusts, quickly finding a rhythm that had Riley gasping beneath him. He could feel her getting close, feel the way she tightened around him, and he wanted nothing more than to watch her come apart.

"Fuck," he groaned roughly, his own control slipping. "Come for me—I got you."

She came apart instantly, body shuddering as she cried out his name, her complete surrender pulling him over the edge right after. He buried his face against her neck as his own release overwhelmed him, feeling a connection that went beyond the physical.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing ragged, slowly settling back into themselves. Joe pulled her against his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns across her back.

"Well, shit," Riley finally murmured breathlessly, smiling up at him. "Worth the wait."

Joe laughed softly, feeling completely relaxed. "Glad you approve."

She tilted her head up, eyes bright and playful. "Definitely five-star review—though you might want to work on stamina."

Joe groaned dramatically, shaking his head. "Annnnnnddd she's already talkin' shit."

She laughed warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "Can't let you get cocky. Besides, we have plenty of time to practice."

Joe smiled, pulling her closer. "Guess I'd better clear my schedule."

"Maybe your schedule could use a little chaos," she said softly.

He pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead, breathing her in. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Maybe it could."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at him. The amusement in her expression remained, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made his chest tighten.

 "Just so you know," she said, her voice quieter now, "I don't usually do this."

Joe arched a brow, unable to resist teasing her just a little. "What, sleep with guys you just met?"

Riley rolled her eyes. "Not the part you wanna focus on, dumbass. This." She gestured vaguely around the room, then at herself—bare, open, here in her most private space.

 And Joe understood immediately. It wasn't about the sex. It was about the fact that she'd let him in—into her home, her sanctuary, into parts of herself she didn't share easily.

"Riley," he said, his hand finding her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone with a gentleness that surprised even him. "I know what this means. And I'm not taking it lightly." His voice was steady, certain in a way few things in his life had ever been. "This is..." He exhaled, searching for words adequate to the feeling expanding in his chest. "Fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. But it's not just a hookup for me either."

She held his gaze, and he could see her usual guardedness flickering—like she wanted to believe him but wasn't used to letting herself. He wondered how many people had failed to see the real Riley beneath the stage presence, how many had treated her as less than the remarkable person he was discovering.

Then, finally, she smiled.

Not the practiced, camera-ready one. Not the confident, teasing one.

A real smile. Just for him. And in that moment, Joe knew he was in trouble of the very best kind.

Through the window, they could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up—people laughing, music starting, the rhythm of Carnival day beginning. But here in her bed, wrapped in each other, they existed in their own world, one where footballs and microphones and public personas had no place.

Joe turned his head toward her, letting his eyes move over her face, her lips, the wicked little gleam returning to her eye. Then, smirking, he said, "I'd say we should probably run that back later. Just for confirmation purposes."

Riley burst out laughing. "Confirmation purposes?"

"Scientific method," he said with a straight face. "Need multiple trials to verify results."

Riley shoved at his chest, still laughing. "Wow. Who says romance is dead?"

And as her laughter filled the room, Joe realized he'd never felt so completely himself with anyone—no calculation, no performance, no carefully constructed image. Just Joe and Riley, finding something unexpected and precious in each other.

Joe woke again later to the warmth of mid-morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and the enticing scent of coffee drifting from somewhere in the house. He blinked, disoriented for a moment by the emerald walls and unfamiliar ceiling. The space beside him was empty, the sheets still carrying Riley's scent.

A glance at his phone confirmed what the quality of light suggested—it was nearly noon. He smiled, remembering Riley's insistence that she wouldn't be up before nine. Apparently, she'd meant it.

He stretched, feeling pleasantly relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, then pulled on his sweatpants and t-shirt before following the twin lures of coffee and Riley toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, bathed in golden light that filled the space with a honeyed glow. Outside, the sounds of Carnival celebrations were in full swing—music from a few streets over, the occasional burst of laughter, the distant thump of drums. Joe paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Riley moving around the space with practiced ease, filling an old-fashioned percolator with coffee grounds.

She wore his Bengals t-shirt—the one he'd pulled from his overnight bag last night—the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked like she'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, still soft around the edges, and something tugged in Joe's chest at the simple intimacy of catching her in this in-between state.

"Breakfast for lunch?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Riley glanced up, a slow smile spreading across her face when she saw him. "Breakfast is a state of mind," she replied, her voice still rough with sleep. 

"Hey, babe, can you grab some mugs?" she asked, the term of endearment slipping out so naturally neither of them commented on it, though Joe felt a quiet thrill at the sound of it on her lips.

He pushed off the doorframe and reached for the open shelving. He pulled down two mismatched mugs—one with a delicate floral design, the other an old Mardi Gras souvenir with faded purple and gold lettering.

"These work?" he asked, setting them on the counter beside her.

Riley glanced over and grinned. "Perfect." She poured the coffee, handing him one before hopping up onto the counter, her legs swinging slightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt as she took a careful sip.

Joe leaned against the opposite counter, watching her. There was something almost surreal about being here in this kitchen with this woman, as if he'd stepped into someone else's life—a life with more color, more texture, more spontaneity than his own carefully managed existence. And yet it didn't feel foreign. It felt like discovering a room in a house he'd lived in for years but somehow never noticed.

"So, about that breakfast you promised me…" he said, his voice teasing.

Riley held up a finger, eyes closed as she took another slow sip of coffee. "Let me get through a couple of sips first, and then we'll get started."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Not a morning person, huh?"

Riley cracked one eye open. "Not even a little bit. And it's technically afternoon, which just proves my point."

He watched her morning ritual with fascination—the way she cupped the mug with both hands, the small sigh of contentment after each sip, how her entire body seemed to wake up gradually, bit by bit. It was nothing like his usual mornings of alarm clocks, protein shakes, and immediate workouts. This slow unfolding of a day was something he'd forgotten how to do, if he'd ever known at all.

"Alright, I'm ready," Riley finally declared, setting her mug down with purpose.

She hopped down from the counter and moved to an old record player in the corner of the kitchen. After flipping through a stack of vinyl, she pulled out a weathered Allen Toussaint album, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perfect breakfast music," she declared, setting the needle down carefully.

The warm, crackling sound of New Orleans funk filled the kitchen, and Riley swayed slightly, her body instinctively finding the rhythm. Joe marveled at how music seemed to flow through her, as natural as breathing. She moved to the refrigerator, hips still swaying subtly to the beat.

"What're you in the mood for?" she asked, peering inside. "Traditional breakfast or something more fitting for Mardi Gras?"

"Whatever you've got," Joe said, moving to stand behind her, his hands settling lightly on her hips, drawn to her like gravity.

Riley looked over her shoulder at him, smirking. "Not an answer, Burrow." There was something about the way she said his last name—half teasing, half intimate—that made his skin warm.

"What's fitting for Mardi Gras?" he asked, genuinely curious, wanting to learn her world.

"Well," she said, turning in his arms to face him, "we could make king cake. Traditional Mardi Gras breakfast. Or we could do biscuits and gravy like my Papa used to make."

"King cake sounds interesting," Joe said. "But I'm guessing that takes a while?"

"Good guess." Riley ducked under his arm and opened a lower cabinet, pulling out a mixing bowl. "Let's do Papa's biscuits. They're quick, and they go great with coffee after a... busy morning." The slight blush on her cheeks made Joe smirk, memories of their earlier activities sending a pleasant warmth through him.

She began gathering ingredients—flour, butter, buttermilk, salt—lining them up on the counter with practiced efficiency. Joe watched her hands, fascinated by their sure movements, the same hands that had traced patterns on his skin just hours before.

"My grandfather taught me this recipe," she explained, measuring flour into the bowl. "Said no one should leave his house without knowing how to make a proper biscuit."

"Was he a chef?" Joe asked, genuinely interested in the pieces of her history she was sharing.

"No, just a man who believes food is love," Riley said, a softness in her voice that spoke of deep affection. "He said anyone could follow a recipe, but it took heart to make something worth remembering."

Joe nodded, thinking of his own grandfather's lessons about football—not just the mechanics, but the heart behind the game. "I get that."

He watched as she cut cold butter into the flour with two knives, her movements quick and confident. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Riley said, sliding the bowl toward him. "Just finish cutting this butter in until it looks like coarse crumbs."

Joe took over, mimicking her technique with a natural precision that surprised them both.

"Not bad, mister," Riley nodded approvingly as she finished. "Now we add the buttermilk."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley stepped aside. "You mix while I get the bacon started."

Their shoulders brushed as they traded places, the small kitchen bringing them into constant contact. Joe took over the biscuit mixture, studying the consistency of the dough as Riley moved to start the bacon.

"Gentle with it," she instructed, glancing back at him while arranging strips in the cast-iron skillet. "Biscuits need a light touch. Just fold it together—don't knead it like bread."

Joe nodded, his hands moving with surprising confidence as he applied her advice. His fingers worked the dough with measured precision rather than the heavy-handed approach most beginners used.

Riley turned from the stove to check his progress, ready to offer more guidance. But as she watched his careful movements, her expression shifted to surprise. "Wow. You're actually... perfect at this. First try?"

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pick things up quickly." His movements remained deliberate, handling the dough with the same focused attention he might give to studying game film. "It's all about touch, right? Knowing exactly how much pressure to apply."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley showed him how to pat it out and cut perfect circles with a juice glass. The biscuits went into the oven, and they moved on to the eggs.

“How do you want your eggs?” Riley asked.

“Mmm, I don’t care,” he replied, shrugging.

Riley glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not an answer. Most people have pretty strong opinions about their eggs.”

Joe shrugged, eyeing the ingredients she had laid out. "Everything else you're making looks so good, I'm pretty sure I'll be happy with however those eggs turn out."

"Scrambled it is," she agreed, whisking the eggs with vigor. "Can you grab the cheese from the fridge? And the hot sauce?"

They moved around each other in a seamless dance—Joe reaching for ingredients while Riley manned the stove, their bodies constantly finding excuses to touch. Riley bumped her hip against his as she reached for plates; Joe's hand rested briefly on the small of her back as he passed behind her; fingers brushed as they transferred items from counter to table. It was choreography they were creating together, learning each other's rhythms in real time.

"Papa always said you could tell if a relationship had potential by how well you cooked together," Riley said, grating cheese into the eggs as they began to set in the pan.

The casual mention of "relationship" hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly, but both aware of its weight.

"And how are we doing?" Joe asked, flipping the bacon one final time.

Riley glanced up at him, a smile playing at her lips. "Not bad, Burrow. Not bad at all."

The song changed to a more upbeat track, and Riley's hips swayed to the rhythm as she stirred the eggs. Without thinking, Joe slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into a gentle sway that matched the music.

Riley laughed, but she didn't pull away, instead leaning back against him as she continued cooking. "Careful there, mister. I might burn breakfast."

"Worth the risk," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, realizing he meant it in ways that extended far beyond breakfast.

By the time they finished, the kitchen counter was laden with perfect golden biscuits, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs laced with melted cheese, and sliced fresh fruit that Riley had produced from the refrigerator at the last minute.

"This might be the best breakfast I've ever made," Riley declared, surveying their handiwork as she pulled two plates from the cabinet.

"We make a good team," Joe observed, the simple truth of it settling comfortably between them, carrying implications neither was quite ready to voice.

They loaded their plates and settled at the small kitchen table, knees touching beneath it. The first bite of a biscuit—still warm, slathered with butter and honey—had Joe groaning in appreciation.

"Told you," Riley said with obvious satisfaction. "Papa's recipe never fails."

"These are incredible," Joe agreed, reaching for another. "Better than any restaurant."

"Of course they are," Riley said with mock offense. "You think I'd serve you mediocre biscuits after this this morning?"

Joe nearly choked on his coffee, but recovered with a laugh. "Definitely raised the bar."

Riley propped her bare feet up on the empty chair, comfortable in the silence that settled between them. Then she nodded toward the bacon on his plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Joe pushed the plate toward her. "Go for it."

She snagged the piece, taking a bite with obvious satisfaction. There was something disarming about her straightforwardness, her lack of pretense. She simply asked for what she wanted—whether it was his bacon or his presence in her bed—with a refreshing directness that he found both foreign and appealing.

"So what was college Joe Burrow like?" she asked suddenly. "Same perfect poster boy, or did you ever actually get wild?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"Obviously," Riley said, leaning forward, her eyes bright with curiosity that seemed genuine rather than performative.

"Let's just say I wasn't always this..." He gestured vaguely at himself, searching for the right word.

"Buttoned-up?" Riley suggested.

"Careful," Joe corrected, the distinction important somehow. "There was this one time after we beat Oklahoma in the playoffs. The whole team ended up at this bar in Athens. I climbed on top of the bar, did some kind of victory dance that ended with me falling into a table of drinks."

Riley's eyes widened with delight. "No way. Please tell me there's video."

"If there is, my agent's buried it deep," Joe said with a grin.

"I think there's more college Joe hiding in there than you let on," Riley teased.

Joe smiled, thinking briefly of his more structured days with Olivia, how different things had been then versus his more recent casual encounters. "The wild nights were definitely there, just... selective. Reserved for big wins and bigger losses." He shrugged. "What about you? Any embarrassing stories you'd rather keep off social media?"

Riley laughed. "You want embarrassing? Just YouTube 'Riley Carter stage fall compilation.' It's a tragic collection of my greatest hits—and by hits, I mean me hitting the floor."

"There's a compilation?" Joe asked, already reaching for his phone.

"Oh yeah," Riley nodded, wincing. "Chicago, I thought there was one more step than there actually was. Seattle, I tripped over a monitor. Nashville, someone threw a bra that I stepped on and went down like I'd been shot." She counted them off on her fingers. "My personal favorite is Denver, where I actually fell into the drum kit. Pete never lets me forget that one."

"And there's video of all of these?" Joe asked incredulously.

Riley groaned, putting her hand over his phone. "Unfortunately, yes. Multiple angles. The Denver one is particularly cinematic—you can actually see the moment I realize I'm going down. The look on my face..." She shook her head. "Pure terror, followed by the cymbal crash heard 'round the world."

Joe laughed, genuine and unreserved. The sound filled the small kitchen, and Riley found herself smiling too, even at her own expense. It struck him that he rarely laughed like this anymore—without calculation, without awareness of how it might be perceived.

"But seriously," Riley said, pushing her empty plate aside after they'd both stopped laughing, "if you want to hear about my real adventures, we had this van when we first started touring. Complete death trap. No AC, exhaust leaking into the cabin, and the passenger door would only open if you kicked it in exactly the right spot."

"You named it, didn't you?" Joe asked, somehow knowing this about her already.

Riley grinned. "The Beast. Spray-painted it on the side ourselves. That thing survived two full tours somehow, held together by duct tape and prayers."

"Where'd it finally die?"

"Middle of nowhere, Wyoming," Riley said, shaking her head at the memory. "Three in the morning, all of us sleeping in shifts because we couldn't afford hotel rooms. Pete was driving, hit a pothole, and the whole undercarriage just... gave up. We had to wait six hours for a tow, sitting on the side of the road passing a bottle of Jack back and forth to stay warm."

"Sounds miserable," Joe said, but his eyes were bright with interest, captivated by this glimpse into her journey, so different from his own carefully managed ascent.

Riley shrugged. "It was, but also kind of perfect? Like, we were broke as hell, but it was the four of us against the world. And somehow people still showed up to those gigs, even though nobody knew who we were."

Joe nodded, understanding what she meant. Some of his best memories were from before the fame, when it was just about the game and the team, not the brand or the expectations.

"So," she said, reaching for her coffee, her tone shifting slightly, "the band's touring again this summer. We're starting with some smaller intimate venues across the West Coast."

Joe nodded, his expression shifting as reality began to intrude on their bubble. "How long?"

"About two months for the smaller dates," Riley said, watching his reaction carefully. "We wanted to do these more intimate venues first - kind of a treat for the core fans who've been with us from the beginning. Just clubs and theaters, keeping it raw."

"Cincinnati's not exactly on the way to anywhere," Joe said, his tone light but the question underneath obvious.

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "I've heard they have these things called airplanes now. Revolutionary technology."

Joe smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Training camp starts in July."

"Look at us," Riley said, leaning back in her chair. "Already trying to figure out the logistics."

"Is that bad?" Joe asked, something vulnerable in the question.

Riley considered this, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "No," she said finally. "This is just... unexpected."

The word hung between them—unexpected. This connection, this comfort, this sense of rightness in each other's presence. None of it had been planned, none of it fit neatly into their separate lives, and yet here they were, sharing biscuits and bacon and something neither was quite ready to name.

Riley took a final sip of her coffee, eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of our day? The parades don't start until later, but I could show you around my neighborhood if you want. There's this amazing record store a few blocks over, and the best po' boy shop in the city."

Joe smiled, but she caught the slight hesitation in his eyes. "That sounds great, but..."

"You're worried about being recognized," Riley finished for him, understanding immediately.

He nodded. "Yeah. Especially here." He didn't need to elaborate—they both knew his LSU history made him practically royalty in Louisiana.

"Fair enough," she acknowledged. "But we can keep it low-key." She stood and moved to a drawer, pulling out a plain dark bandana. "This and some sunglasses should help for a quick neighborhood walk. Nothing suspicious about a guy covering his face during Mardi Gras. Basic tourist move."

Joe took the bandana from her, considering it. "This enough, you think?"

"For a walk around the neighborhood? Should be," Riley said, though her tone carried a hint of uncertainty. "We'll save the full disguises for the parades tonight. For now, keep your head down, avoid purple and gold anything, and let me do any talking if someone approaches."

Joe nodded, his expression still cautious but willing to try. "I'd like that—seeing your neighborhood through your eyes."

"Good," Riley said with a decisive nod. "Let me just get changed, and we can head out. The record store owner keeps a stash of rare vinyl behind the counter for me, and I want to see if he's got anything new."

The simple prospect of walking through her neighborhood streets, just the two of them experiencing ordinary moments together, felt unexpectedly appealing—even with the risk. No cameras, no expectations—just Joe and Riley, discovering each other's worlds one small piece at a time.

"Put that on," Riley said, nodding toward the bandana as she headed toward her bedroom. "And maybe lose the Bengals shirt too. We're going for anonymous here."

Joe grabbed the bandana from the counter and eyed it skeptically before folding it diagonally. He slipped off his Bengals shirt, replacing it with a plain gray tee from his suitcase.

"Better?" he asked, tying the bandana around his neck, ready to pull up when needed.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in green and white striped wide-leg pants and a vintage black Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked beneath a plain black cap. Her gingham tote bag hung from her shoulder, and gold rings glinted on her fingers as she assessed him with a critical eye, head tilted slightly.

"Almost." She reached up to adjust the bandana, her fingers brushing against his neck. "There. Now you just look like a tourist trying too hard to blend in, which is perfect. That's exactly what we want."

"That's not exactly a compliment," Joe said with a wry smile.

"It wasn't meant to be." Riley grinned, adjusting her tote bag. "Ready for the Riley Carter exclusive neighborhood tour? Limited time offer, far superior to those overpriced French Quarter walking tours."

Outside, the day had bloomed into perfect New Orleans weather—warm but not yet stifling, the air thick with moisture and the scent of magnolias from a neighbor's yard. The street was quiet compared to the bustle of the Quarter, though Carnival energy hummed just beneath the surface. Beads draped from tree branches caught sunlight as they swayed in the light breeze, and the distant thump of drums suggested a small second line forming somewhere nearby.

Joe pulled the bandana up over his nose as they passed a group of neighbors drinking coffee on their porch. They waved at Riley, curious eyes lingering on Joe for just a moment before returning to their conversation.

"See? Easy," Riley said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Nobody cares who you are here. They're too busy living their own lives."

As they turned the corner, an older woman with silver locs piled atop her head called out from her porch.

"Riley Carter! Where've you been hiding, girl?"

Riley's face lit up as she changed course, pulling Joe toward the mint-green shotgun house. "Ms. Josephine! Just busy with the album. How are you?"

The woman's keen eyes shifted to Joe, not missing how Riley's hand was still linked with his. "Can't complain. And who's this?"

"This is Joe," Riley said simply. "He's visiting for Carnival."

Ms. Josephine's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with recognition that made Joe tense. But instead of saying anything about football, she just smiled knowingly.

"Well, any friend of Riley's is welcome here." She gestured toward the house. "Antoine was just asking about that Bill Withers record he lent you."

"Tell him I've got it safe," Riley assured her. "I'll bring it by before I head to LA."

"You coming to Sunday's gumbo gathering?" Ms. Josephine asked. "Antoine's making his famous file gumbo."

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley said, though Joe noticed the subtle acknowledgment in her eyes that he'd be gone by then. Their weekend together had a clear expiration date that neither wanted to mention.

They walked a bit further down the street, with Riley occasionally pointing out neighborhood landmarks—the corner store where the owner still kept a tab for regulars, the tiny coffee shop that served the best chicory blend in the city, the house where a famous jazz musician had lived in the 1950s.

"And that's Ms. Bellamy's place," Riley said, gesturing to a butter-yellow house with elaborate gingerbread trim. "She's been here since before Katrina, knows everyone's business, and makes a praline so good it'll make you cry."

As if summoned by her name, the statuesque woman appeared on her porch, arranging Carnival decorations with mathematical precision. She spotted Riley and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her eyes scanning Joe with unmistakable curiosity before returning to her task without comment.

"That's basically a hug from Ms. Bellamy," Riley whispered with a smile. "She doesn't waste words on just anyone."

"You know all your neighbors?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. In Cincinnati, he knew his security guard by name and occasionally nodded to the couple down the hall, but that was the extent of his community.

"Not all, but many," Riley said. "It's different here. People sit on their porches, talk across fences. It's how I stay grounded when everything else gets crazy. These people don't care about streaming numbers or tour dates—they care if I remembered to bring back their casserole dish or if I'm taking care of that rose bush Edith gave me."

Joe watched her as she talked, her face animated with genuine affection for this place and its people. He tried to imagine a version of his life with this kind of community, this sense of belonging to something beyond the team and his career. It was both foreign and strangely appealing.

"What?" Riley asked, catching his contemplative look.

"Nothing," Joe said, then reconsidered. "Actually, it's just... this isn't what I'm used to. Where I live, privacy means isolation. Here, it seems like privacy and community coexist somehow."

Riley nodded thoughtfully. "That's it exactly. People here respect boundaries, but they also show up when it matters." She pointed to a bright turquoise house across the street. "When Katrina hit, Mr. Jerome there took in seven neighbors and their pets. Nobody had to ask—he just did it. That's New Orleans."

They rounded a corner, and the quiet residential street gave way to a small commercial strip—a neighborhood bar with its doors already open, a plant shop spilling greenery onto the sidewalk, and at the end of the block, a weathered storefront with "RESURRECTION RECORDS" painted in faded red letters above the door.

"Fair warning," Riley said as they approached the record store. "Elvin is a character. Local legend, played with Buddy Guy back in the day. He's going to tell you at least three outrageous stories that are probably true, offer you something to drink that's definitely illegal to serve without a license, and try to sell you records you didn't know you wanted."

"Sounds like my kind of place," Joe said, genuinely intrigued. This was as far from the sterile, corporate music stores he occasionally visited as he could imagine.

Riley's hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally. "Just remember, follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not—under any circumstances—mention LSU."

Before Joe could ask why, she was pulling him through the door, a bell jingling overhead as they stepped into another world entirely.

The bell jingled as they stepped inside Resurrection Records, and Joe's senses were immediately overwhelmed. The store was smaller than it looked from outside, every inch of space utilized to the point of controlled chaos. Vinyl records filled wooden crates that lined the walls and created narrow aisles throughout the shop. The air smelled of dust, incense, and vinyl – a combination that was somehow comforting despite being entirely foreign to Joe's usual environments.

From behind a counter cluttered with vintage audio equipment, a tall man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks tied back in a loose ponytail looked up. His weathered face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Riley.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal daughter herself!" His voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that only decades of whiskey and cigarettes could produce. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your old friend Elvin."

"Never," Riley said, making her way through the cramped space to give him a quick hug over the counter. "Just been in the studio cave. You know how it goes."

"That I do," Elvin nodded, then shifted his attention to Joe, eyes narrowing with open curiosity. "And who's the stranger?"

"This is Joe," Riley said casually. "Joe, this is Elvin Baptiste, legend of the New Orleans blues scene and keeper of vinyl treasures."

Joe stepped forward, hand extended. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Elvin studied him for a moment, taking in the bandana and sunglasses with obvious amusement before shaking his hand. "Any friend of Riley's..." he began, then paused, his grip tightening slightly on Joe's hand. "Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere."

Joe felt the familiar tension seize his shoulders. Riley shot him a quick, reassuring glance before turning back to Elvin.

"He just has one of those faces," she said smoothly. "Joe, why don't you look around while Elvin shows me what he's been holding for me?"

Understanding the escape route she was offering, Joe nodded and drifted toward the nearest bin of records. Behind him, he could hear Elvin's voice drop as he leaned in to speak to Riley.

"That's not just some guy, is it?" he whispered, though not quietly enough.

"Elvin," Riley's tone carried a gentle warning. "Not today, okay?"

There was a pause, then Elvin's laugh. "Your secret's safe with me, Riley-girl. Now, about those imports I promised you..."

Their voices faded into the background as Joe began flipping through albums, relaxing into the anonymity of the task. He moved methodically through the bins, not really searching for anything specific but enjoying the tactile experience of thumbing through the cardboard sleeves, studying the artwork of bands he recognized and many he didn't.

Near the front of the store, he noticed a small section labeled "STAFF PICKS" in hand-painted letters. Curious about what kind of music the eccentric Elvin might recommend, Joe wandered over. The collection was eclectic—everything from obscure jazz recordings to punk albums to what appeared to be world music from regions Joe couldn't even identify.

And there, propped front and center, was Talking Heads' "Speaking in Tongues."

Joe's entire body went still. The exact album. The exact song.

With hands that suddenly felt clumsy, he pulled the record from its place of honor. The sleeve was worn at the edges, but the album itself was clearly well-preserved. He flipped it over, and his eyes immediately found what they were searching for in the track listing: "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)."

The room seemed to recede around him, the chatter and clattering of vinyl fading to a distant hum as he stared at those words. It wasn't just any Talking Heads album. It was the album. The one with the song that had materialized in his mind the moment he stepped into Riley's house, the one his father had played on those Sunday mornings when everything felt right with the world.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there..."

The coincidence was too perfect, too precise to be random. Joe wasn't superstitious—his entire career was built on practice and preparation, not luck or fate—yet standing here, holding this specific record in this specific store in this specific city with this specific woman... it felt like the universe was trying to tell him something.

He glanced over at Riley, still deeply engaged with Elvin at the counter, completely unaware of the cosmic joke or profound message or whatever the hell this was that had just landed in Joe's hands.

The intensity of his reaction frightened him. This wasn't how Joe Burrow operated. He didn't assign mystical significance to old records. He didn't experience emotional earthquakes in dusty shops. He didn't believe in signs from the universe.

And yet.

Everything about his time with Riley had been peeling back layers he hadn't known existed. The way her house had instantly felt more like home than his own carefully designed apartment. The way her chaotic, vibrant life made his structured existence seem hollow by comparison. The way she filled spaces—physical and emotional—with meaning and history and warmth.

He'd been haunted by that damn song since he walked into her house. And now here it was, literally in his hands, as if it had been waiting for him.

Joe tried to rationalize it away. Talking Heads was a popular band. This was probably one of their most famous albums. Of course it would be in a record store. Of course Elvin might select it as a staff pick. There was nothing supernatural about it.

But the explanation did nothing to quell the tremor that ran through him, the sense that something fundamental was shifting in the bedrock of his carefully constructed life.

Even with Olivia—who he'd genuinely loved during those years together—he'd maintained the walls that separated Joe Burrow the quarterback from Joe the person. She'd ended things not because they didn't love each other, but because she'd wanted more of him than he'd been willing to give, more than football allowed him to give. Or at least, that's what he'd told himself at the time. Looking back now, he wondered if it had been his choice all along—football hadn't built those walls; he had.

He'd spent years building those defenses around himself—the disciplined quarterback, the calculated public figure, the man who left nothing to chance. But in less than twenty-four hours, Riley had somehow slipped past all his defenses, not by force but by simply showing him a different way of being. A life full of color and history and connection. A life where things didn't have to be perfect to be meaningful.

And here was this record, this physical manifestation of the feeling that had overwhelmed him in her living room. This tangible proof that the earthquake he'd experienced wasn't just in his imagination.

Joe became aware that his heart was racing, his palms sweaty against the cardboard sleeve. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he'd accidentally revealed something deeply private in public. Glancing around, he was relieved to find that no one was paying him any attention—he was just another customer browsing records.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. This reaction was irrational, disproportionate. It was just a record. Just a song. Just a coincidence.

Except he knew it wasn't. Not really.

This moment, this discovery, was crystallizing something he'd been feeling since he first walked into Riley's world—a longing for something he hadn't known he was missing. A recognition that the life he'd built, for all its success and discipline and achievement, lacked the very thing Riley seemed to create effortlessly around her: a sense of belonging. Of home.

The realization was devastating in its simplicity. He, Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback with the carefully curated public image and meticulously organized life, was homesick for a place he'd never been. For a feeling he'd only experienced in fragments—in his childhood home on those Sunday mornings, and now, inexplicably, with Riley.

It wasn't just that he was attracted to her. It wasn't just that he enjoyed her company or admired her talent or found her intriguing. It was that being with her felt like remembering something essential he'd forgotten. Something about who he could be, who he maybe was supposed to be, beyond the uniform and the expectations and the constant performance.

Joe looked down at the album in his hands, realizing his grip had tightened to the point where he might damage the sleeve. He forced himself to relax, to breathe normally, to appear outwardly calm even as his internal landscape was being completely reconstructed.

He had to buy this record. It didn't matter that he didn't own a turntable. It didn't matter that he had no practical use for it. It didn't matter that bringing this physical manifestation of his emotional revelation back to Cincinnati would be like carrying a live grenade into his carefully ordered existence.

He had to have it. If only to remind himself, when he inevitably returned to his real life, that this place, this feeling, this possibility existed.

"Hey, find something good?"

Joe nearly jumped at the sound of Riley's voice beside him. She was looking at him curiously, her head tilted in that way he was already beginning to recognize as her trying to read him.

"Yeah," he said, holding up the album with a certainty that contrasted with his internal turmoil. "This one."

Riley's eyes dropped to the album in his hands, and for a heart-stopping moment, Joe thought she would somehow see everything—the connection to the song that had played in his head in her house, the seismic shift happening inside him, the terrifying vulnerability he suddenly felt.

Instead, she just smiled. "Talking Heads, huh? Solid pick. That one's a staple."

The comment landed harder than it should have. Of course it was.

"I don't even have a record player," Joe admitted, keeping his tone even.

Riley lowered her sunglasses slightly, studying him. "So why buy something you can't even play?"

Joe looked down at the album, thumb tracing the edge of the sleeve. He considered what to say, but some revelations weren't meant for sharing. Not yet.

"Just feels right," he said simply, with the quiet confidence that came naturally to him on the field but rarely off it. "I'll figure out the rest later."

Riley held his gaze like she wanted to push for more, but after a beat, she just nodded. "Fair enough."

With a grin, she nudged him toward the counter. “Come on, Elvin’s pouring us a drink while we settle up. But take it easy—one’s plenty. Any more, and we’ll be on our asses before the parade even starts.”

Joe followed her to the counter, the record clutched in his hand like a talisman. He'd come to New Orleans expecting a brief escape from his routine, a pleasant weekend with a woman who intrigued him. He hadn't expected to find himself contemplating the fundamental architecture of his life, questioning choices he'd made so automatically he hadn't even recognized them as choices.

And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself holding a physical manifestation of that questioning in the form of a decades-old record.

As Elvin poured them each a finger of amber liquid in mismatched glasses, Joe stole another glance at Riley—her easy confidence, the way she belonged so naturally in this cluttered, chaotic space. The way she seemed to belong everywhere she went, not because she blended in but because she carried her sense of self so completely.

That was what he wanted, he realized. Not just her, though he wanted that too with an intensity that surprised him. But what he truly coveted was her rootedness, her ability to be fully present in her life, to create meaning and connection wherever she went.

The record in his hand was a promise to himself. A reminder that another way of living was possible. That somewhere beneath the carefully constructed edifice of Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, there was just Joe—a person capable of feeling at home, of belonging, of recognizing when something mattered beyond all reason or practicality.

But as he placed it on the counter and reached for his wallet, there was no hesitation in his movements. Whatever this meant, whatever shift was happening inside him, he was embracing it head-on.

He'd come to New Orleans to visit Riley, but he was discovering himself in the process. And that revelation, more than any Talking Heads album or cosmic coincidence, was what truly shook the foundations of his world.

After leaving the record store, Riley suggested they grab a drink before heading back to get ready for the evening's festivities. For now, Joe was keeping a low profile with just the essentials—mirrored aviators and a bandana he could pull up if needed. His head was still buzzing slightly from Elvin's homemade bourbon, a potent concoction the old man had insisted they sample before making their purchases.

"A little liquid courage for the record collector," Elvin had called it, winking at Joe as he'd carefully wrapped the Talking Heads album.

Riley was still in her green and white striped wide-leg pants and vintage Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked up in a messy bun under a plain black cap. Her black sandals clicked against the pavement as they walked, the gingham tote bag now containing their record store haul swinging at her side. The gold rings on her fingers caught the afternoon sunlight as she gestured down a side street.

"There's a place around the corner," she said, tugging him away from the more crowded streets. "Little dive bar that tourists never find."

They weaved through growing crowds of revelers, many of whom were already in various stages of costume despite the early hour. The energy in the Quarter was building steadily, street performers setting up on corners, vendors arranging displays of masks and beads, the scent of food and alcohol mingling in the humid air.

Joe was still processing what had happened in the record store, the strange convergence of past and present that had left him feeling both unmoored and somehow more grounded than he'd been in years. He found himself gripping the small paper bag containing the Talking Heads album a little too tightly and consciously relaxed his hand.

"Here," Riley said, stopping in front of an unassuming door tucked between a voodoo shop and a vintage clothing store. The weathered sign simply read "The Jimson Weed" in faded paint.

Inside, the bar was dim and cool compared to the increasingly humid afternoon. Old cypress beams crossed the ceiling, and the walls were covered in local art and faded photographs of musicians who'd played there over the decades. A small stage in the back corner suggested live music happened regularly, though at the moment only a Blues playlist filled the air.

The crowd was sparse—a few locals at the bar nursing drinks, a table of what looked like visiting college students, and an older couple in the corner sharing a plate of something that smelled delicious.

Riley slid onto a barstool, and Joe took the one beside her, careful to keep his profile turned away from the door. The edge of Elvin's bourbon was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a pleasant warmth and a slight loosening of the constant vigilance he maintained in public places.

A tattooed bartender with a shaved head approached, his face breaking into a genuine smile when he spotted Riley. "Well damn. Riley Carter emerging from hibernation."

"Hey, Marcus," Riley said, leaning across the bar to bump fists with him. "You know I can't stay away from your Sazeracs forever."

Marcus's eyes shifted to Joe, curious but not intrusive. Joe tensed slightly, waiting for the flash of recognition, but it never came. Instead, Marcus just extended his hand. "Any friend of Riley's is welcome here."

"Thanks," Joe said, shaking it firmly. "Joe."

"You caught Elvin's special reserve, huh?" Marcus asked, noticing the record store bag. "Man's been bottling that stuff since before I was born. Still haven't figured out what's in it."

"Pretty sure it's at least 90 proof," Riley said. "Joe here needs something to take the edge off."

"Say no more," Marcus nodded, already reaching for glasses. "Two Sazeracs coming up."

As he moved away to prepare their drinks, Riley turned slightly toward Joe, her knee bumping his under the bar. "You've been quiet since the record store," she said softly. "You okay?"

Joe met her eyes, momentarily thrown by her perceptiveness. "Yeah, just... processing. The record thing. It was unexpected."

"The vinyl bug bites hard," Riley said, clearly misinterpreting his introspection. "First it's one album, then suddenly you're installing custom shelving to hold your collection."

Joe nodded, grateful she hadn't somehow intuited the deeper significance. "I'll have to borrow your turntable sometime," he said, the suggestion carrying more weight than he'd intended.

"Anytime," Riley replied, something flickering briefly in her expression that made his chest tighten.

Marcus returned with their drinks—amber liquid in rocks glasses, each garnished with a twist of lemon peel. As he set them down, his eyes flickered to Joe's face, recognition dawning in them.

"Enjoy," he said simply, then paused before moving away. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hey man, my cousin's a huge Bengals fan. Just wanted to say that playoff run was something else."

Joe tensed, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar.

Marcus seemed to read his discomfort immediately. "Don't worry," he said with a casual shrug. "We get musicians, actors, all kinds through here. House rule is everybody gets to drink in peace."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly as he reached for his glass.

Riley shot Marcus a grateful look as he moved away to help another customer. "Told you," she said quietly. "Marcus is good people."

Joe took a sip of his drink, the flavor complex and strong—rye whiskey, bitters, and something sweet with a hint of licorice that cut through the lingering taste of Elvin's moonshine. "Damn, that's good."

"Told you," Riley said, taking a sip of her own. "Man's a wizard."

"You hitting Muses tonight?" Marcus called from further down the bar where he was pouring a beer.

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley replied. "Got a spot near Napoleon and St. Charles."

"Smart," Marcus nodded. "Garden District's gonna be a nightmare this year. Heard they're expecting record crowds."

Joe watched as Riley surveyed the room, seemingly relaxed but with a constant awareness that he recognized from his own experiences with fame. Even in minimal disguise, she was careful—monitoring exits, tracking who entered, keeping her back to the wall. It was subtle, probably unconscious, but he noticed because he did the same things.

"So how long have you been coming here?" he asked, genuinely curious about this piece of her history.

Riley traced the rim of her glass with one finger, smiling at some private memory. "Since before anyone knew who I was. This place is special—one of the last real local spots that hasn't been completely overrun. Marcus has owned it for twenty years, keeps the tourists out by never advertising and charging too much for domestic beer."

"Smart strategy," Joe nodded, respecting the intentionality behind it.

"The band played our first real gig here," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "First place that ever paid us actual money instead of just free drinks."

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

Riley laughed, the sound warm and unreserved. "Complete disaster. We were so nervous, Pete broke two strings in the first song, Andy was late because his car broke down, and I forgot the lyrics to our opener—just stood there humming until the second verse." She shook her head at the memory. "But the crowd was drunk enough not to care, and Marcus kept booking us anyway."

Her expression turned thoughtful, and she glanced toward the small stage. "He saw something in us before anyone else did. Before we even saw it in ourselves, really."

There was something about the way she said it—a quiet gratitude, a recognition of how far she'd come—that made Joe want to know everything about her journey. Not the version in press releases or interviews, but the real story, with all its struggles and triumphs.

"Your turn," Riley said, nudging his arm. "Tell me something about Joe Burrow that isn't in the ESPN highlight reel."

Joe took another sip of his drink, buying himself a moment. What exactly did he share with her? The Talking Heads album was still weighing on his mind—This must be the place. If he wanted to be known, truly known by her, he needed to offer something real, not the carefully curated anecdotes he saved for media days.

Home is where I want to be...

The lyric circled in his head, reminding him of what had drawn him to Riley in the first place—her authenticity, her ability to be fully present in her life. She'd been honest with him, sharing stories of her early struggles without polish or pretense. Maybe he owed her the same.

"I worry sometimes," he said finally, his voice quieter but steady. "About how long I can keep doing this. The knee, the appendix..." He looked down at his drink, turning the glass slowly between his fingers. "Every time I come back, I tell everyone I'm not thinking about it. That I'm just focused on the next game, the next season. But sometimes, late at night, I do think about it."

Riley watched him, not rushing to fill the silence, giving his words the space they deserved.

"Football's all I've ever wanted," Joe continued. "But lately I've been wondering what comes after. What I'm going to be when I can't be that anymore." He shook his head slightly. "Sorry, that got pretty heavy for afternoon drinks."

"Don't apologize," Riley said, her expression serious but warm. "That's real. Every performer thinks about the shelf life of what we do. My voice won't sound like this forever. Your body won't move like that forever. It's normal to wonder what's on the other side."

Joe nodded, relieved by her understanding. "Yeah, exactly. Most people think we're crazy to worry when we're at the top of our game. But that's exactly when it hits you—knowing it can't last forever."

"So what's the answer?" Riley asked. "What does Joe Burrow do when he hangs up the cleats?"

He laughed softly. "That's the million-dollar question. Coaching, broadcasting—those are the expected routes. But I don't know if that's me."

"What about something completely different?" Riley suggested. "You strike me as someone who could excel at just about anything you set your mind to."

"Maybe," Joe said thoughtfully. "Wouldn't that be something? To completely reinvent myself?" He straightened, shaking off the momentary weight of contemplation. "Anyway, that's probably more than you bargained for when you asked for a fun fact about me."

Riley shook her head, her eyes holding his. "No, it's exactly what I wanted to know. The real stuff." She raised her glass. "To second acts and new beginnings—whenever we need them."

Joe clinked his glass against hers, feeling a strange lightness. He'd never spoken those fears aloud, not even to teammates who shared the same unspoken anxieties. Yet here in this dim bar, with a woman he'd known for barely a day, he'd found the words.

"Enough about uncertain futures," he said with a smile. "Tell me about this parade you keep promising will change my life."

Riley's eyes lit up, and as she launched into a detailed explanation of the Muses parade traditions, Joe found himself simply watching her—the animation in her gestures, the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. In her presence, even his deepest worries seemed less daunting, more like challenges to be met than shadows to be feared.

After their second drink, Riley checked her phone and straightened. "We should probably head back soon," she said. "I still need to get ready, and you haven't even seen your parade disguise yet."

"On a scale of one to complete transformation, how extreme are we talking?" Joe asked.

Riley's smile turned mischievous as she slid off her stool. She dropped several bills on the bar—far more than their drinks cost, Joe noticed—and gave Marcus a quick hug. "That should cover us and a little extra for the tip jar," she said.

Marcus shook his head with a smile. "Always too generous, Carter."

"Consider it an investment in my future drinking," she replied with a wink.

Joe observed this small interaction with interest. Another glimpse of her character—the casual generosity, the way she treated service workers not as invisible background characters but as important parts of her story.

As they stepped back into the late afternoon sunlight, the streets were noticeably more crowded than before. Joe pulled his bandana up as a precaution. The energy had shifted—more costumes appearing, music louder, the atmosphere charged with anticipation for the evening ahead.

The two Sazeracs had left a pleasant warmth in Joe's chest, just enough to lower his usual guard. As they navigated through clusters of tourists already adorned with beads and masks, he found himself walking closer to Riley, their hands occasionally brushing until she finally caught his with her own, intertwining their fingers naturally.

"I'm good," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just forgot how hard a Sazerac hits. And whatever the hell Elvin gave us probably didn't help."

"Not used to real drinks, huh? Too busy chugging protein shakes?" She bumped her hip against his.

Joe scoffed, his free hand landing on her waist. "Please. I could outdrink you and still wake up for a workout before you even thought about getting out of bed."

Riley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, is that right?" She squeezed his hand, tilting her head. "Don't play with me, sir. You do not want that smoke."

The casual touches, her fingers linked with his, the easy banter—it all felt at once new and strangely familiar, as if they'd known each other much longer than a handful of hours.

As they turned onto Riley's street, the residential area slightly calmer than the main drags, Joe found himself surprisingly eager for what came next. His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand as they walked, a gesture so natural he didn't even realize he was doing it until he felt her respond with a gentle squeeze.

"Alright," he said as they climbed her porch steps, reluctantly releasing her hand so she could unlock the door. "Transform me."

Inside, the late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, creating patterns across the wooden floors. The record from the store sat on her coffee table, a physical reminder of his earlier revelation. Joe found himself staring at it, almost disbelieving of how much had shifted within him in just one day.

"Make yourself comfortable," Riley called over her shoulder as she disappeared into her bedroom. "This might take me a few minutes."

She paused at the doorway, turning back to catch his eye. "No passing out on my couch, mister."

"No promises," Joe replied with a lazy smile, though he was far from actually drunk—just comfortable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

He settled onto her couch, the worn velvet somehow more inviting than his own pristine furniture back home. The combination of Elvin's bourbon and Marcus's Sazeracs had left him pleasantly buzzed, his usual hyperawareness softened around the edges.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself simply exist in this space—this house that had somehow felt like home from the moment he'd stepped inside. The distant sounds of Carnival filtered through the open windows, but in here, in Riley's world, there was a stillness that felt sacred somehow.

"Ta-da!" Riley's voice broke through his reverie.

Joe looked up and froze. She'd completely transformed in the thirty minutes she'd disappeared into her room. A light purple wig framed her face—not a vibrant electric color, but a softer lavender that somehow looked surprisingly natural despite being obviously fake. Her face glittered with gold and purple sparkles concentrated around her eyes and cheekbones, making her features shimmer in the light. But it was the outfit that really caught his attention—a black crop top that exposed just enough skin to be interesting without being too revealing, paired with sequined shorts in alternating bands of purple, gold, and green that caught the light with her every movement. She'd paired the look with her black high-top Converse, a leather jacket slung over her arm.

"Damn," was all Joe could manage.

Riley grinned, giving a theatrical twirl. "Now you."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her bedroom, where she'd laid out his disguise on the bed—a purple snapback with a fleur-de-lis embroidered on it, mirrored aviators, and a bandana in Mardi Gras colors. There were beads too, lots of them, and a white t-shirt with "Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler" printed across the front.

"Subtle," Joe said dryly.

"The beauty of Carnival," Riley said, handing him the shirt, "is that nobody looks at faces. Everyone's staring at costumes, masks, floats. The more you blend in with tourists, the more invisible you become."

Joe changed quickly, pulling the shirt over his head. Riley stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. Her fingers brushed his temple as she worked, warm against his skin. They stood close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the faint scent of the bourbon they'd shared. He found himself fighting the urge to pull her closer, to close the small distance between them.

"There," she said, her hands lingering at the sides of his face as she stepped back slightly to examine her work. "How's it feel?"

Joe looked at himself in her full-length mirror, hyper-aware of her standing just behind him, her reflection meeting his eyes in the glass. Between the hat pulled low, the aviators, and the bandana that he could pull up when needed, he was essentially anonymous. He looked like every other out-of-towner in the city for Carnival.

"Weird," he admitted. "But good weird."

"Perfect. Egan texted—they're already at her place with drinks flowing. Six, maybe seven people."

Joe hesitated, something tightening in his chest. "They all know who I am?"

"I may have mentioned I was bringing someone," Riley said with a casual shrug. "And Egan may have figured out who you are. She's smart like that."

Joe felt his shoulders tense. So much for anonymity. Mark and Bill's warnings from their last conversation replayed in his head.

"Look, we're not trying to kill your vibe here," Mark had said, that forced casual tone he used when he was actually concerned. "But it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Joe. The whole city is one giant party, and Riley Carter isn't exactly known for taking it easy."

Bill hadn't even attempted to be subtle. "Her world is different, man. We've all seen her Instagram. Those afterparties go until sunrise. That crowd lives for that shit. One video of you getting wild with her friends, and suddenly we're not talking about your comeback season anymore—we're explaining why you're doing tequila shots at 3 AM."

Joe had brushed them off then, but their words hit differently now. The Riley he'd spent the morning with—cooking breakfast, showing him her neighborhood—seemed miles away from the party girl they'd described. But maybe he was about to see that other side of her, the rock star who thrived in chaos and crowds.

"So much for anonymity," he finally said, his tone more resigned than angry.

"Hey," Riley said, stepping closer, her eyes clear and confident. "These are my people. They've had my back through everything. They know how to keep things quiet."

Joe nodded, but couldn't shake the uneasiness. Every new person who recognized him was another potential leak, another possible viral moment. And if things did get wild tonight—well, Mark and Bill would have a field day with the I-told-you-so's.

"We don't have to go," Riley offered, reading his expression. "We can head straight to the parade spot."

"No," Joe said, making a decision. "I want to meet your friends. Just..."

"Just be prepared to slip out if it gets weird," Riley finished for him. "I get it. We'll have an escape plan."

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through streets that had transformed completely from earlier in the day. The energy was electric now, people in various states of costume filling the sidewalks, music pouring from every direction, the air thick with the mingled scents of food, alcohol, and anticipation.

Joe had the bandana pulled up over his nose and mouth, the hat low over his eyes. He looked like dozens of other revelers—anonymous and unremarkable in the sea of Carnival preparations. But beneath the disguise, his mind was racing. These were Riley's people. Her world. And he was about to walk right into it.

"Nervous?" Riley asked, glancing at him as they turned down a side street away from the main crowd.

"A little," Joe admitted. There was something about her that made it easy to be honest when he'd normally deflect. "I'm not great with new people to begin with. Add in the whole..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this thing, and yeah. A little nervous."

"If it helps, they're more nervous about meeting you," Riley said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Egan's been texting me non-stop. 'What's he like? Is he cool? What should I not mention?'"

Joe raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're just a regular guy who happens to throw a football really well. And that if anyone says anything about the Kansas City game, I'll personally remove them from the balcony."

That got a real laugh out of him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Appreciate that."

As they approached a faded blue double shotgun with a wide front porch already filled with people, the bass of music thumped from inside. Bottles clinked, laughter erupted, and Joe caught the unmistakable scent of something that definitely wasn't tobacco. He inhaled slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. Off-season had its perks, after all, and it's not like he was getting drug tested tomorrow. Still, Mark's voice nagged in his head: Just be smart about it, man. No phones, people you trust, no exceptions.

Riley seemed to sense his hesitation, her hand finding his and giving it a quick squeeze. "Two hours, max," she promised. "Then we hit the parade. And if you want to leave sooner, just say the word."

Joe nodded, squeezing her hand back before reluctantly letting go. In Cincinnati, nobody touched him casually like that. He was already missing the contact.

They climbed the steps, and a woman with a short undercut and colorful tattoos spotted them immediately, breaking away from a conversation to rush over, drink sloshing precariously in her hand.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, hugging Riley tightly. She pulled back to examine the wig, nodding with approval. "Love this color on you. Different vibe from last year's blue situation."

"Thought I'd change it up," Riley said, adjusting the wig slightly. She turned to Joe with a look that said ready? "Egan, this is Joe. Joe, Egan—my oldest friend in New Orleans."

"Hey," Joe said, keeping his voice casual pulling the bandanna down. He'd perfected the art of the neutral greeting after years of meeting strangers who already knew everything about him.

Egan's eyes sparkled with recognition, but she played it cool, leaning in to give him a quick hug that caught him off guard. "Nice to meet you," she said at a normal volume, then lowered her voice to add, "Your secret's safe here, promise. We're not the type to blast stuff on social media."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly at her obvious discretion. Maybe this wouldn't be the disaster his team had predicted.

"Come on," Egan said, leading them toward the door. "Everyone's inside. Fair warning—Tomas brought his infamous punch, and Jeremy is already three drinks in and talking about the Saints' defensive line, so maybe steer clear unless you want to debate NFL strategy all night."

Riley shot Joe an apologetic look, but he just shrugged. "I can talk defense with the best of them."

"That's what I was afraid of," Egan said with a laugh. "Get ready for the football interrogation of your life. He's been preparing his takes all day since I told him you were coming."

Joe couldn't help but smile at that. At least he'd be on familiar territory talking football, even if everything else about this night was uncharted waters.

As they stepped into the crowded house, the door closing behind them, Joe instinctively pulled the bandana down from his face. Out there, in the streets of New Orleans, he needed to be anonymous. But in here, among Riley's trusted circle, he could just be Joe. The air was warm, thick with conversation and music—the rich aroma of good bourbon mingling with something savory cooking in the kitchen, the subtle notes of perfume and cologne, and the unmistakable sweet scent of good flower hanging in the air. This was a long way from his quiet place in Cincinnati, and somewhere between terrifying and exhilarating.

A tall guy with long hair pulled into a messy bun spotted them from the kitchen doorway and called out over the music. "Carter! Get over here! The jungle juice is going fast!"

"That's Tomas," Riley explained, tugging Joe toward the kitchen. "His jungle juice is legendary, but I've seen it take down people twice your size."

As they navigated through the crowd, Joe felt the weight of curious glances but was surprised by how normal it felt. No one was making a big deal of his presence. No phones appeared, no one asked for selfies. Riley's friends greeted him with casual nods or quick introductions—like he was just another friend she'd brought along.

In the kitchen, Tomas was pouring something purple from a massive crystal bowl into mismatched cups. The sweet, fruity smell barely masked what had to be at least three different kinds of liquor.

"The man of the hour," Tomas said, looking up at Joe with an easy grin. He extended his hand. "Good to meet you, man. I'm Tomas."

"Joe," he replied, shaking the offered hand. "That looks intense."

"Family recipe," Tomas said proudly, ladling two cups. "Great-grandfather was a bootlegger during Prohibition. So, that fourth-quarter conversion against Baltimore? Man, that was something else. The way you read that defense—"

"Right?" Joe replied, immediately animated. "They showed blitz but I could tell by the safety's position they were dropping into coverage. It was all about that pre-snap read."

Riley gave Tomas a look that said now you've done it, but she was smiling. Joe took a long sip of the jungle juice, the sweetness barely concealing the serious kick of alcohol.

A guy in a Saints cap who'd been listening from the edge of the kitchen stepped forward eagerly. "So that's how you knew? I've been arguing with my buddies about that play for weeks."

"You must be Jeremy," Joe said, extending his hand. "Egan mentioned you're the Saints expert around here."

"Guilty," Jeremy admitted with a grin, shaking Joe's hand firmly. "Been obsessing over our defensive schemes all season."

"Actually, your coordinator's making some interesting adjustments," Joe said, comfortably leaning against the counter. "That Tampa-2 variation he ran against the Rams was pretty innovative."

Jeremy's eyes lit up. "You noticed that? Most people missed it completely. The way he disguised the coverage pre-snap was brilliant."

"Damn, that's good," he said, genuinely impressed.

"Told you," Riley said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Tomas makes it once a year, just for Mardi Gras."

A woman with long braids appeared at Riley's side, nudging her with an elbow. "You gonna introduce us, or what?"

"Joe, this is Jen," Riley said. "We went to music school together before she abandoned me for law school."

"Best decision I ever made," Jen said, her eyes moving to Joe with open curiosity. "Your girl's a nightmare to tour with."

“Okay, rude,” Riley said, taking a sip of her drink. “I am a delight to tour with.

Jen snorted. “Sure. If your definition of delight includes panic-packing and losing your phone daily.”

Joe turned to Riley, amused. “That sounds… about right.”

Riley just shrugged. “I like a little chaos.”

The guy in a beanie passed by, already smoking. He paused, offering it to Riley with a casual nod.

Riley took it smoothly, inhaling and holding for a moment before passing it to Joe without comment or question. No big deal.

Joe took it with the same casual confidence he brought to everything else. Off-season had its perks, after all. He inhaled with practiced ease, the familiar routine more muscle memory than conscious thought. The tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying in his shoulders melted away as he exhaled low and slow.

He passed it back to Riley, who took another pull before returning it to its original owner. The entire exchange happened with the ease of people comfortable in their choices – no hesitation, no side glances for permission or approval. Just adults making their own decisions.

The conversation around them hadn't even skipped a beat, Jeremy still deep into breaking down some defensive formation with the same enthusiasm as before.

Joe settled back, feeling the pleasant warmth beginning to spread through him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't calculating risks or considering optics. He was just... here. Present. And it felt good.

Joe felt himself settle.

Maybe it was the jungle juice, maybe the weed, maybe just the hum of the night, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about who might be watching.

He wasn’t thinking about the headlines, or the cameras, or Mark and Bill’s warnings.

"So Joe," Jeremy said, leaning forward, "what are you guys looking at in the draft this year? Our mock drafts have you taking that offensive lineman from Alabama."

"Oh God," Riley groaned. "Please talk about something else besides football. We'll never make it to the parade."

But Joe was already engaged, comfortably settling into the topic. "We definitely need to strengthen a few positions," he said, casually confident in his standing with the organization. "I've been watching film on some of the top receiving prospects. Our front office knows I have thoughts."

Jeremy leaned forward, clearly impressed. "They actually let you weigh in on draft picks?"

Joe shrugged, but there was a quiet assurance in the gesture. "It's my offense. They want to make sure whoever they bring in fits what we're building. I was in the draft room last year."

"That's how it should be," Jeremy said, clearly thrilled with this insider perspective. "When you've got a franchise quarterback, you build around what works for him."

Joe gave a slight nod, taking a sip of his drink. "And honestly, that Alabama lineman you mentioned? Wouldn't hate that pick."

As they were preparing to leave for the parade, Joe found himself in a final conversation with Jeremy and Tomas. The three had moved from defensive schemes to debating the league's best venues, finding common ground despite their team loyalties.

"Man, I still haven't made it to a game in Cincinnati," Tomas admitted, finishing his drink. "The atmosphere looks incredible on TV though."

"You should come out next season," Joe said without hesitation, pulling out his phone. "Here, put your numbers in. I'll set you guys up with tickets."

Jeremy's eyes widened. "Seriously? That would be insane."

"Absolutely," Joe nodded, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed his phone to Tomas. "Good seats too, not nosebleeds. And I can get you both field passes before the game."

"That's... damn, thanks man," Tomas said, clearly surprised by the genuine offer as he typed in his number and passed the phone to Jeremy.

"Riley's friends are my friends," Joe said with an easy confidence. "Just let me know which game works for you."

Riley, returning from saying goodbye to Jen, caught the end of the exchange. The pleased surprise on her face told Joe everything he needed to know - he'd just breezed through an important test he hadn't known he was taking.

"Already stealing my people, Burrow?" she teased, sliding her arm through his.

"Can't help it if they have excellent taste in football," he replied with a half-smile, tucking his phone away.

Twenty minutes later, Egan clapped her hands over the music. "Alright, parade time! Muses waits for no one!"

A flurry of movement followed—jackets thrown on, drinks drained, beads tossed over heads, masks adjusted. Someone passed Riley a silver sequined mask, and she slid it into place effortlessly, her eyes flashing behind it.

"We better move," Jeremy said, downing the last of his drink. "Last year Egan left me behind when I took too long."

"She's not joking about the parade waiting for no one," Joe observed, already on his feet and adjusting his bandana. He pulled his cap lower, ready for what came next.

Riley appeared at his side, eyes bright with excitement. "You ready, babes?"

Joe looked at her, taking in the way she vibrated with energy. The way the city felt alive around her, like it moved in sync with her heartbeat. He nodded, already moving toward the door. "Let's go."

As the group spilled onto the porch, the night swallowed them whole—music spilling from open doors, the distant wail of a brass band tuning up, strangers laughing like old friends. Joe stepped confidently into the current, making his way through the crowd with Riley's hand in his, no longer feeling like a visitor but like someone who belonged in this moment.

The parade route was already packed three-deep when they arrived, but Egan navigated with confidence toward a small section that had been impossibly preserved amid the chaos.

"Trahan family real estate," Riley explained, catching Joe's questioning look. "Egan's family has been claiming this exact spot for generations. I've been watching Muses with them since we were in high school."

A cluster of people waved as they approached—a mix of ages and styles that somehow fit together seamlessly, like most things in New Orleans. Joe recognized the easy familiarity of a group that had history together, the kind of connections that ran deeper than occasional meetups.

"Finally!" called a woman who had to be Egan's mother, their features mirroring each other. "We've been fighting off spot-stealers for an hour!"

"Worth the wait though," Riley called back. "We brought reinforcements."

The introductions were casual, unforced. Val and her husband Marco, Egan's parents Marie and Louis, a couple of cousins whose names blurred together. Nobody made a big deal about who Joe was, though he caught the flash of recognition in their eyes. Here, he was just Riley's guy, which felt both strange and surprisingly comfortable.

"So you survived Tomas's jungle juice," Val said, handing Joe a red Solo cup filled with something that smelled like whiskey and fruit juice. "That alone earns you parade privileges."

"It was touch and go for a minute," Joe admitted, taking a sip. Good bourbon, not the cheap stuff.

Marco appeared with a flask, topping off Joe's cup. "Insurance against the wait," he explained with a wink. "Muses runs on New Orleans time."

Riley slipped her arm through Joe's, leaning into him. "Marco's family has been in the Quarter for four generations. His grandmother used to tell us stories about the prohibition-era tunnels under his building."

"Some of them are still there," Marco said proudly. "Though now they're mostly full of old Mardi Gras props and my aunt's preserves."

Joe found himself drawn into their easy conversation, the kind that flowed without the weight of expectation. Nobody asked him about football strategy or his rehab progress. Nobody treated him like Joe Burrow, franchise quarterback. He was just another body in the crowd, anonymous behind his bandana, free to soak in the moment without performing for anyone.

A roar went up from further down the route, and the energy of the crowd instantly shifted, people pressing forward in anticipation.

The energy in the crowd was electric, the anticipation crackling through the streets like a live wire. Riley's grip on Joe's hand tightened, her eyes locked on the approaching float.

"Here we go," she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She glanced up at him, noticing his bandana had slipped slightly. Without a word, she reached up and adjusted it, making sure it covered his features properly. Then, with a quick smile, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss against the fabric over his lips.

Joe blinked in surprise, feeling the warmth of her lips even through the bandana.

Joe glanced down at her, the excitement in her expression making his chest feel weirdly tight. He'd never seen anything like this—felt anything like this. He wasn't just watching Mardi Gras; he was in it, part of it, woven into the chaos like he belonged.

When the float got closer, Riley waved, calling up to one of the masked riders. Beads flew in every direction, but Joe could tell she was tracking something else entirely—the real prize.

"Every year since I was a kid," she said, voice raised over the noise, "I've made it my mission to catch a shoe."

Joe glanced down at her, amused. "And how's that been going for you?"

She shot him a look. "I have a collection, thank you very much."

Still, he could tell she wanted this one.

And when a glittering shoe sailed just out of her reach, Joe didn't hesitate. "Getting you a shoe," he said decisively, gripping the backs of her thighs before she could protest and lifting her onto his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Riley let out a surprised laugh that turned into a whoop of delight as she settled her weight against him. Her thighs tightened around his neck, her hands bracing on his head for balance.

Joe planted his feet wider, holding steady as the next float rolled up. The women onboard were throwing wildly now, and he could feel Riley's excitement vibrating through her legs.

"Hey!" she yelled, waving both arms. "Right here!"

One of the masked riders spotted her, held up a glittering purple shoe, and sent it flying in a perfect arc.

Riley reached up and snatched it out of the air like she'd been waiting for that exact moment her whole life.

Her triumphant scream was loud enough to make Joe's ears ring, but he couldn't stop smiling as she pumped the shoe in the air like a championship trophy.

"We got one!" she shouted, and the people around them cheered, caught up in her infectious joy.

Joe shook his head, grinning. "That was all you."

She didn't hesitate before throwing her arms around his neck.

Neither did he before pulling her in.

As the parade continued, the crowd surged and compressed around them. Joe maintained his position with the same calm awareness he showed in a collapsing pocket, creating a small space for Riley without seeming to exert effort. His hand rested comfortably at the small of her back, guiding her through the masses with subtle, assured movements.

Joe scanned the crowd, quickly spotted a better viewing angle for the next float, and guided Riley toward it with a light touch at her back - decisive but never controlling. They arrived just in time to catch the front of the next procession.

When a flask made its way through their group, Joe took measured sips - enjoying himself but maintaining his characteristic control, even in celebration. Riley tucked herself against his side when the crowd pressed in closer, and Joe's arm draped over her shoulders as they swayed to a brass band.

The parade energy built as floats continued to pass. Joe caught several strands of beads tossed his way with the same easy precision he showed on the field - one-handed catches that drew appreciative cheers from nearby revelers. He draped them casually around his neck, collecting quite a collection as the night went on.

At one point, Riley reached up and selected one particularly vibrant strand of purple beads from his collection. With deliberate slowness, she removed it from around his neck and then looped it back, her fingers lingering at his collar, a touch that said more than words could. Their eyes met briefly in the carnival lights, a moment of connection amid the chaos.

The night continued to unfold around them, and Joe moved through it with the same quiet confidence he brought to everything else - present, engaged, and completely at ease in this new experience.

A hand appeared in his peripheral vision, offering him a flask. He took it, nodding in thanks before taking another swig.

"You surviving?" Tomas asked, grinning as Joe handed it back.

Joe followed his gaze to Riley, who was still showing off the shoe to Egan, her whole face lit up. He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."

Tomas smirked, tipping the flask toward him in a lazy salute. "Good. Would've been a shame if we had to carry you out."

Joe huffed a laugh, tapping his cup against Tomas's flask before the other man wandered off. Something warm settled in his chest—something weightless.

When Riley reappeared at his side, still clutching the shoe like it was made of gold, she looked up at him, her hand sliding into his like it had been there all along. "You good?"

Joe took in the music, the crowd, the easy way she fit against him.

"Yeah," he said, meaning it completely. "I really am."

The parade's final float disappeared around the corner, leaving behind streets littered with beads, empty cups, and the lingering notes of brass bands. Riley's friends were already making plans, voices overlapping in the post-parade high.

"Egan's cousin knows the bartender at Vaughan's," Val announced, waving her phone. "Says he can get us in the back door, skip the line."

"Definitely hitting that," Tomas agreed, slinging an arm around Marco's shoulders. "You two coming? The night is still young!"

Riley glanced at Joe, her eyes slightly unfocused from the bourbon they'd been passing around. She leaned into him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear.

"What do you think? After-party at Vaughan's? Or..." she trailed off, the unspoken alternative hanging between them.

Joe felt the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system, his inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous. He looked down at her, at the way the streetlights caught in her eyes, at the purple beads still looped around her neck.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said, meaning it completely.

Riley studied him for a beat, then turned back to the group. "I think we're gonna pass," she announced. "It's been a big day for the out-of-towner."

Egan's eyebrows shot up, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I bet it has."

"Text me tomorrow," Val called as Riley grabbed Joe's hand, tugging him away from the group. "Details required!"

"No promises!" Riley shouted back, already pulling Joe down a side street that would take them toward her neighborhood.

They made it half a block before Riley stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk, pitching forward with a surprised laugh. Joe caught her around the waist, his own balance not exactly steady.

"Whoa there," he said, overcorrecting and nearly sending them both into a parked car. "I think we might be a little drunk."

"A little?" Riley snorted, leaning heavily against him. "I passed 'a little' somewhere between Tomas's jungle juice and Val's flask."

Joe steadied them both, one arm firmly around her waist. "Maybe I should carry you."

"You absolutely should not," Riley said, poking him in the chest. "You're as drunk as I am. We'd both end up in the gutter."

"I'm a professional athlete," Joe protested, puffing out his chest dramatically. "My balance is impeccable."

To demonstrate, he attempted to walk a straight line down the sidewalk and immediately almost veered into a streetlamp.

Riley doubled over, laughter echoing off the old buildings. "Oh yeah, very impressive, Burrow. Gold medal performance."

Joe straightened up, flashing a sheepish grin. “In my defense, that lamppost came out of nowhere.”

"Clearly," Riley agreed, rejoining him and slipping her arm through his. "Maybe we should support each other. Safety in numbers."

"Teamwork," Joe nodded seriously. "Smart."

They made it another block like that, weaving slightly but mostly upright, exchanging snippets of conversation that dissolved into laughter. Joe couldn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed, this unconcerned with who might be watching or what tomorrow's headlines might say.

Riley stopped suddenly, almost toppling them both. "Wait. Important question."

"Hit me," Joe said, steadying himself against a wrought-iron fence.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm suddenly starving, and there's this place that makes the best drunk food in the city just around the corner."

Joe realized he hadn't eaten anything substantial since before the parade. "I could definitely eat."

"Follow me," Riley said, tugging him down another street. "But fair warning—I'm about to ruin all other late-night food forever."

Three blocks and several near-falls later, they stumbled up to a tiny window built into the side of a brick building. A handwritten sign advertised "NOLA's Best 2AM Eats" despite it being nowhere near 2AM.

The man working the window nodded at Riley like he saw her every weekend. "The usual, Carter?"

"Times two," Riley confirmed, leaning heavily against the counter.

Five minutes later, they were walking again, this time with paper boats filled with what Joe could only describe as the most perfect drunk food he'd ever seen—crispy fries smothered in a spicy crawfish sauce and melted cheese.

"Oh my god," Joe mumbled around a mouthful. "This is incredible."

"Told you," Riley said, looking smug as she popped a sauce-covered fry into her mouth. "Local secret. Tourists never find this place."

They ate as they walked, pausing occasionally to steady themselves or to savor a particularly good bite. At one point, Riley reached over with her thumb to wipe a spot of sauce from the corner of Joe's mouth, the casual intimacy of the gesture making his heart stutter.

"You know what's nice?" Riley asked as they turned onto her street, their food long finished. "This. Just walking home like regular people. No cars, no security, no schedule. Just...wandering."

Joe understood what she meant. For people like them, spontaneity was usually the first casualty of fame. "It's been a minute since I've just wandered anywhere."

"Me too," Riley admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tour life is hyper-scheduled. Every minute accounted for."

"Same with the season," Joe said. "Even the 'free time' isn't really free."

Riley hummed in agreement. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the connection between them needing no words.

"We're here," she announced eventually, stopping in front of her house. She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once before successfully unlocking the door.

The door to Riley's house flung open with excessive force, followed by the sound of her laughter bouncing off the walls. Joe stumbled in behind her, catching the doorframe to steady himself as he kicked the door closed with his foot.

This time when their lips met, there was no bandana between them.

The kiss was clumsy at first—both of them still unsteady from the night's revelry, finding new equilibrium in each other's arms. But what they lacked in coordination, they made up for in enthusiasm. Joe backed Riley against the wall, nearly knocking over a small table in the process. They broke apart, laughing.

"Maybe we should slow down," Riley suggested, her words slightly slurred. "Before we break something valuable."

"Good plan," Joe agreed, though his hands remained firmly on her waist. "Responsible. Smart."

Riley pressed her palms against his chest, gently pushing him back. "Stay right here. Don't move."

"Not going anywhere," Joe promised, swaying slightly as he watched her navigate the dimly lit hallway with exaggerated care.

Riley returned with two glasses of water, pressing one into his hand. "Drink this. Future you will thank present you."

"Future me is a smart guy," Joe agreed, downing the water in several long gulps.

Riley watched him over the rim of her own glass, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer. "Today was fun."

"Mmm," Joe hummed in agreement, setting his empty glass on a nearby table. "Best parade ever."

"Told you," Riley said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Muses is special."

Joe stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, his hands finding her waist again. "You're special," he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Riley's breath caught, her eyes darkening as she looked up at him. "That's the bourbon talking and other stuff."

"Nope," Joe said, popping the 'p' sound. "That's just me talking. Bourbon's just making it easier to say."

Riley laughed softly, setting her water aside to loop her arms around his neck. "Is that right?"

Joe nodded solemnly, his face close enough that she could smell the sweet, woody scent of bourbon on his breath. "I've been wanting to tell you all day. You look... incredible. Like something out of a dream."

Riley’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, her expression softening. “Look at you, with the smooth talk,” she murmured, but the way her eyes softened gave away how his words affected her.

Joe’s lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile as his hand slid up her back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Riley breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t felt this way in… maybe ever.”

Something shifted in Joe’s gaze, the teasing edge giving way to something deeper. He searched her eyes, his own more serious now. “Me neither,” he admitted, his tone low and honest. “Not even close.

”Their mouths met in a kiss that tasted like bourbon and desire, sweet and hot and demanding. Riley pressed closer, her body arching into his. The Muses shoe she'd been clutching all night finally fell forgotten to the floor as her hands found better things to hold onto.

"Too many clothes," she complained, tugging at the buttons of his costume jacket.

"Agreed," Joe murmured against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "This outfit is... complicated."

Riley laughed breathlessly, pushing him back slightly. "Come on."

They stumbled down the hallway, shedding pieces of their costumes as they went—his jacket in the hall, her skirt pooling at the doorway, his shirt somewhere near the foot of the bed. By the time they fell onto the mattress, they were both down to their underwear, skin flushed with alcohol and desire.

Joe hovered over her, his eyes taking in the sight of her against the tangled sheets, hair splayed around her like a golden halo. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think.

Riley's eyes softened, her hands coming up to frame his face. "So are you," she whispered.

Their lips met again, the kiss deeper, slower, full of something neither was quite ready to name. Joe's hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers hooking in the waistband of her underwear. Riley arched into his touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

"Joe," she breathed, the single syllable holding a question and an answer all at once.

"Right here," he replied, understanding perfectly.

The rest of the world fell away—the sounds of distant revelry filtering through the window, the scattered pieces of their costumes marking a trail to the bed, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring complications and distance. For now, there was only this—her body against his, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she said his name like it was the only word worth saying.

Later—much later— they lay tangled together, bodies cooling in the night air. Joe pressed lazy kisses along Riley’s shoulder, missing once and landing on the pillow instead.

She giggled, rolling toward him. “We should get some water.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed, but made no move to get up. His arm flopped dramatically over her waist. “My legs don’t work.”

Riley poked him in the ribs. “It’s my house. Guest gets the water.”

“I just ran a marathon,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Need electrolytes.”

She snorted. “Three minutes is not a marathon, Burrow.”

“Felt like one,” he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep. The bourbon, the parade, and their enthusiastic—if chaotic—activities had finally caught up with him.

Riley sighed, giving in as she slipped out from under his arm. “Fine, lazy. I’ll get the water. Future us will thank me.”

“Future us are suckers,” he muttered, still mostly out of it.

She just smiled, shaking her head as she padded toward the kitchen, already imagining him half-asleep when she got back.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Riley shifting closer, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

Home, he thought hazily as consciousness slipped away. This feels like home.

[somuchwatersoclosetohome]

good morning job seekers here are my thoughts on last night's stage/fright!! others have covered the main plot points and points of interest so this is literally ~1000 words of self-indulgent inane drivel that i wrote in my notes app at 1am (so sorry if there's misremembered lines / typos etc.), you're welcome

(will edit as i remember more stuff)

spoilers for stage/fright 22/03 evening show

le general observations

ok first up let me just say the VIBES for this show were IMPECCABLE. as many of you know this is my third watch and i feel like the energy this time was j u i c y

this time and the last time i went were both saturday evenings which i think can be good? like this audience were super engaged but not overly rowdy... it felt the right level of keen-ness that the company were responding to

all of this to say that it definitely looked to me as if the company but especially R&S were 👏 feeling 👏 themselves 👏

also means that when y'all go and see s/f be keeeeen!! they really respond to (the appropriate amount of) whooping and hollering at the right moments. i mean they literally say in the programme "you can't hear smiles" lol and we all know about reece's experiences with the 'corpses' in the producers lmao

speculation.com, i wonder if the company are feeling this but i'm definitely acutely aware that there's <2 weeks left of the run now 🥺 (where did all the time go???), which i'm trying hard not to think about because (1) sad and (2) what will i base my personality on from 6 april 2025

i’m going to cry SO HARD on the final shows

act 1

R&S got a muuuuch longer applause than i've seen previously when they come out in front of the curtain post-hamlet / a house divided scene to introduce the show. like the applause and wooping went on what felt like a solid minute. they looked happy it was cute!!

paul whitehouse was the hostage and lmaoooo did the guy milk it. the bit where they ask him what he's been in he just kept going listing stuff for aaaages

BUT it looked like R&S were having a great time here. i mean tbh reece spent most of this section with his back to the audience or adjusting his moustache bc he was lol'ing so much

an EXCELLENT fast show reference when paul has to do the spanish accent on the phone and len/eddie comes out with "SCORCHIO" iykyk

covered elsewhere but eddie knows paul from gone fisting / gone girl (and one other that i have neglected to remember)

paul whitehouse cannot play the trumpet. like at all. no sound was produced (len/eddie even says "try turning it on" and mimes switching it on haha)

len/eddie/steve's voice goes so high when he says "it's jUst a sTiCK of ceLerY" and tommy/ray/reece visibly loses it cracking up

🚨 jeremy dyson callout 🚨 as paul is leaving he said something about working with the clever/smart one jeremy dyson haha

also from the BCDR wider bit, tommy's voice crack on "you almost died len" was hearTBREAKING reece nailed it 10/10

act 2

let me open this section with HUGO my one true love this character has grown on me so much and he is honestly such a highlight. he needs his own spin-off tbh

reece was also playing hugo turned up to 11 imo

hugo/reece got a full on applause for his elements song dance number i was so happy!! last couple of times i've seen it's just got some laughs but this time people clapped for ages again to the point they had to wait for people to stop clapping before they could continue. YES BBY YOU'RE AMAZING

hugo did the leg amputation bit SO exaggeratedly this time, from the "this one sir?" to dragging the bone saw along the tray when he takes it from madam cragg

in general the p h y s i c a l i t y of reece in this production is just something else. he does it as eddie and hugo and the fucking bunny hops and exaggerated movement are just so good and make such a difference so thank you rs for the commitment to the bit

between the last time i saw s/f and this time i learned about the concept of sleeve garters (i think thanks to @vagueeyes) and now i noticed them on goudron muahah

i'd picked up from others' watches to watch marcus during the trepanning scene and yes! very worth it!! he mouthes along with the lines very nice detail

every time i've seen the musical number R&S have both looked sooo happy and again tonight. honestly petition for both of them but especially r to be in a fully fledged musical bc he smiles so much in this segment man is in his element

standing ovation 💖💖💖

stage door

right ok so first my GOD i have not seen the line this long so far?? like it literally went from the stage door around the corner onto charing cross rd and almost back to the main entrance of the theatre?? and they still came out and signed everything for everyone that was waiting 😭 true kings i'm still in awe at how they just... don't have to do this at all and yet they still do and they're so patient with everyone

i mean i said nothing of note to them bc i was on cloud 9 (hur hur) but just !!! thank you for coming out

i noticed this last time i went but absolute lols how steve is always the always the one carrying all the gift bags etc. from fans and reece is entirely unencumbered (apart from infamous CAT bag) like yas king go off

i overheard someone asking steve if there was going to be a DVD of the show and he said no 😔 but i wonder, who knows if you can trust these jokers... theres_been_a_twist.mp4

and THEN i had A Thought: imagine the concept - a filmed version of stage/fright with a commentary a la TLoG shows..... please simon evans do it for the fans

omg this is so long and i've said like nothing of note hahahaha ok well thanks for sticking with it

(oh also i'm actually writing this from the afterlife because i touched reece's hand)

[dreadfuldevotee]

okay so I've gotta say I just finished iwtv and like it's really refreshing to find someone who's willing to talk about armand (and, by extension loumand) in an interesting way. Because I quite liked them in S2 so imagine my surprise when I go online and all I see is people acting like armand personally kidnapped claudia and also was mind controlling louis 24/7 (tiktok is horrible with that) when that's just the most boring and frankly nonsensical reading of the material ever. (I think it's silly in general to constantly compare loumand and loustat on the basis of who's worse because. come on.)

However, it got me thinking about how some of that might be the show's own fault? Sure, a big amount of the people not willing to engage are loustat shippers who can't comprehend one person loving multiple people, but I've seen that many people revert back to calling armand this big bad who would have let louis die as if it recontextualizes the WHOLE relationship when imo... it doesn't? Like I feel like I'm going insane bc the show presented it as this huge twist and I didn't quite get on with it? (I'm conflicted on the loustat reunion too but whatever). I feel that there's a disconnect there of what was established the whole season and what was said in the finale. And people are just running with it.

Man idek if what I'm saying makes sense but I wanted to hear your takes on it bc I quite enjoy them and value your input!

No, I totally get what you're saying! I think the details of the loumand breakup collapse on itself upon prodding a bit. I can understand why they wouldn't want them to split the way they do in the book (years of travelling together, finally ending up in New Orleans- Armand setting Louis up to meet Lestat who is wallowing, jumping at sirens 'n just generally sad and pathetic; and being fed up that Louis is seemingly unmoved to any real emotion after the encounter. Them exchanging some harsh observations about each other and then Armand walking off into the night) I think the season ending is more interested in serving the direction they're (presumably) heading for Louis, and wrapping up his life story.

I've been thinking of it to myself as a "Straw that broke the camel's back" kind of break. It's the resurfacing of all the myriad of ways Armand fucked up and fucked Louis over- Oh, and by the way not only did he have a more active role in the play than you originally thought, it never even crossed his mind once to lift a finger to save you. Though, even this falters a bit under remember that Armand breaks Louis out his crypt. People smarter than me have put their finger on exactly why it stumbles on the landing, I'm sure.

What makes it work enough for me is that Louis doesn't go back to Lestat. Yes, they see each other and hug tearfully but Louis does not walk out of Dubai with the intent to ask Lestat to take him back. No, he goes home. He ruminates in the sound of the driver's accent and immediately steps out in a saint's hat. The fact that he finds his way to Lestat is a turn of fate and even then its not really a reunion of lovers but of parents, as the only two people who will mourn Claudia. I say this all the time, but I think knowing that IWTV as a contained story is about grieving a child is the puzzle piece I think a lot of people miss. Before its about Lestat and messy romances and aliens, the whole story sprouts from this moment of deep grief. So I love that Louis has this moment of personal introspection and allows himself to feel his own grief and share it with Lestat but also make a promise to try living for himself and still goes back to the penthouse alone.

I think my continued feelings are a little contingent on how the show plays it going forward. The way I see it, if we start taking score for whos worse, Armand or Lestat- They are tied for gold. Lestat is still complicit in the trial, as is Armand ofc, but neither of them wrote it or schemed it, or genuinely personally desired to kill Louis/Claudia/Madeleine. If the show decides it wants to act like Armand is irredeemable in Louis eyes I will be....less than happy, to say the least. But if the show is as interested in engaging with all the character and all their complexities I think it could all come together quite nicely by the end.

[dandyshucks-moving]

woah rare other system part sighting lmao, here's a Guz drawn by not-Juno

[humanjarvis]

lonely millionaire

synopsis: sylus likes when you spend his money.

tags: suggestive (mdni), sylus sits you on his lap while you drain his bank account, it's for a cute reason though, dry humping, size difference, teasing, sylus is a scoundrel, use of "kitten" and "sweetie" cause we stick to the canon over here pairing: sylus x reader, reader is mc word count: 640

a/n: i don't really have anything to sa—omg this is my first non-caleb post! but yeah i've been thinking of this for a while. this is the most explicitly sexual thing i've written with worse to come

“Why don’t you get that one, too?” Sylus rumbles into your neck, pointing to a luxurious dress on your screen.

You’re seated on his lap in the bed you share, his legs caging your smaller frame while he peeks over your shoulder at the laptop in front of you. For the last 40 minutes, you’d been browsing the website of the most exclusive boutique in Linkon. It’d been Sylus’s idea—To get you something nice for being such a good hunter, he’d said—but as he urges you to keep adding opulent pieces to your cart—dresses, skirts, shoes, you name it—you start to suspect an ulterior motive. 

Restless, you turn around to face him. But before you can speak, he steals your lips in a lewd, wet kiss, his thumb holding your chin in place while he swipes his tongue through your mouth. 

“Hmm?” he hums when he releases you, expectantly peering into your eyes. 

Dumbfounded, you stare up at him before his slow smirk jolts you back into your right state of mind. “Sylus! Stop distracting me. You’re enjoying this, aren't you?” you accuse with a glare. 

“I don’t particularly enjoy being your distraction, kitten. I’d rather have all your attention in the first place,” he replies, wearing an infuriating look of triumph. 

“You know what I mean,” you whine, thwacking his shoulder in exasperation. “You have me in your lap while I spend enough to buy a house on things I don’t need. I don’t get it—are you enjoying this?” 

Sylus blinks lazily. Slowly, he chuckles before rolling his hips into the plush of your backside. “You’re well aware of how much I'm enjoying it, sweetie.” 

Startled, you jerk your hands to his thighs, the laptop landing onto the bed with a soft thud. “Sylus,” you breathe, a whimper escaping you as he grinds upwards again. “I-Is this really okay? You’ve been so tired lately, you can’t hide it from me. What if I spend too much and you have to work harder?”

Sighing, Sylus snakes one thick arm around your waist, pulling you further back into his chest. As he splays his large hand across your belly, you feel his body warming yours, making your core clench with need.

“Kitten,” he drawls, nuzzling your shoulder. “When I’m out there making Onychinus deals, putting my life on the line just to come home coated in someone else’s blood—it gets…tedious, sometimes. Sometimes I wonder if I should give it all up so we can start fresh somewhere new,” he confesses, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your neck. “But having you here with me, knowing I'm putting my life on the line for you? So you can spend what I earn for you, so I can give you all the pretty little things you could possibly ask for? It makes it worth it, kitten. It brings me…peace. Satisfaction.” 

Throughout his musings, he’s been rubbing you harder and harder against his rigid length. Feeling it pulse beneath you, you moan softly and reach your arm back, threading your fingers in his hair. “As long as…as long as you like it,” you pant. “Want you to be happy.”  

His deep chuckle hits your neck, sending shockwaves down your spine. “Won’t you help me relax, then? After all, I've been so tired lately,” he mocks, nipping your ear. 

“Now,” he starts again. “How about you look at the accessories page next, hmm? Let’s see the handbags.”

It’s an hour later when Sylus is finally satisfied with the subtotal of your shopping cart. 

He holds his card out in front of you while you type in the information, and once the order goes through, he captures your lips in a kiss, tender but claiming. 

“What’s your schedule for tomorrow look like, sweetie?” he rumbles, pressing you close. “I think I’d like to look at some jewelry.”

[cherrygirlfriend]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ my nerdy boy

pairing: nerd!rafe x pervert!reader synopsis: all about nerd!rafe and his popular, secretly pervy girlfriend ૮꒰ ྀི >⸝⸝⸝< ྀི꒱ა warnings: smut, masturbation (f), implied virgin!rafe, MDNI! wc: 500 a/n; this is the first rafe fic on this account that isn't a repost! anyway lmk if you want to read more about them, this was sort of a 'morning thoughts' kinda post i wrote within an hour of waking up ໒꒰ྀིっ˕ -｡꒱ྀི১

masterlist ♡ pervert!reader masterlist

when you first met rafe, he was tutoring you for math and the moment you saw him, you thought he looked downright edible in his little specs and his slicked-back hair. he wore baggy hoodies and sweatshirts adorned with your college's name, but one time, you grabbed his bicep to 'steady yourself' (to feel him up) and you felt the hard planes of muscles hidden under his clothes that immediately gave you filthy thoughts.

from then on, you'd do anything to see that pretty blush that'd sometimes grace his defined cheeks, and it wasn't even a difficult thing to achieve. really, most of the time calling him cute was enough to get him turning as bright as a tomato.

you always wore something low-cut and tight to your tutoring sessions, biting down on your lip and shamelessly pushing your cleavage together as you pretended to listen to him explain statistics, your panties getting wetter and wetter the more and more he stumbled with his words.

when he finally gathered enough courage to ask you out on a date, you took him to see a movie, keeping your arm around his shoulders the entirety of the movie, until the final thirty minutes when you pretended to stretch and yawn, moving your hand to rest on his thigh.

rafe stiffened in his seat, a bulge starting to form in his jeans that you pretended not to notice, all the while drawing hearts on the inside of his thigh with your long, pretty nails.

when you two finally started going out officially, you could tell that he didn't have much experience with relationships, his kisses were clumsy and he kept apologizing if he was 'doing it wrong' and you thought it was the most adorable thing ever.

the first time he let you into his dorm room, it was like his personality had been transformed into a bedroom. when he slipped off into the bathroom, you rolled around in his sheets, smelling his shampoo on his pillow, your hand going to rub yourself over your leggings.

you giggled when you saw all the different boxer shorts neatly arranged in his drawer, grabbing a blue plaid pair and slipping them into your bag.

later that night, you called him, wearing his boxer shorts, your arousal soaking them the moment you put them on. he answered in a groggy voice that caused another pang of arousal to go through your body. he'd been up late doing homework, explaining the subject of his essay while you simply 'mmhm'ed and 'oh?'ed at everything the boy said, too busy rubbing yourself to pay any real attention.

you were looking at a picture that you'd secretly taken of him as you worked yourself closer and closer, picturing his hand was the one getting you off, thinking about what it'd be like to jerk him off with your favorite strawberry-scented lotion.

when you finally felt your orgasm rock through you, you bit down on your pillow to muffle the moans and the 'nngh!'s that escaped you.

and for the next ten-or-so minutes, you just listened to him rant about his classes, your hand still in his boxer shorts, a satisfied smile on your lips, thinking of all the ways in which you wanted to defile his innocence.

[tonycries]

One More? Please? - G.S.

Synopsis. A kiss always solves everything! But when a kiss turns into something more…well, it’s only a desperate attempt to unseal yourselves from this damned prison realm, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, unprotected, coworkers to lovers, being stuck in that damn box, oral (female), mutual másturbation, spitting, fáce-sítting, máting press, Satoru is down bad for you, chóking, overstim, multiple rounds, créampie, pet names (sweetheart), swearing.

Word count. 4.4k

A/N. Happy belated two months to this blog! Concept inspired by this post by @kingkonoha.

“Maybe we should kiss and see if the box opens?”

“That’s the dumbest fucking thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

“Hey- it works in the movies! True love’s kiss and all-”

You heave out a heavy sigh that makes even the skeleton at your shoulder shake its head in pity. Goddamn, if these curses weren’t going to kill him then you will. 

“I take it back. That’s the dumbest fucking thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

Satoru hooks a thumb over his blindfold to gaze at you with mock seriousness. Oh, how the mighty have fallen - and how you were teetering dangerously close to a stroke with each dramatic bat of his long lashes.

“C’monnn~” he whines, with the flair of someone that was not sealed in an inescapable prison, “Don’t tell me that in all these years you’ve never once been at least a little tempted to kiss me, sweetheart.” 

“I’d rather kiss that dusty skull.” Shooting him a pointed look that makes even the skulls at your feet recoil. It would almost be hilarious if it wasn’t for the fact that you were trapped. In the prison realm. With Gojo Satoru of all people. Possibly forever.

Shit, is this karma for all those times you ditched Satoru with Nanami instead of dealing with him yourself?

Now, Satoru might be going about it with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, but just a few minutes ago when his life flashed before his very eyes at the mere sight of Suguru - or at least, the monster wearing his body - he’d expected some of his favorite memories to be the ones with you in it. 

You - his lil’ coworker - in all your gorgeous, smart-mouthed glory. And maybe if he was lucky, he even expected a couple glimpses of you in his future. Preferably with a giant rock on your finger.

But that’s a story for another time, what he certainly did not expect was for your stupidly heroic (and quite beautiful) ass to jump right in the middle of the prison realm’s ensnarement. 

Although, honestly, right now he doesn’t think he’d want to be locked up in here with anyone but you - and that withering glare you send him. 

Undeterred, Satoru has the audacity to throw his head back and laugh. Laugh. A sound you’ve come to realize over the years, as innocent as it sounds, does not bode well for you or your sanity. 

A sanity that’s been slowly dwindling since your first day of meeting Satoru. Back then, a brash, cocky new teacher that waltzed into the halls of Jujutsu Tech in those pretentious sunglasses like he owned the place. 

Well, not that he was any different right now. Lounging over some disgruntled skeletons, you half-expected him to pull out a deck chair and start sunbathing amidst the bones. Your begrudging coworker - and occasional bane of your existence - seemed right at home. 

You, however, were decidedly not having the time of your life. 

“I swear, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” you grumble, wincing at the bones prodding you from almost every angle. 

“Can you blame me?” he hums, now fully tugging down his blindfold to hang around his neck, “It’s not every day I get to spend quality time with my favorite person in the world.”

You scoff, strangely self-conscious as those striking blue sweep your figure from head to toe. “Lucky me. Well why don’t you spend this quality time helping me figure out how the hell we can get out of here.”

“I already told y-”

“Anything but that.”

With a sulky huff, Satoru peers down at you, “Then we just wait till someone gets us out of here. I’m sure Megumi-chan is just tearing his emo hair out trying to unseal this thing.”

“...”

“You’re absolutely correct, Yuji then. Or…” he tilts his head towards a sad pile of bones, “We end up like our little friend over there. Though I’d make a far better looking skeleton-”

You don’t hear the rest of Satoru’s rant over the small noise of concern that falls from your lips. Something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach at the fact that yes you really were stuck in the prison realm with Gojo Satoru. Possibly forever. And no this wasn’t some strange dream like when you and Shoko accidentally raided the wrong brownie box in the kitchen.

Shit. 

And perhaps it showed on your face, because you’re jolted out of your reverie by warm fingers intertwining with yours. Grounding. Satoru’s eyes now searching yours with an intensity that made you squirm uncomfortably. 

“Hey, we’ll figure this out, okay?” he mutters softly. “Remember that time we accidentally set the training ground on fire?” leaning in closer now, “Or that mission we got chased by that cursed vending machine?”

You roll your eyes, a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite yourself. “Yeah, and then you nearly got us killed trying to order a sweet tea. ”

Satoru chuckles, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “See? It worked out, didn’t it? It always does, sweetheart.” 

And if your heart does a strange little lurch, well, then you just blame it on the femur jabbing into your side. 

All is quiet in your little hell. That is, until.

“Hey, Satoru…does kissing really work in the movies?” 

You barely catch the way Satoru’s breath hitches ever-so-slightly as he leans in closer. eyes sparkling with mischief. And oh you knew that look - one that was usually accompanied by a lecture by Yaga, one that sent shivers down your spine. He grins, “Well, there’s only one way to find out, hm?”

Embarrassment and amusement bubbles inside you, tumbling out in the form of a barely-audible, “A peck. One.”

“Awww. Eight?”’

“No.”

“Five?”

“Satoru.”

Minty breath fanning your face, “Okay okay, one peck and a kiss to your forehead. C’mon, it’s a bargain~”

Pinching your nose, you sigh out a weary, “This is so stupid. Fine, but if it doesn’t work then I’m strangling you.”

And it’s all that is said before his lips are on yours.  

Soft. Satoru’s lips were so soft. And he tasted so unfairly of caramel apples and sweet, sweet mischief. Just like him. Feather-light and fleeting - yet the kiss burns into your brain with an intensity that you strangely didn’t mind.

It’s over before you know it. The cold air hits your lips as Satoru’s words ring in your ears, a disappointed little, “Aw, that didn’t work.”

Barely even risking a glance at the still very sealed realm, your body reacts before your mind - the expensive cotton of his uniform collar soft against your fingers as you pull Satoru towards you with a sense of urgency you can’t quite explain.

And then you’re kissing him. And he’s kissing you because shit this is all that Satoru’s been dreaming about since he turned 23 and suddenly realized that oh you were frighteningly everything that he ever wanted. 

“S-Satoru,” you whisper, breathless against his lips. 

“Shhhh, my girl. One more. Didn’t work.” 

His lips are searing on yours. Urgent and greedy, because fuck if it took getting trapped in the prison realm to finally kiss you then God knows when he’ll be able to again. 

Which is why he breathes you in like he doesn’t have enough time, and probably never will - even in this godforsaken box where time never passes. 

“Shit. O-one more.”

Drinking in your sweet gasps as he intertwines his tongue with yours, tasting how sinfully delicious you were. Satoru’s hands wander the expanse of your body, cupping your head to kiss you deeper, snaking down to squeeze your ass - and everything in between. 

Pulling away ever-so-slightly with a playful bite to your bottom lip, he leaves a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. The disappointed whine that leaves your pretty mouth makes all the blood in Satoru’s body rush to his cock. 

“Sweetheart.” he grunts into the crook of your neck, lips ghosting over your racing pulse. “Y’think I kissed the wrong lips?”

Oh? 

Satoru’s words send a jolt of electricity running down your spine - all the way down to your heated cunt. “W-what?” you managed to choke out, cheeks flaring as he raises his eyes to meet yours and-

Oh.

Oh, shit. If the curses weren’t going to kill you then Satoru sure might. 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by Satoru carefully jostling the two of you so that he’s lying on his back, your body manhandled to straddle his pretty face. 

“Satoru, when you mean ‘wrong lips’...here?” you trail off, still reeling from him and the abrupt change in position and him. 

“Exactly what I mean,” he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest and vibrating beneath your dripping cunt. “Now, spread ‘em wider f’me. Let me taste you- Need it s’bad.”

Body moving as if on autopilot, your knees part wider to let him greedily take in the sight of your soaked panties. Beads of slick seeping through the thin fabric each time his hot breath meets your cunt. 

But not for long - the cool air hits you before you realize what’s happening. Because Satoru is ripping your flimsy panties off with one hand. Throwing it behind to God-knows-where with the urgency of a madman. 

“Shit, so wet f’me already.” he groans, mouth watering at the obscene sight of you clenching around nothing. “S’gorgeous. You really are perfect everywhere, huh?” he mutters through lazy, languid kisses along your thighs. Tongue darting out just so to leisurely trace circles along the heated skin. 

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, the stretch nothing with the two long fingers spreading your swollen folds apart. Your face burns from just how adoring Satoru looks below you.

You buck into his touch, “Hngh- Please. Wan’ your mouth on me.”

And perhaps the great Gojo Satoru decided to be merciful for once in his life, because without another word, he’s surging forward. Tongue flicking out to tease your sloppy entrance, pooling your juices before tipping his head back, back, back to let it slide down his throat so sinfully.

Shit, Satoru could just cum in his pants right now, of course you taste heavenly. Better than he could’ve ever imagined on any lonely night. 

You shudder as he flattens his tongue across your folds, sliding teasingly between them, grazing your swollen clit just barely at an unhurried rhythm that almost has Satoru forgetting where he was. But quite frankly, he couldn’t give less of a fuck about it either.

“This what you wanted, sweetheart?” he hums around your clit, the vibrations making you squeal. Sucking gently, tongue rolling harshly against your bundle of nerves, over and over- “Cause it’s what I’ve been wanting for years.”

The words ring in your ears almost as much as the lewd squelches below. Years?

“F-fuck- feels hngh- What do you mean y-years, Satoru?” 

Oh, Satoru thinks he could pass out just at the way you whine out his name so prettily. Eyes rolling to the back of his head, a hand hastily snaking down to unbuckle his pants. “Mhmm~ Couldn’t go a day without sparring with you where I didn’t think of bending you over and tasting you right there y’know.”

Your eyes snap down to meet Satoru’s hazy, half-lidded ones. Something dark and feral shining within them. And right now, thighs wrapped around his head, you don’t think he’s ever looked happier. White locks splayed out, a fucked-out expression on his face as his tongue bullies past your folds, you could feel the slight smile curling his lips against you. 

It’s overwhelming - both his confession and the way Satoru was making out with your cunt like a man starved.

Nose-deep in your pussy, tongue alternating between its abuse on your throbbing clit and dipping in and out of your sloppy hole at a maddening pace. Mouth only speeding up ruthlessly at the way you convulse and grind involuntarily on top of him.

God, Satoru was going insane at the way your walls were sucking him up so good, clamping down with each push of his tongue. 

“Shit- made jus’ f’me. You like that, don’t you?” he growls against your cunt, voice hoarse with desire. “Like fucking my face with your pussy?”

“Oh! Ngh, yes Satoru- L-love it-”

A bruising grip on your hips, encouraging you to rock against his face. Harder. Tongue more desperate. He couldn’t get enough. Meeting your every grind, tongue lapping at your cunt so obscenely. 

Breaths ragged and hot against your cunt, drinking you in with the desperation of a man that wouldn’t mind giving up air for your essence. And it was Satoru - of course he wouldn’t mind.

Especially with the large hand snaking up your thigh, going from drawing reassuring patterns at your hips to rubbing tight, little circles on your pulsing clit. Hasty, and urgent - like he had no time to waste. “Tha’s right, my girl. Give it up for me,”

Every cell in your body is on fire, every nerve ending singing with pleasure at the way Satoru plays your body like an instrument. 

“M’close, Satoru- Hah- s’close.” you moan breathlessly, a hand tangling in his soft strands. Using it as leverage to ride Satoru’s pretty face just the way you like it.

But you didn’t have to - because Satoru seems to already know exactly what to do. Exactly how to quirk his tongue just right to brush against all your most sensitive spots. Exactly how to match the rhythm of his abuse on your clit to the way he was tonguefucking you into delirium. Exactly how to look at you with such a hungry expression that devours you almost as much as his mouth. 

“Cum f’me, sweetheart.”

Satoru didn’t even have to ask. Because you’re cumming with a strangled gasp of his name. White-hot pleasure coursing through you like lightning, body trembling as you cum all over Satoru’s pretty face. 

Hands moving your limp, boneless hips across his face, forcing you to ride out peak after peak on his red lips.

As the blood roaring in your ears bates, and you blink back your vision, the first thing you see are those familiar blue eyes gazing up at you. Holding you steady, lips brushing gentle kisses along your inner thighs. 

Oh, how beautiful he was like this.

“S-S’toru?” you mewl, still sensitive from your orgasm as Satoru shifts underneath you to sit you prettily in his lap.

“Mhm?” he nuzzles your neck.

“One more. It didn’t work.”

Oh, if you knew the only way to shut up Gojo Satoru was to say something like this then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. 

But Satoru’s stunned silence doesn’t last for long, because he grins, low and sultry, “You’re right. It didn’t work.”

The metallic clinking of a belt echoes in the stuffy chamber as Satoru hastily pushes down his pants. Cock springing free to hit his lower abs, “What a shame.”

You blink at the sheer size of him - he was going to split you in two. It was unfair, really. Water is wet. Gojo Satoru has a big dick. 

But oh was he pretty - so pretty.  Prominent veins glistening in the dim lighting, fat tip flushed your favorite shade of delicate pink, leaking furiously in between your thighs.

Gulping, you reach out to wrap your hand around his achingly hard cock. So warm and heavy in your hands. “Y-yeah, what a shame.”

Both of you watch - entranced - at the way he twitches in your grasp at the mere sound of your voice. A maddening little bump! bump! bump! against your palm as you begin pumping him slowly - so agonizingly slow. 

“Oh- Feel s’good, sweetheart.” Satoru hisses lowly as you swipe at the precum beading at this head. Thumbing teasingly under his sensitive slit, tracing delicately along his veins. 

And by God does it do something to you to see the great Gojo Satoru falling apart for you, hair tousled, lips kiss-bitten, and eyes looking at you like he wanted to positively eat you alive. It made your cunt throb so desperately, slick forming a dark wet patch on his trousers. 

Not one to be left behind, his long fingers deftly snake down to your dripping cunt. Not wasting any time before bullying his fingertips past your swollen folds, curling expertly to press down against that one spot that has your fist faltering on his cock. Hard. 

Pretty little moans left your lips at the way Satoru so easily matches your pace. Thrusting knuckle-deep into your pussy in and out - hitting that spot over and over.

“Shit, Toru- s’deep inside me. I’m- hngh-”

Satoru was in heaven, really. You were so warm and wet around both his fingers and his throbbing cock. 

Only two thoughts running through his mind right now - 1. He was right, your hands were softer and more sinfully delicious around his swollen cock. And 2. The hardest battle he’s ever fought was probably right now - at your mercy, trying not to spill all over your hands because he’d be damned if he finally scored the girl and came in two seconds.

Shit, he thinks fingers almost erratic now, he needs you to cum. Right now. 

As if sensing his urgency, your moves become more frantic, Satoru’s brows furrowing at the way you increase your pace. His hips twitch, as if trying to thrust into your fist. matching your pace as you start stroking him harder, faster. 

Ah, but alas, the great Gojo Satoru’s reputation precedes him. 

“Oh, fuck- M’gonna-” And soon enough, you’re seeing stars behind your eyes - or maybe those were tears - as you cum. Hard. 

Body moving before your mind, you’re clenching around Satoru’s fingers, grinding down so ferally as you edge him closer and closer. “C’mon, Toru. One more, right?” you whisper brokenly, lips ghosting his ear.

Breath coming in short, strained gasps of what sounded like your name now, “Oh- fuck ngh- so close.” he warns, voice hoarse. “If you keep doing that, I won’t be responsible for what happens next.”

You smirk, raising a brow, “Is that a threat, Satoru?”

Willing his fucked-out eyes open, they bore into yours as he utters, “No, ah- it’s a p-promise.”

Without warning, Satoru clasps your wrists, forcing you to stop pumping him. The disappointed mewl threatening to spill from your lips is cut off just as your back hits the ground.

Slam!

You think you could almost get whiplash from how swiftly Satoru had you caged and splayed out so shamefully beneath him. 

You whine, “But you didn’t even get to-”

“Fuck, not now. Gotta feel you or else m’gonna cum so embarrassingly all over your fist.” He rests his throbbing erection laid out so enticingly across your stomach, leaking hot precum onto your skin. And that makes you shut up, eyes mapping where it ended and realizing that yeah, you might’ve faced more mercy with the curses outside of this box. “Besides. One more, right?”

And before you can respond, Satoru’s spitting on you once. Twice. Thrice.

You flinch as the wads of saliva hit your dripping cunt, mixing with your slick so obscenely as Satoru smears it across your swollen folds. Your mouth drops into a soft oh! of disbelief as he promptly pops his thumb into his mouth, groaning at the taste. 

“Shit.” Satoru hisses lowly, “One more might just not be enough.”

Not wasting a moment longer, he’s bullying his throbbing cock into your snug cunt. Head thrown back as your plush walls desperately try to accommodate his size.

“Oh. Oh shit hah- should’ve been locked up here ngh- sooner.” he groans, words straight from his cock. “Feel s’heavenly around m-me.” Because God Satoru thinks he wouldn’t even mind staying here for the rest of his life if it meant he got to have you like this.

You moan at the positively delicious stretch of your pussy, plush walls unable to decide between pushing him out and milking the soul out of him. “Hah- Toru s’too big. I can’t-” 

“You will.” he grits out, teeth clenched and brows furrowed as he focuses on letting you adjust. Pressing inch by fucking inch. Eyes rolling to the back of his head as he fights that feral part of himself that just wants to plunge into your pretty pussy till his tip kisses your cervix, and you’re drunk on nothing but his cock.

But he didn’t have to - because you’re immediately wrapping your legs around his toned waist, pulling Satoru to you recklessly until his heavy balls smack your ass. Tufts of snowy white hair - already so wet with your slick and his precum - finally meeting your cunt.

“Ah! Shit, s’full Toru.” you keen, body bowing into his.

There’s not even a hair's breadth between your bodies now as Satoru chuckles darkly. “You little minx. Thought you couldn’t handle me, but you really wanted to be split apart on my cock, huh?”

You feel almost shy under his gaze as you mumble out a quiet little, “Well you did say one more.”

Ah, Satoru thinks deliriously, if you aren’t Mrs. Gojo by the time you two get out of this then there’s seriously something wrong with him. 

But he doesn’t tell you that. Instead with a satisfied smirk, he claims your lips in a searing kiss, sucking your tongue so lewdly as he did with your cunt. Parting for only a second before pressing his lips to yours again. And again. And again, as if it hurt to part.

“Mhm. Always wanted to do this, sweetheart.” he hums against your pretty lips. “Fuck ever since you hah- walked in on that first day.” 

Kissing you sweetly with a tenderness that doesn’t translate to his hips as pulls back, back, back. All the way till his angry, hard tip was just grazing your sloppy entrance. “One more.”

Body moving before his mind, his hips start fucking into your dripping cunt recklessly. Satoru doesn’t fuck you with the finesse he imagined he would all these years, rough, harsh thrusts fueled by pure need and all the desperation from these last few years.

In one, fluid movement, the burn of the stretch hits you before the realization that Satoru has thrown your legs over his sculpted shoulders. 

“Ah- So good, Toru. Oh my god- hah-” you mewl at the change in angle. His pulsing dick expertly hitting that one spot inside you which has your words slurring together, body arching off the floor to press so impossibly close against him. 

And, well, Satoru isn’t any better - because he’s slamming his cock into you mindlessly. Hitting that spot over and over. 

With one hand, he caresses your stomach. Whispering out a ragged, “Feel me inside? Feel me right…” Pressing his palm down hard, “Here.”

The other forces you to look up at him, drinking in your whines of “Yes yes yes, can feel you s-so deep hngh- inside me, Toru.” 

You’re so cockdrunk and full of Satoru that you barely notice the hands groping their way down your body. Catching harshly on your swollen clit, starting to draw, quick, frenzied circles that match the cadence of his hips smacking into yours. 

“Look at me.” he murmurs raspily, “Open your mouth.”

And you can do nothing but take it, tongue lolling out so lewdly for the warm stream of spit that hits it. Once. Twice. 

You look up at him with teary eyes, as you take it all -  anything and everything he was giving. And it makes Satoru bow his head with a fucked-out groan, cock twitching so animalistically as it keeps plunging inside you roughly. Deft fingers on your clit becoming more desperate.

Harder. Faster. Balls squeezing so painfully. Like a lamb to slaughter, he was going to eat you up - and you were going to let thim.

You squeal at the overstimulation, hips bucking up for more more more-

“God, sweetheart, you don’t know what you do to me.” he moans, voice strained with desire and the euphoria of getting everything he’s wanted for so long. It was driving him insane. “Now c’mon. One more. Give me one more like my good girl.”

“Hngh- yes- Toru!”

You don’t even know what “one more” means anymore - all you do know is that you’re cumming and cumming all around Satoru’s unforgiving cock. Walls fluttering so snugly, your body convulses as you cream around his cock. Nails dragging down the expanse of his sculpted back, Satoru’s name leaving your bruised lips and into the heady air like a prayer every time his tip kisses your cervix. His new favorite melody.

And that seems to be what makes him snap as well - because with a final, sloppy thrust, he’s painting your walls such a sinful white. Pumping thick, hot ropes of his cum into your quivering cunt. 

“Shit- yeah, my girl. Take it. Take it all f’me.” Satoru shudders above you, head thrown back, chest heaving as he fucks you through your high. Movements nothing more than shallow, mindless little thrusts to get you both off so animalistically. 

It was so fucking filthy - and exactly what you needed so badly. He was exactly what you needed so badly. 

Now, Satoru only had to take one look as you use him so obscenely for your pleasure - eyes dazed, drool trickling down the corner of your mouth - before he thinks he might just cum again. And again. And again until he physically couldn’t anymore.

But first…

Pulling out of your heavenly pussy with a lewd pop! His long fingers delicately collects the mixture of slick and cum now gushing out of you obscenely. 

Aw, what a waste, Satoru muses as it pools below you sinfully. If it was up to him he wouldn’t waste a single drop from your pretty cunt. 

But no matter. 

Abruptly, Satoru bullies two fingers into your mouth - forcing you to taste yourself, to taste him. Pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way that has you choking and gagging around him, teary eyes just begging up at him. Perfect - you were so perfect for him. 

Kissing your forehead with a tenderness that doesn’t match his actions, he hums, faux innocence lacing his words, “What a shame, the box didn’t open yet.”

And oh does he love the excitement lighting up your exhausted eyes. Pretty thighs twitching underneath him as a slow, fucked-out little smile curls your lips. 

“One more? Please?”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[aprofessionalwithoutstandards]

i think its verrry weird how you started posting nsfw posts and reblogging porn the minute you turned 18 idk

I hate to be the one to tell you this but I have been actively extremely horny since I hit puberty when I was like twelve years old. Human development does not work like "absolutely zero impure thoughts until you reach the designated legal sex age, where you have until 25 to finally learn what a boob is, and then 25+ you're allowed to have consensual sex 😊 because 19-25-year-olds are basically minors". I also can tell that the underlying idea in this ask is that I, and anyone who begins posting nsfw when they turn 18, was somehow "groomed" into it, when the fact of the matter is that I have been very naturally gay horny for years and waited until I was 18 to explicitly post about it because THAT'S how you keep yourself safe. You don't pretend to be a delicate sexless angel with the mind of a five-year-old who's never heard what sex is just because you're seventeen. I am a human being with sexual thoughts and I'm now a legal adult who is allowed to post about them. Realize that there is a difference between external adults "waiting until she's 18" and someone waiting until they themselves are 18 so they can go out and buy porn, which they've wanted to buy for years.

This is an extremely reductive, reactionary, infantilizing, and conservative way to speak to me. Don't even pretend you have progressive sexual politics if you think like this. Fuck yourself I'm so serious. No one ever speak to me this way again

[luvsupa]

a/n two posts in one day… ruh roh… (I miss gojo </3)

ex!satoru who doesn’t really understand the concept of being an ex. he just thinks you want a break from him. but permanently separated? hell no, he could never understand that.

“‘toru… things aren’t gonna work out between us,” you begin as he sits in front of you at your dinner table in your shared apartment. he looks at you with no emotion, as if you didn’t just end things. “we’re growing in separate ways, and i feel i would only—satoru.”

you could scream at him—he’s not paying attention, scrolling on his phone instead. he shows you the order he placed for dinner, coming in twenty minutes. of course, he bought your favorite.

“satoru, can you please be serious for one minute?” you huff, clearly annoyed that he’s not listening while he’s purchasing things he knows will make you swoon.

“i am serious,” he says, placing his phone down to observe your breathtaking features.

“you weren’t even listening,” you say, crossing your arms as you slouch in the seat.

“baby, of course i’m listening—you’re crazy if you think i’m leaving you,” he coos condescendingly, and you roll your eyes.

ex!satoru who, in fact, respected your decision and gave you your personal space, not exactly broken up in his eyes, just a temporary break.

ex!satoru who stays over at suguru’s place for a few months, whining every day and night about how he missed being in your arms.

“i miss her,” gojo says as he pets geto’s cat, miyu, while geto himself groans as he cleans his apartment.

“can you at least help out and stop whining like a bitch,” geto says, adjusting the pillows neatly on his couch. this only causes gojo to frown and embrace miyu in a tight hug, nuzzling his face in her soft fur as she tries to get away from his grasp.

“and let go of miyu, she doesn’t want you holding her.”

ex!satoru who continues to send you money, always sending you hundreds and hundreds of dollars for food, shopping, and especially paying for your necessities. he doesn’t care that you work for yourself—you’re still his baby, and he loves spoiling you. his money is your money.

unknown number sent $500! —go get some food, baby~ ♡

unknown number sent $600! —please unblock me on insta

unknown number sent $300! —i love u, mama

ex!satoru who chokes on his breakfast when shoko says you’re going on a date. gojo, never in his life, was speechless, and that really creeped out shoko and geto.

“satoru… are you good?” geto asks concernedly—even miyu jumps on gojo’s lap, sensing a difference in his character.

“yeah, i’m good…” he says calmly, placing down his utensils to pet miyu’s soft fur.

ex!satoru who does a little investigating of who this mysterious man is, finding his identity within ten minutes. he scoffs when he finds his social media—he’s nowhere near as handsome as he is. what do you see in him?

ex!satoru who sits comfortably in the luxurious restaurant where you and the mysterious man planned to go. little did you know, gojo texted the man, telling him that you’re married.

“aiko?” gojo hears a soft voice call as he turns to look at you. your eyes widen when you see gojo. this has to be some kind of joke—he is fucking crazy. you turn around, going back to the entrance, but gojo grabs your wrist.

“no, no, no, baby, please let me talk,” he pleads, and you fold from the way he calls you baby. oh, how you loved and missed the way he called you baby and claimed you as his own.

he guides you to the chair in front of him as he holds your hand, your pretty acrylics grazing his hands. he loved the way you looked well put together, his baby doll.

“my love, i promise to leave you,” he says, rubbing small circles on your hand. your heart pangs at his confession. “i just want to know how you’re doing.”

“i-i miss you so much,” you say. gojo feels like he’s hallucinating at what you just said. “shoko told me you were having a date today, and i felt so jealous—” you stammer, and gojo blinks multiple times, stunned at what you’re saying.

“this guy aiko asked me on a date, and i wanted to make you jealous,” you continue, frowning at being confused with your emotions. but gojo, on the other hand, is putting two and two together.

“give me your phone,” he sternly says. you stare at him in confusion, but you oblige, taking out your phone from your purse and handing it to him. gojo smiles as your lockscreen is still a baby photo of him. he unlocks your phone—the password still the same, his birthday.

“i was meaning to change the lockscreen,” you quickly state, not trying to look like a weirdo in front of him.

gojo goes into your contacts and clicks aiko’s contact information, calling the number. multiple rings go by, and the man on the other line picks up.

“hello—”

“shoko, i know this is you.”

you look at him and your phone in horror. shoko set you guys up by making a fake number to make you go on a date with ‘aiko’ but really you’d be with gojo.

“ahh, did my plan work? both of you kept whining about each other—it was infuriating. i had to do something,” she says on the other line, gojo clearly hearing geto’s giggles in the background.

“don’t ever do this again,” gojo says as he hangs up the phone. the two of you burst out in laughter, but for you, it’s more embarrassing that you were flirting with shoko through texts!

fiancé!satoru who proposed to you a few weeks later, he’s beyond happy to be in the arms of his baby again <3

[urlocal-limitesshbic]

*.˗ˏˋ Use DEILD to enter the void in secondsˎ˗.*

~featuring a lucid dreamer’s unintended success story I found on YouTube~

Incoming Topics..

*PART 1 <RECAP: What is Deild? >*

*PART 2 < The success story >*

*PART 3 < How to use DEILD for the Void >*

*PART I < What is the DEILD method? > *

If you haven’t read my original post on DEILD I have linked it down below towards the end of this one. I recommend checking it out for an in depth tutorial on the method, but I’ll give a quick explanation here as well-

To put it simply, it is a technique that is traditionally used to get fast and easy lucid dreams. Upon waking you lie still and keep your eyes closed, tricking your body into thinking that you never woke up and then within seconds the dream reforms except now you’re aware in it! You can also create a new dream or you might enter a false awakening which becomes a lucid dream. This method works SO QUICKLY it’s seriously like a LD method shortcut!

I’ve heard of lucid dreamers talking about the void before but after watching a YouTubers video about a lucid dream he had, I realized he actually used the DEILD technique to go straight to the void in SECONDS, unintentionally! Which is something I hadn’t thought about doing before-merging the lucid dream technique WITH 👏🏼 THE VOID 👏🏼 TECHNIQUES!! 👏🏼 So for those of you attempting to enter the void state from a lucid dream, this can be used as a SHORTCUT on top of a SHORTCUT! 🙌🏼 Yes ma’ammmm y’all seriously need to come try this one out because when I say SECONDS I’m talking secondsss-no more waiting 20 minutes for your left brain to turn off, no more long breath work exercises or reality checks or hours of lying still, affirming, no more battling with creating portals-the void can be EFFORTLESS and induced in under a minute.

*PART 2 < The lucid dreamer’s success story> *

There’s this lucid dreamer on YouTube called TIGER123 who posts about lucid dreaming techniques and his own lucid dream experiences- he actually has a video tutorial on DEILD as well (which is linked in my OG DEILD post)

So, I was at work looking for something to watch and saw he posted a new video about a lucid dream he had recently. Well, I can tell you wasn’t expecting him to literally open the video by talking about how he woke up from a regular dream, realized it was the perfect opportunity to perform DEILD and get lucid, and then. AS HE’S PERFORMING DEILD. He enters the void! Just like that. While he was in the void he visualized the dream scene he wanted to be in and he said he was there within 10 seconds. Aka he instantly manifested entering the exact lucid dream he wanted to be in, from the void state.

This is someone who doesn’t believe in shifting or astral projection, wasn’t trying to enter the void, thinks the void is just an unformed lucid dream space that can be used to form a new lucid dream, doesn’t know you can manifest from that state and yet STILL got in and STILL manifested. Since he viewed the void as a place he can form a new lucid dream thats what he did. He still manifested instantly, he just MANIFESTED going from the VS to being in a lucid dream. This should just go to show you guys how REAL the void state is, because someone who doesn’t even know about it and wasn’t trying to get in STILL did it. (SO CAN YOU btw)

The void isn’t a concept created on tumblr. Lucid dreamers have experienced it for years, meditators experience it, yogis, followers of Neville Goddard and multiple religious practices do too; It’s just called by different names and defined differently, but all the experiences describe the same thing. So if tumblr success stories aren’t trustworthy enough to you, or motivating enough-expand your research and find hundreds of stories similar to this one-lucid dreamers thinking it’s just an unformed dream and yogis thinking it’s just a really relaxing deep meditative state etc…

*PART 3< How To Use DEILD to enter the VS> *

I linked the video at the bottom, he doesn’t really talk about the void much or deild because the video is about the actual contents of the dream he had, but the part he does talk about it is right at the beginning, the first 30 seconds or so, if you’re curious in checking it out but this is pretty much what he said about it, written out-

“First I was in a space dream and then I woke up and kind of realized I had just woken up from a dream and was able to stay still and kind of reenter into it and fall back asleep and I ended up in the void. You know that like complete blackness where it’s really easy to reform the dream and since I was there I figured I would just try to go to the beach because when I’m in this void state I can really go anywhere I want. I just reformed the beach and I ended up on the exact beach I was imagining in like 10 seconds.”

So boom. Thats’s it thats ALL. That simple. So here’s the exact steps to do if you want to enter the void through DEILD too and be the next success story:

Before bed: affirm “I will remember to stay still upon awakening. I will effortlessly enter the void using DEILD” or some variation of this (optional)

Visualize yourself waking up, staying still, and entering the void state (optional)

Go to sleep, with the calm certainty that this will work.

Wake up. Keep your eyes closed and lie still

You can keep a blank mind and wait, trusting that your subconscious will induce the void automatically, since you already set the intention the night before

5a. Or right after waking, with your eyes closed you can begin affirming that you are pure consciousnes and imagine yourself already in the void, or imagine yourself sinking gently down into the void state until you are truly there. This method is so effective you should be in the state within a minute or less.

And remember, the void state can’t be forced, just like sleep can’t be forced. All you can do is create the right conditions for it to occur naturally. It’s okay if you don’t get it right away. Focus on trust, not control. Avoid over analyzing whether it’s working while you’re performing the technique, just allow it to flow and happen. You saw he just literally lied still waiting for the dream to form and then he was in. It’s that effortless. Give it a go and report back in the comments 🫶🏼 Happy enteringgg

[retrosabers]

𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞, 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

FICMAS DAY 3: GIFT-GIVING

bucky barnes x fem!reader

summary: as bucky’s secret santa, you’re determined to give him the best christmas present he’s ever received.

contains: grumpy buck fluff, some angst, idiots who are crushing hard, swearing

word count: 2.4k

a/n: this is a long one i’m apologizing in advance

i am SO SORRY for crickets in the ficmas department the past week, i hit a big brick wall with this and i’ve been so all over the place with my own holiday planning and such that i ended up having to cut the masterlist in half because i knew i couldn’t get it all done. i’m very sorry to anyone who was looking forward to what got scrapped, but i couldn’t bring myself to rush through writing and put out something i don’t believe it my best work.

also, do people even want avengers fix it fics anymore?? i debated between the “everything is fine the team lives at the compound together” vibe and setting this post tfatws, but ultimately decided the former was easier to write. and i think it worked in my favor because this turned out really cute :)

!! divider by @strangergraphics !!

FICMAS MASTERLIST

your heart feels like it’s going to burst out of your chest.

who’s idea was this again? wanda? tony? steve? it didn’t matter anymore. all that mattered right now was that you didn’t pass out in the elevator. a feat that was becoming more and more difficult the closer you got to your destination.

a secret santa is supposed to bring you joy, not near paralyzing anxiety.

at first, you were 100% on board with participating in a gift exchange. as much as you wanted to shower all of your teammates with presents galore, not everyone shared the same sentiment, and thus the idea of a secret santa was proposed.

excitement courses through your veins as you reach your hand into the cheap santa hat tony grabbed from god knows where in storage, with little pieces of paper containing the names of your fellow avengers. you decided to wait until you were back in the privacy of your room to open it up, afraid of any wandering eyes taking a peak. the last thing you wanted was the element of surprise to be stripped away. it was half the fun after all.

as sam pulls the last name, you quietly excuse yourself and all but rush upstairs, too eager to get in the holiday spirit and brainstorm. as soon as the door shuts behind you, you hurriedly reveal the contents of the paper.

if it’s natasha, i can get her a pair of ballet slippers. she’s been mentioning how she wants to start dancing again.

what about bruce? maybe a journal for all his ideas? he always seems to be losing sticky notes in the lab.

a million different ideas swirl around in your head, reminding you just how much joy this time of year brings. to you, there was nothing better than seeing the gleeful looks on people’s faces when they opened their gifts. the corners of your mouth turn up at the memory of your first christmas with the team. how shy and reluctant you were, afraid of going overboard. now, a few years later, you’re completely unabashed in showing just how much you care about them.

your bright smile morphs into a deep frown as you unfold the paper.

bucky barnes.

quite possibly the most difficult person you could’ve chosen.

to be clear, there’s nothing wrong with bucky. he may be a bit grumpy and standoffish, but it’s with good reason and you know it. that also doesn’t change the fact that he’s going to be impossible to try and shop for.

what do you get for the man who seemingly despises anything the modern world has to offer? the same man who you’re 99% sure hates your guts. come to think of it, how did you even pull him? he most definitely wasn’t downstairs 20 minutes ago when everyone scribbled down their names and tossed them in tony’s direction.

it was irrelevant now. you were stuck being his secret santa, and you’d be damned if you didn’t give james buchanan barnes the best christmas gift he’s ever gotten in his century-long lifetime.

the two weeks it took to come up with an idea sure felt like a century. if it wasn’t for the concerning amount of snooping you did, you’d probably be showing up empty handed. thankfully, at almost 1 in the morning on a random tuesday, a lightbulb went off in your brain. you scrambled bright and early the next day to go shopping, and by some lucky form of divine intervention, you acquired the perfect gift.

flash forward to now, and you’re carrying an insanely large box up to bucky’s room. in a blatant stray from what the rest of the team was doing, you decided to give him his present one on one, secluded from everyone else. partly because you were afraid of public embarrassment if he hated it, and partly because you knew bucky wasn’t very fond of being put on display.

you hope he’ll at least be grateful for that.

when the elevator finally chimes, signaling you’ve arrived at the dormitory floor, the box nearly slips from your grasp. not just from how heavy it was, but from the nervous sweat coating your palms.

the hallway is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, save for the faint sound of christmas music playing over the speakers. with careful, calculated steps, you make your way down the length of the corridor, dragging your feet the closer you get to bucky’s room. there’s a small part of you that hopes he’s downstairs in the gym, the kitchen, the backyard, anywhere but here. dropping and dashing wasn’t what you had in mind, but the anxious thumping of your heart was becoming unbearable. you know it will only amplify tenfold if you’re forced to stare into those steel blue eyes of his. the thought alone sends a chill down your spine.

you freeze in place when you hear the sound of a door knob clicking open.

please be wanda’s room, please be wanda’s room.

in front of you, the very last door on the left creaks open, revealing the tall and brooding super soldier whose company you were aiming to avoid.

it’s easy to forget how handsome bucky barnes is when he normally does nothing but grimace in your direction.

you still weren’t used to his new haircut, but it was clear he felt significantly more confident with it. is that a hint of aftershave, or cologne? whatever it was, the scent fit him perfectly; cedarwood with a hint of spice. the green henley he wears fits snugly against his broad frame, emphasizing all the muscles you’ve been caught staring at on more than one occasion. for once, he’s not wearing a scowl, though that changes when he catches sight of you.

surely you must look strange, standing dumbfounded in the middle of the hall with a box covered in santa-printed wrapping paper and a big bow that you can barely hold. right now the floor opening up and swallowing you whole was at the top of your wish list. and st. nick better make it quick.

bucky’s expression shifts from one of disdain to curiosity as he quirks a brow wordlessly. your own knit together in frustration, knowing you now had no choice but to do this exchange face to face.

“need any help?” he questions monotonously. as much as you want to be prideful and reject it, your arms feel like they’re going to fall off any second. he seems to catch your drift despite a verbal response, because in the blink of an eye he’s striding towards you, sweeping the gift from your arms and into his own with ease. you try not to gape at the way his biceps strain against fabric.

you stutter out a “thanks,” as you straighten out your sweater. bucky grunts in return and eyes the package in his hands cautiously. you’re half expecting him to shake it like a child when you catch the tiniest twitch of his upper lip.

it’s the closest thing to a smile he’s ever shown in your presence. something that gives you the courage to actually form a sentence instead of continuing to gawk at him.

here goes nothing.

“this is for you, actually,” you manage to shakily breathe out. bucky halts his observations, a glimmer of surprise briefly dancing across his face.

a beat of silence passes between you. “don’t remember asking for anything," he finally says. it’s still laced with his typical dry sarcasm, but there’s a legitimate amusement in his tone that can’t be missed.

you narrow your eyes at him playfully, feeling a little bit more at ease now that he didn’t completely rebuff you.

“i’m your secret santa, smartass,” you jab with your hands on your hips.

for the first time ever, bucky smirks at you.

“don’t recall asking for that either.”

you throw your hands up in defense, offering him a surprisingly nonchalant shrug. “don’t blame me, i’m pretty sure steve was the one who put your name in.”

“punk,” the man grumbles. he shakes his head, attention turning back to the present in hand once more.

despite his apparent annoyance, you can’t seem to stop yourself from continuing on.

“i know you’re supposed to do this kind of thing with everyone around,” you start off shaky, afraid of upsetting him any more than you may already have. his gaze immediately falls to you upon hearing your voice.

“i also know you’re not a big fan of being the center of attention,” you continue, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans. “figured you’d like this better if it was in private.”

bucky’s features soften. his jaw unclenched, his eyes not so narrow and judgmental. he looks relieved, flattered; a myriad of things you can’t name or place.

“i appreciate that,” he admits, suddenly shy and impish. for a second, he completely forgets about the gift you brought. the simple fact that you were kind enough to consider his feelings, despite how cold he could be to you, makes his heart skip a beat.

you simply nod your head in reply, teetering back and forth on your feet awkwardly trying to decipher your next move.

“you don’t have to open that right now you know.”

he sets the box down on the floor next to his door. “kinda defeats the purpose don’t you think?”

you shrug. “whatever you’re comfortable with. doesn’t matter what you’re “supposed to do.””

why did you care so much about his comfort level? he hardly showed any concern for yours. the notion consumes his thoughts, prohibiting him from offering anything except a nod of acknowledgement.

that awkward silence comes once again, signaling maybe you’ve overstayed your welcome, or that the moment of peace is over. you check your watch in hopes that father time was ending this exchange for you.

just your luck, he’s right on schedule.

“i uh, better get downstairs,” you announce, pointing your thumb in the direction of the elevator. “don’t wanna miss thor forcing everyone to do christmas karaoke.”

a noise akin to laughter snorts out of bucky’s nose, evoking a delightful warmth in your chest. it was different than all the other times you’ve been flustered in the presence of the super soldier. this was less about intimidation and more about…camaraderie. now wondering if maybe he doesn’t hate you as much as you thought.

it’s exactly what you need to reignite your holiday cheer and shed any remaining worries.

before you can second guess, you turn on your heels, closing the gap between your bodies. wrapping a hand around his arm, his metal arm, and offering a gentle caress, the sincerity in your words is clear as day.

“merry christmas buck.”

your touch burns straight through vibranium all the way to his chest. across his entire body, igniting every cell ablaze. a fire consuming him in ways unimaginable.

and yet. he enjoyed the burn.

as you pull away, much to his dismay, the tips of his fingers brush against the inside of your wrist. goosebumps errupt on your skin, from the cool metal, or that fact that bucky was so pretty this close, only time would tell.

“you too,” he murmurs with a faint grin. the soft crinkles by his eyes are likely going to be the subject of your daydreams for the next week.

you flash him a smile over your shoulder before turning down the hall and averting his gaze, not wanting him to see just how much you were blushing.

while unbeknownst to you, bucky was now a very bright shade of red.

he waits until he can hear the elevator doors close before slipping back into his room and very carefully unwrapping the box. there’s a nervousness in his stomach that’s unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. as the bare brown packaging becomes exposed, he begins ripping back the numerous layers of packing tape. you really took your time on this, he thinks to himself.

that funny feeling only amplifies when he sees the contents of the box.

a record player, a very expensive looking one at that, sits inside with another three wrapped items that he concludes are vinyls, judging from their flatness. on top of it all, there was a small note shrouded in luxe stationary. bucky’s heart stutters when he sees his name scribbled delicately in your handwriting.

his fingers falter briefly before he digs into the envelope.

i know this isn’t like the ones from the 40s, but it’s the closest thing i could find. also got a few of your favorite records, and one i think you’ll like too. don’t forget i have quite a collection of my own in case you ever want to try something new.

merry christmas ♡

bucky unceremoniously plops down on the edge of his bed. the normally stiff feeling mattress now mirrored a sea of clouds and feathers. he’d gladly sink into the abyss of softness, if it meant pumping the brakes on his thundering heartbeat.

from the moment he met you, bucky knew he was in trouble.

you had an aura about you that was magnetic, always drawing people in and bathing them in your light. your unconditional kindness and consideration, hell, even your mere presence in a room seemed to liven it up entirely. it was a hypnotizing, almost dangerous thing for the man, and if there was one thing he knew how to do, it was to push people away. for their sake, and his. bucky was certain that once he started keeping his distance, that you’d eventually give up in trying to crack his tough outer shell, or that the silly feelings he had would disappear.

but right now, as he’s staring at your handwriting and rubbing his thumb repeatedly over that little heart, he knows it was all in vain.

later that night, he stares up at the ceiling, listening to the familiar croon of it’s been a long, long time wafting from his present. he tries to focus on the beauty of the song, or the lights he can see from his window twinkling out on the lawn, but it’s nearly impossible. you’re the subject of all his thoughts. have been since the moment he saw you standing out in the hall. from the scent of your perfume to the little intricacies of your penmanship. the thing that’s plaguing him the most, however, is your hand on his arm.

bucky’s real arm had been gone for over half a century, having stopped experiencing phantom limb syndrome ages ago. yet somehow he felt it there, clear as day. the same tactile sensations on his flesh, right arm, in the metal prosthetic of his left. an electric shock that he’s never recognized before, and that he wouldn’t be opposed to feeling again.

tomorrow, he plans to thank steve for mischievously adding his name into the lottery.

and to ask you about your record collection.

thanks for reading! <3

tag list: @alastor-simp @j4desblurbs @pandapetals

!! if you would like to be tagged in the rest of the ficmas blurbs, please send me an inbox message or leave a comment !!

[blog-moved-lol]

Bruce acts so emo all the time that I just can't help but enjoy the idea(/headcanon, I guess) of him secretly just being an old man dad- Like all of the villains go 'Omg it's Batman we're gonna get beat up' and Commissioner Gordon randomly thinks to himself while working late 'I bet Batman is doing super smart stuff like looking at case files or serving justice rn' but it turns out Bruce is just in the Batcave, very seriously talking to the Bat-Computer about the definition of slang like "Okay 'Puter, define 'Yeet' for me.."

Or he's up at 3AM scrolling through Tim's Tumblr blog looking for ways to connect with his child, but instead becomes mildly concerned when he sees Tim posted a pic five minutes ago of himself at Waffle House (He thought he was in his bedroom-?) with the caption 'Lmao just had a mental breakdown ✌'

Bruce: "So, Damian.. Have you 'rizzed up' any 'level ten gyatts' recently?"

Damian(Also doesn't know slang): "Father wtf"

Of course all of the Bat-Kids know this, and try to subtly introduce him to different memes because he always looks so proud of himself when he properly uses slang, he's like 'Heck yeah my kids are gonna think I'm cool'

[notmeowse]

That AMA marks the end of Dragon Age.

In my opinion.

I'll start by saying that I have played all 3 of the previous games repeatedly, I've loved the series for 15 years, more than half my life. These games inspired me to become a writer and they've shaped a lot of my tastes and interests in shows and writing -- to say they were formative is kind of an understatement. Don't want to go on and on about how much I loved them, that's not the point here.

I didn't care for Veilguard for pretty much all of the reasons people have already discussed at length on Reddit and Tumblr. The writing is comprehensively bad, the romances are easily the worst Bioware has written by pure virtue of having the most cookie-cutter pacing and shallow characterization I've seen across their games, the lore has been shafted in every direction, and the nuanced storytelling and roleplay I came to expect from the series has been taken out back and shot in the head.

All, apparently, in the name of a "clean slate". It seems to me that, rather than familiarizing himself with the existing lore of the game he took the creative reins on, Epler clearly had a vision for Dragon Age (or perhaps a different IP entirely) in his head that he decided to transplant into the game (and possibly Trick? But they've said so little beyond defending their work that I can hardly theorize what direction they were coming from). That being a sanitized, wildly self-contradicting, morally absolute shitshow focused on distancing itself from the previous games as much as possible. Now, I know it's unrealistic to blame one person entirely, and I don't blame him entirely. Corinne was there. Trick was there.

But if it wasn't already evident from the numerous interviews Epler's given on the game as well as his participation in the Q&A's (while the actual lead writer of the game has been completely absent in not just the marketing, but in most fan-related interaction pre and post-launch outside of BSKY), this AMA seems to have confirmed, more than anything else, that Epler doesn't understand the game nor does he understand its audience. Neither does Corinne Busche, who despite being Game Director for only the last two years of development, has been answering lore questions a) like she has any fucking clue and b) like she thinks Dragon Age is a cozy-gamer IP, meant to appeal to people that want uplifting stories with uncontroversial characters, morally upright heroes, and unquestionably evil villains.

So as of today's AMA, I think I've finally had enough. We're just outright retconning the lore in Reddit AMA's now, I guess. Among other things. I'll provide a few examples, just so we're all on the same page.

This was part of Epler's response to why Solas didn't have his cult following in the game (insert "We Kind of Forgot" meme here):

Solas' experience leading the rebellion against the Evanuris turned him against the idea of being a leader. You see it in the memories - the entire experience of being in charge ate at him and, ultimately, convinced him he needed to do this on his own. And his own motivations were very different from the motivations of those who wanted to follow him - he had no real regard for their lives or their goals. So at some point between Trespasser and DATV, he severed that connection with his 'followers' and went back to being a lone wolf.

The fact that this (the not caring bit) directly contradicts the writing in the actual game is absolutely INSANE to me, moreso than the lack of Solas's spy network (which he apparently carried with him for 10 years only to conveniently drop right before the ritual? Because he clearly had them research Rook?). But in regards to the not caring -- here's a line from Solas's memory of killing Mythal in Veilguard, which. I'll get to Mythal in a minute:

Why should I not tear down the Veil, and bring back immortality to all the elven people? They deserve it!

Which is it? Does Solas care about the people he's saving (the venn diagram of people he's saving vs. the people following him is surely a circle, i.e. elves) or not? Does he even care about the spirits trapped behind the Veil anymore or is it just convenient to abandon them and have him only care about elves, now? What happened to saving The People? What happened to him not identifying as an elf in his conversations with a Dalish Inquisitor? And what the absolute fuck happened to him wanting to bring back the magical marvels (that the ancient elves did in fact achieve) that were greater than anything we see in Thedas today? Here's what Epler has to say about elven magic, now:

I do agree that the elves have had their place in the sun at this point. [...] The thing about the Evanuris is that, ultimately, they were able to take a very specific type of magic and shape it into doing what they wanted. But even their understanding of magic was only skin deep [...] Even the magic that Tevinter wields, the magic of the Southern mages, is different from what the Evanuris used. The magic of the Evanuris is powerful but it's sterile, and it's constrained. So while the Evanuris have made magic work in a way that's more predictable and understandable, it's not the only kind of magic out there, and even then, I'd say they understood it at a very surface level. People were confidently describing how the natural world worked back in the 16th century. Very few of them were right.

First of all, Tevinter has been stated in previous games to have clumsily adapted ancient elven magic for their own, but they did adapt it. To the point where even Solas is surprised that Corypheus achieved effective immortality -- by binding himself to a dragon the same way the Evanuris did. So, cool, more contradicting the lore here. "They understood it at a very surface level" you mean when all of the magic of the Fade wasn't locked behind the Veil? You mean when magic flowed freely through the world? What do you mean, Surface Fucking Level? The entire point of the Dalish elf culture is what they lost; this wasn't the ancient elves thinking the sun revolved around the earth, the Veil was their fucking Library of Alexandria burning. Oh my god. I still cannot believe he said this.

And how have the elves had their day in the sun? I'm sorry, was Arlathan not given to... the Veil Jumpers? Instead of the Dalish? What happened to all the Dalish clans in the south, who had no infrastructure when the world was apparently blighted to hell? I guess they're just gone now! They've had their day! The story of the Dalish and the Evanuris is over (also confirmed in this AMA), and it apparently ends with the final snuff of the candle that is their culture. Congratulations, Chantry, you've won! Only took two genocides and a double blight, but we're done with the Dalish now! We get your mind-numbingly superficial factions instead!

What happened to Mythal, by the way? What happened to "She was betrayed as I was betrayed, as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me, and I will see her avenged!" What happened to the reckoning that will shake the very heavens? John's answer to this:

People grow and change over time. Mythal's essence - and in particular, the fragment of her spirit that Morrigan carries, that she got from Flemeth - is not the same Mythal who he knew millennia ago. Centuries of living in this world and being around the kinds of people Flemeth found herself around - the Hero of Ferelden, Hawke, the Inquisitor - changed her views, and made her realize her own culpability in turning Solas into the kind of person he is now.

Oh, right, okay. So she was pissed for like a thousand years, got her big speech about the impending "reckoning" out 10 years ago, and then she just chilled out because the last 3 heroes were neat people. What a fucking joke. And yes, here is the confirmation that the Evanuris story is over --

The story of the Evanuris is done - the gods are dead (or imprisoned) and Thedas is in a state of flux and uncertainty. I imagine that whatever happens next is going to be a surprise to everyone, including the people of Thedas."

So I guess Mythal's reckoning is never coming. One of the most fascinating characters in the series, shrouded in mystery for those first 3 games, PROMISING US a blaze of glory, only to fizzle out in this one. Again, and I can't emphasize this enough, for Epler's clean fucking slate. And we've not just tied up her story, but also the Veil and the Blight:

When Solas bound himself (or, depending on your ending, was forcibly bound) to the Veil, it severed the connection that the Blight had to the waking world. The reality is that the Veil has been leaking ever since the Magisters first entered the Black City, and the dreams of the Titans gave it its terrible and awesome power. Now that the Veil is fully repaired, the Blight lacks that motive force, and being so close to the epicenter of that change has stripped the Blight in Minrathous of its vitality. It's calcified now - dead - and Bellara/Neve no longer suffer its effects. If they'd been anywhere else, further from that epicenter, it would've likely been different and they still would be looking for a cure.

So the Veil is permanently fixed now because our half-dead Dread Wolf bound himself to it (a decision I still don't understand) and that somehow fixed every single hole ever poked in it. Fully repaired. No more holes, no more "Veil is thin here" because tons of people died in the same spot, nope, we're washing our hands and leaving it (and the spirits) behind us because we've wrapped up both the series-long Veil storyline and the blight storyline in a big red bow.

And Epler tells us Solas not only bound himself to the Veil but fixed it entirely in one fell swoop, no ritual required, just a little slice to the hand. Again, all in the name of a clean slate, so any future installments or media centered around Thedas can turn away from this story.

Then there's this. What we can expect from future installments, I freaking guess. The aforementioned roleplay getting taken out back and shot:

Q: "What lead you to the decision to step away from active conversations with the companions as in previous Bioware games, where you can initiate them at any moment and ask exhaustive questions?"

John: "For us, because of tech limitations, it became a choice between exhaustive investigate conversations, or letting the companions move more freely around the Lighthouse. With the kind of experience we were going for, one where seeing the team grow around you is paramount, we felt that seeing them interact in common spaces (and in each other's rooms) made more sense."

Literally confirmed that they chose companions moving freely about the cabin over ... interacting with them outside the handful of cutscenes we got. Who in their right mind would think this was a good call in a Dragon Age game? A series that quite literally prides itself on complex character interactions and storytelling? So they could... sit in different places? Are you kidding me?

They don't see an issue with the game's reception. They don't have any interest in addressing or responding to criticism. They're either happy with their choices or EA's got a gun pointed at their heads, I'm honestly not sure anymore. I used to believe the latter was true, but looking at both Epler's and Busche's responses today, I'm inclined to believe the former.

So I think that's it for the series. Not that I thought it was going to get another game after this, but on the absolute off chance it did, what would be the point? The best stories were ruined. Anything left they have to tell is going to read a lot like Veilguard -- superficial, morally absolute, flagrantly disrespectful to the lore, and delivered in a very poorly written package.

[lovscb97]

bang chan recs (18+)

key: !!! = personal favourite, s = smut, f = fluff, a = angst

add. notes: hai :3 i know i said i would make a skz recs list but the minute i scrolled thru my likes n started saving from chan onwards, i realised i had Too many recommended fics for him (this list is like 40 fics/drabbles long....) so i decided to just make member separate posts instead!!! i tried not to have repeats of authors to give u guys a broader scope to choose from n also sorry in advance that i yapped so much abt them it's just like . these r my all time fav authors so it's expected. anyways i hope u guys love these works as much as i do bcs they r from some of my absolute fav creators n plz give them lots of love n always make sure to appreciate these ppl <3

. . .

hopelessly devoted to you — @changbunnies (!!!, s, a?)

this was literally a 11/10 fic like i am not even joking rn. i luv greaser chan n even tho he messed up, the way he makes it up to mc is so so soooo sweet. the fact that he's so gone n pussydrunk while eating her out, the sweetness in how he holds her n fucks her is all too mindnumbing n i hope u continue writing bcs u r amazing at it!! i will always come back 2 this when i need a pick me up fr

2. bad idea — @hyunsvngs (!!!, s)

JUNOOOOO my lovely baby.... i adore u n all ur work always but this fic. This Fic. it changed the trajectory of my life. like not even kidding but i was a different person when i started reading this n when i finished it i was Changed. life is worth living now, the grass is greener n the birds always sing 2 me which i firmly believe is bcs of u n this beautiful yummy fic. i fucking LOVE stepdad chan sm like there's smth so gross n nasty abt fucking ur mom's bf n even tho mc is a menace, i still loved it. never stop doing what u do!!!

3. 1095 days — @luvyeni (s)

EX INMATE CHAN RAHHHHH!! i have akshewally been following ur work for so long n i LOVE!! the way u write :3 thank u for always churning out ur work so fast n being so good at what u do. im obv a sucker for daddy kink considering i eat it up every time n it's so fucking good i love how chan cares for mc n the way he gives it to her once he's back. mark my words i will EAT this man up n this fic whenever i stumble across it

4. milk and honey — @straykeedz (s, f, a?)

user straykeedz u have to stop... ur work too addicting n perfect.. ur depiction of chan too real n crazy (/pos)... they're gonna get u... but seriously i love bffs2lovers so bad n the way u always characterise chan n make him call mc so many cute pet names melts my heart :( i've also been following U for a long time n even tho everything u write is so so soooo good, this has to be one of my faves alongside ur inexperienced chan fic. i hope u don't pressure urself too much to update n jus do what u have to do :D

5. my wife — @chrizzztopherbang (s, f)

ngl i Think this is my first fic from u cus i followed u bcs of it n that's a given honestly cus newly turned husband chan?? eating his wife out metres away from his friends n family on the other side of the door n fucking her within an inch of her life right after they're pronounced husband n wife?? i love it i loved their bickering over who's a pervert n i just love the idea of mc finally calling the love of her life hers forever. i hope they r always happy alongside u

6. sweet nothing — @frenchkisstheabyss (!!!, s, f, a)

this fic actually changed me as a person too not even kidding. i EAT UP exes to lovers n the portrayal of it was so good here bcs there's so much unspoken tension between the two n then chan begging mc to not leave again n her promising she won't bcs all she wants to do is be his at last?? AWOOGAAAAA i need him so bad it's jinja michin (i am so cringe sorry..) ANYWAYS!! i hope u know tattoo artist + ex bangchan is a crazy combo n that the makeup sex was HOT HOT HOT!!! plz keep writing i adore u <3

7. pick you up — @moonchild9350 (!!!, s)

see idk if this is tmi but sex where ure being picked up n fucked is downright nasty in the best possible way n i fear i need to get railed like that by chan so u writing abt is literally u making my fantasies come true. this fic was a delicious mix of cute w chan telling mc he only works out so he can pick her up (based off of his bbl texts obv) n hot w him Actually fucking her within an inch of her life. i love all ur work tee bee eich so keep doing what ur doing!!!

8. spring has sprung — @cbini (!!!, f, s)

miss ems where do i even begin with u.. (u probably Do Not Know me but i know u smirk emoji. soz that was weird erm but ya i am the binnie anon who said u deserve changbin LOLZ) this fic was the perfect mix of cuteness w raw passionate fucking i love the idea of chan getting hard bcs ur dressed so preciously in a pretty dress i think it's rooted somewhere in his slight corruption kink which comes out def when u r all dolled up for him. anyways u never miss n i hope u know that <3

9. walking in on rooomate!chan / pt. 2 — @kacciidubs (!!!, s, f)

going 2 be very honest here i do not even remember what happened in part 1 bcs part 2 of this roommate chan fic actually blew my mind away like Seriously user kacciidubs u r insane!!! all ur work never misses n i am always so eager whenever u post bcs i've been following u n loving everything u put out for so long. ofc ur chan work is my favourite as u can tell but this fic... this fic was crazy the switch between daddy n sir oh my god what if i cream my pants rn. plz never stop writing <3

10. last nerve / pt. 2 — @cb97percent (!!!, s)

user cb97percent let me just preface this by saying whatever u write is INSANE. like i already knew u were a great writer but this fic? changed me as a person not even joking rn. the way mc n chan banter n how chan's an asshole who is pissed off how he can't get it up anymore unless he fucks mc is so funny n how the raw passion between them results in the best sex Ever. n ofc the ending w minho took me out n Yea i just . i have no words plz never stop writing to u as well

11. hush — @petrichor-han (s)

sucker for exhibitionism n sucker for chan so what better way to comemorate this occasion than by reading abt it? this entire scenario was so hot like honestly i can totally imagine chan's bitchass doing this bcs he's so cheeky in nature he would lose himself from the thrill of almost getting caught. u r amazing as always thank u for churning out so much content for kinktober may god or whoever u believe in bless u with eternal inspiration

12. daddy!chan helping you shave — @hyunjins-orange-slice-too (!!!, s, f)

i sent u an ask already talking abt how much i love u n everything u write but THIS. this made me weak in the knees bcs i have imagined this very scenario so many times if im being brutally honest. there's smth so sweet n domestic abt the act of helping ur partner shave n with daddy chan in the mix? kill me now plz. the way he asks if he can play w mc once he's done n how he sternly instructs her to be safe like omgkjdfjhjdfgjhhjg need him in ways that give the pits of hell a run for its money w how hot n nasty im abt to be fr

13. one last time — @baby-yongbok (!!!, s, a?)

like i said, i am a sucker for the exes to lovers pipeline alongside husband chan so while this isn't Either of those things entirely it still scratches the itch in my brain very very well. the way mc n chan exchange snarky remarks n how chan only says he's satisfied once they're done fucking OHHHH MYYYYY GODDDD... need this man carnally like i would dump him just so he can fuck me the way he fucked mc in this fr (that is a lie we r locked in 4 life). u r brilliant as always i always look forward to ur work so next time u r questioning if this is worth it just know lovscb97 on tumblr has ur back fr

14. chan ask drabble #1 — @skzms (s)

maymay.. my eternal luvr... the genius behind smrsmf minsung... ofc u were bound to eat this up n end up on this list. idgaf if it's just an ask answer or drabble bcs the way u write is so . so Elegant. i love how u always use ur words to describe the emotion lingering between ppl in love n the way u do it here w chan n mc, the way he reassures her afterwards n how he promises her he'll give her everything later while fucking his fingers into her ohhhh mannnn.. i can just imagine him in his suit thank u for bringing the vision to life fr

15. you're right, baby — @chlorinecake (s, f)

soft dom chan who is ur fiancé fucking u n claiming u bcs he's a lil pouty that u forgot ur ring?? n then going so far to say he'll cum in u to make sure everyone knows who u belong to?? RAHHHHHH HE NEEDS ME!!! this was written so deliciously i loved the way mc n chan cared for each other n also the ending was so cute LOLZ hope they r happy in every universe n that their wedding goes great fr u r an awesome writer user chlorinecake

16. silence — @valkyriexo (s, a)

make up sex make up sex make up sex!!! i love it so good even tho it hurts so bad when mc realises chan forgot to show up :( but the fact that he makes it up to her by begging her to not leave him n making her cum as many times on his tongue as possible for her to forgive him?? INSANITY!! the longing in their eyes n words n actions from how much they've missed e/o when he finally touches mc n oh man.. u ate this up

17. corruption — @goquokka00 (s)

STEPBRO CHAN RAHHHHH i am a sucker for him (in more ways than one iygwim eheheh.. soz) i loved the sinister blackmail u added into the story n how he fucked mc bcs of her bad grades by making up some shit excuse abt learning how to please someone like y/n u can't be this dense girl!!! (i'd do it too if he asked me #Tbh) ANYWAYS. idk how this didn't have more notes bcs it was hot asfk i hope u keep writing more stuff to come :3

18. chef's kiss — @hyuniepies (s, f)

the tenderness of mc n chan's love mixed w the nasty dirty talk ohhhh hyuniepies u r a GENIUS!! this is exactly how i imagine domestic life w chan would be like; him coming back home to u cooking a dinner n then fucking u absolutely silly on the countertop bcs he just can't wait after getting a look at ur figure n bcs he's missed u so much. i too would be obsessed w bangchan if (read: when) he becomes my husband teehee

19. chan ask drabble #2 — @miupow (!!!, s)

USER MIUPOW UR FUCKING BRAIN!! HOW DO U CARRY SUCH A HUGE BRAIN IN UR HEAD!!! DOES UR BACK NOT HURT FROM HOLDING UP THE DELICIOUS IDEAS OF BCHAN SIZE KINK!!! like i told u yst i love ur writing n i love U so bad. u always eat w every request or idea u come up with n i absolutely adore that for u i hope u truly never stop writing bcs u have a serious gift n i hope ppl keep telling u that constantly bcs i sure as hell will <3

20. pretty mouth of yours — @jeongin-lvr (s, f)

need to give chan head like . Yesterday. but OHHHH MEINNNN GOTTTT fiancé channie w mc sucking him off so pretty u know exactly what im a sucker for u dont u user jeongin-lvr? ur writing is tooooooo good i swear i have read so much of ur work n granted this is one of my fave chan works from u icl i love the jeongin ones even more but i'll add those to my innie recs list later :3 ANYWAYS!! plz never stop writing u r awesomesauce (cringe.) n i love u hope u r having a great day today

21. daddy issues — @hwan-g (!!!, s, a)

HELLO THIS FUCKING FICCCCC... it is so good so delicious so fucking beautifully written that it brought tears to my eyes no joke. i still remember the first time i stumbled across it n like wow.. i think i dmed u on my side reading account too to express how much i liked it bcs i rly Did like it truly was a piece of art n sometimes i can't believe ppl like u just write stuff like this for free?? u should be getting paid good money bcs all ur work ALWAYS eats <3

22. closing the distance / pt. 2 — @thefantasyden (s, f)

ik long distance relationships r tough n it's awful when u can't spend time w each other physically or touch either but hear me out . it would Not suck w chan bcs he'd do everything for u the way he does everything for mc in this fic. from how he shows up n is too nervy to kiss her to them finally touching each other for the first time n then she moves back to him?? ohhhh man i love love n i love U for making this ur work always eats n trust that i'll always come back to this fic when i need to rmb how much i love chan

23. riding chan's thigh/knees — @faeryacha (!!!, s, f)

i love daddy chan so bad im sorry im not even gonna hide it anymore n i love the way he was written here too, from the way he asks if mc wants to play to the way he has her fuck herself on him to get herself off like i'm not even into little space like that but the minute he refers to himself as daddy n speaks to me all soft n protective im on my knees on the floor ready to suck him off like my life depends on it. u ate so bad w this plz continue doing more amazing work in the future!!!

24. steamy desires — @notsoangels (s)

shower sex w chan mngnghfhghgh.. need him so bad id let him fuck me anywhere as he pleases but in the shower?? w the hot water cascading over us w just us in our little world like omgomgomg NEED. i love the simplicity in ur writing too n how it paints a picture in my mind bcs i can vividly imagine all of this happening like him making u squirt on his cock n then rinsing u off so u can spend time wrapped up with each other on the bed like plz. One chance plz.

25. the fuckboy next door — @seospicybin (!!!, s, a)

miss seospicybin.. how do u always do it? how do u always come out w the most mindbreaking jawdropping amazing insane array of fics without even breaking a sweat like hello? this series is so fucking good from the smut to the angst that hurts so good. i love the development of the plot n that chan tries So hard to be true to mc so he can be w her n the way she tells him to do it for himself like :( they deserve each other sm i am very much looking forward to part 4!!!

26. pussydrunk chan — @aeliuss (s, f)

mngngngngjghgh i love pussydrunk chan so bad n i love the idea of him being so infatuated w mc that he just Had to drag her away n eat her out. i also love that he's there to support her in the end n how turned on he gets from her just being herself like that is a real man!!! n the way it's so reflective of how chan is irl too? i feel like this is how exactly how he'd behave— needy but so so soo in love with u too

27. kitty — @bandgie (!!!, s, f)

no joke this fic made my pussy throb. i need him 2 do this to him so bad bcs i need Him so bad. the way u wrote the subspace drop n how immersed mc was in her role n the way chan guides her thru everything n then the aftermath of it like hngnngnfgddjghjgh... i always have loved ur writing but this particular piece rly got to me along w ur kinktober series i hope u continue to do writing bcs u seriously so so SO good at it fr!!

28. angel eyes — @temptaetions (!!!, s, a)

this fic. this fucking FIC. bro this is actual evidence of the fact that literary geniuses exist bcs the way u wrote so beautifully not just the actual smut but the whole storyline?? u r a godsend fr like u should be getting paid to put out work of this degree. not only r u a PHENOMENAL writer but i hope u never stop writing bcs this was actually so so lovely n amazing to read i wish i could revisit the first time i read this T_T

29. just (fucking) friends? — @snowyquokka (s)

HELLOOOO i love possessive fwb chan almost as much as i love ur writing!! the way he's so annoyed at how she said they're just friends so he takes out his anger on her but then at the same time asks her what her color is to make sure she's still okay WOWZAAAA.. need him Bad. n in the end when they both agree they don't wanna be just friends like chan.. i don't want 2 be just friends either.. come 2 me plz... anyways very yummy work fr

30. american whiskey — @straywrds (!!!, s, a)

this fic... how do i even begin w this fic... the way u write is actually so . so otherwordly yk? u rly pour all ur passion into ur writing n the way u describe everything like every emotion every detail every feeling it's so raw n real that it touches my heart. i can Feel what each of the characters go thru n the SMUT... the smut is so so delicious ofc. i've read ur other work n u r such a good writer plz keep going with what u do i will always support u fr

31. free use w/ soft dom chris — @hwanghyunjinenthusiast (s, f)

the dirty talk in this.. hngnngkgjjdgjjh. i need free use w daddy!chan just as bad as i need to reread this fic ten times until it's ingrained in my brain n any telepath w the ability to read minds out there is disgusted by how many times i think abt it (idk what this analogy was i am sorry). the way he eats mc out n the way he fucks her omgfkjdgjhjhgjh NEED HIM RAHHHHH u did so well w this

32. play tight / pt. 4  — @roseykat (s, a)

squirting w chan squirting w chan SQUIRTING!! W CHAN!!! the way he makes mc do it once n then immediately goes "yea i need to feel that on my dick" n fucks her within an inch of her life like ohmygodjkdjhsfghj i did eat up the angst too but the way u wrote them fuckinig was so nasty n delicious I ENJOYED IT SM!! this entire series is such a good read even tho it's not chan centered idk if there r more parts to it but if there r plz link me to them!!

33. dream you — @charmercharm3r (s, f)

ok i know we r discussing smut n all n trust that i will get to that but THIS!! this was so cute n precious ohemgee the way he loves mc n takes care of her n banters w her at the start so lovingly is so so precious to me i want him so bad :( the smut was also very delicious w chan switching to hard dom mode n making mc suck him off before ravishing her like oh my god PLZZZZ FUCK ME PLZPLZPLZ u did so well on this plz continue writing more for me at the least <3

34. brat-taming w/ chan — @blurboki (s)

this damn drabble was so.. hngngjfjghjhdgjh. i want 2 be a brat to chan so bad n act out just so he'll snap n put me into my place which is exactly what u wrote n i LOVED IT!!! it's so short n simple (not a bad thing at all btw) yet it's so powerful too? i love the characterisation of chan cus i firmly believe this is how he'd act in bed w a fussy bratty s/o like wow. Just wow. i love u and ur delicious mind i hope u r having a great day just for this :3

35. tell me all about it.. — @chnsbm (s, f)

hngnfjhdfsjghgjh the idea of chan making u forget all about ur stress n playing with u to help u sleep is so gfjfjjjffjhgjhjh HOT!!! the way he lovingly reassures mc like u don't need to worry abt it now just let me take care of u n how he's such a fuckin TEASE!! w the way he's touching her is so so hot u ate w this idea n i will forever die on the hill that this is really smth chan would do— tease u n make u talk while he's doing ungodly things to u just to see u stutter over ur words

36. be that guy — @daizymax (!!!, s, a)

i have said it once i have said it twice n i will say it one more time bcs i don't care how many times i need to reiterate it needs to be said: EXES TO LOVERS W CHAN IS TOP TIER!!! the smut in this was so delicious but the LONGING chan had for mc.. the way he felt the twinge in his chest for letting her go oh man.. i'd take him back if he so even looked at me but maybe im just crazy. BUT ANYWAYS!! this is possibly one of the hottest chan smuts there ever is so thank U for this delicious gift fr

37. more than just friends — @kwanisms (!!!, s, f)

werewolf chan my luvr... my big strong baby who will knock me up w his knot n fuck me until the sun rises RAHHHHHHHH!!! this was so so SOOOOO good n yummy like from the way he pinned mc to the wall to the way he ordered her around n how his self restraint snapped the moment she called him daddy like why's that so Me behaviour HELPPPP anyways user kwanisms u fucking ATE w this i hope ur pillow is cold every night u go to sleep <3

38. connected — @j-0ne25 (s, f, a)

let me just start this by saying I FUCKING LOVE U USER J-0NE25!!! ur interactive stories esp megaverse r so fucking good how r u so bigbrained my dumbass could never like actually JSDHJFJHGJH. anyways i rmb reading this very vividly n oh boy.. "baby patience, or do you need me to teach you a lesson?" Brother my panties r drenched n off dont even start w me rn. anyways this was so so delicious plz never stop writing i beg u

39. chan ask drabble #3 — @hyungszn (!!!, s, f)

saved the best for last but CLOVER.. (u dk me but i am ur biggest fan hai :3) "your mouth is saying no but your body is telling me a different story, mrs. bang." GRRRHJDJSDFJHKJSFKJSFKJGJ... I NEED HIM SOO FUCKING BAD!!! the way they banter even while having nasty sex n just love each other so bad n hello my breeding kink went feral w this. when mc asked him to not eat his cum out of her pussy n he was like "and why is that?" cus he wanted to hear her say it GRAHHHHH I WILL EAT HIM!!! on a side note, u r so so soooo amazing i have been reading ur work for so long i think since american pie n i can safely say u r one of the best skzblr writers i have ever seen along w so many other ppl like plz keep up the good work bcs i will ALWAYS support u for it !!!

. . .

add notes: thank u very much to all these amazing writers fr. if ur work wasn't featured here now do not fret!! i probably (most definitely knowing my dumbass) just missed it cus i didn't scroll Very far down in my likes (there's like 2k+....) so trust that u will most likely end up on the next recs list!! i love u all very much regardless if u r here or not n as always a very big thank u once more for all ur amazing hard work, u r all doing so well n i hope u guys know that <3

[writersdrug]

Convincing bartender Simon to make one of those overly decorated and sweet cocktails or even add it to the menu because it’s cute and you know it’d do well on the gram and attract the ladies. He’d huff and puff but do it anyway

Like one of these with cotton candy, glitter, and sprinkles etc!: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/825988387943179970/

OMG wait I soooo want to try that-

The video ends, and Simon stares at the picture of the drink with a furrowed brow.

"Looks like somethin' you'd see at a bridal shower." He comments, handing you back your phone.

"Doesn' it?" You say with a smile, shoving your phone into your back pocket. You lean your arms over the bar and poke his side. "Come oooonnnnnn, Simon - imagine how many sales you'd make on something like that! People would love it."

"Imagine the money I'd lose, havin' t' buy bags of candy floss..." he grumbles, hiding his smirk behind his mask when you groan dramatically.

"You could do it as a promotional thing...? Like- ladies' night... in October?"

He snorts. "'Ladies' Night in October', hmm? N' what are ladies celebratin'?"

"Ok, fine- forget Ladies' Night. What about something for Halloween?"

"Like wot?" He grunts, grabbing a glass from the stack and pouring out one of the taps.

"I dunno... something fun, but practical - Oh! You could- like a Moscow Mule, but just serve it in a different glass and use edible glitter!"

Simon quirks his brow as he slides the beer glass to a customer. "Edible glitter?" He asks, wiping his hands on his rag. "Didn't know there was such a thing."

You nod quickly, your eyes full of excitement. "Yeah! God, I could pick up a bunch from the baker's supply down a few blocks. You could call it 'Witches' Brew.'"

He turns it over for a moment - in his opinion, it's ridiculous. He runs a pub, not a college bar. He would have scoffed at the idea of someone else had brought it up - but, it's you bringing it up, and that's a completely different story. You have such a brilliant gleam in your eye that melts his heart. He can't say no to you, especially after making you cry last week. He's still carrying out his penance for that.

"You think it'd sell?"

"Oh, for sure! I can make an insta post about it to get some attention."

He clicks his tongue, turning to the POS and seemingly uninterested by it. "Fine - if you spend anythin' promotin' it, let Price know. He'll reimburse ya."

You let out a triumphant whoop and slide of the barstool. He lets out a huff as you trot back to your tables, a noticeable pep in your step. He chances through the window on the kitchen door to see if his food is ready - what he's met with is Johnny's face, staring through the warming counter as he stands at the stove, a smug grin resting on his lips.

Simon can practically hear the cook's thoughts. Whipped bastard.

You had left without saying goodbye that night. You waited by the counter, rocking eagerly on your toes as Simon grabbed your tips from the night before out of the safe. As soon as he handed them to you, you snatched them and ran out the door. He was a bit irked by that, standing there with a stubborn frown as you pranced out of the restaurant - maybe you're still not back to being cheeky and chipper yet after last week. He can live with that... for now.

However, not twenty minutes later, you come stumbling back in with a paper bag in hand and a smile on your face, panting like you'd just run a marathon. Simon's anxieties quell at the sight of you.

"Got it!" You say breathlessly, walking to the edge of the bar and dropping the bag onto it. Simon folds his arms over his chest as you reach in and pull out a small bottle of glitter. You hand It to him and he takes it, holding it up to the dim light above.

"You can eat this shit?" He asks, brows furrowed.

"Mhmm!" You chirp, settling into a barstool. "Now, bartender - I'll have a Moscow Mule."

He sets the glitter down and grabs a clear glass, working on gathering the ingredients. "Ya only call me that when you want something."

"I'm calling you what you are." You respond, watching as he skillfully mixes everything together, pouring vodka from the jigger between two fingers, tossing in lime juice and topping it off with ginger beer. As shameful as it is to admit, you're kinda attracted to the skill he presents.

"Should be callin' me boss." He says, topping the drink off with a straw.

You slide off your stool and chuckle. "Yeah, you'd be into something kinky like that."

Simon has to bite the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the thought of you - nope. He won't even entertain the idea. He simply steps back a bit as you wedge yourself behind the bar (yes, he actually forces himself to give you enough room - he doesn't need you feeling hiw aroused he is).

You grab a bottle of the glitter and dash some into the drink. After swirling it with the straw, the liquid becomes iridescent with purple shimmer that billows about the glass. You look up at him with a satisfied smile.

"Witches' Brew." You announce, holding the drink out to him.

You look happy - an observation that makes Simon smile, even if he wasn't the one to cause your happiness. He lifts his mask, grabs one of the straws and plugs it, before bringing it to his mouth and sampling the drink.

"Tastes like a mule."

"But it looks like a potion, right?"

"'S this glitter goin' to be in my gut whenever I get autopsied?"

You laugh, grabbing the glass and leaving Simon behind the bar. "That would be a cute party trick." You call over your shoulder.

Simon watches you, arms folded over his chest and his eyes curious. You set the drink on the opposite end of the bar, pulling your phone from your pocket and pointing the camera to the glass. You grimace; your arm reaches over the bar to grab the rag lying over the faucet, and quickly wipe down the bartop. He huffs, grabbing his phone from the register and pulling up his group text with Soap and Price.

Ghost: got ourselves a marketing team.

He looks back up at you - you're hunched over, taking picture after picture of the drink. You twirl the straw in the liquid every few seconds, kicking up the glitter and making it reflect the low lighting of the bar.

Hus phone buzzes.

Price: ??

Ghost: she's making a drink for october and promoting it in social media

Soap: clever girl

Soap: what drink?

Ghost: moscow mule, but in a clear glass and with some edible glitter shit. it's pretty neat.

Soap: picture?

Price: Promoting? Will this cost me anything?

Simon chuckles. He pulls up the camera on his phone and aims it at you-

Except you're in a different position. You're perched so nicely on a barstool, holding your phone at arm's length and your drink in the other hand. You're smiling up at your camera, nose scrunched as you pose for a selfie. Your hair is down, your back is arched, and - did you tug your neckline down? You most certainly did. You're breasts weren't that pronounced before.

Without thinking, Simon takes a photo. The shutter clicks loudly: you look at him, as do the three patrons sitting at the bar.

Fuck. He panicks, clearing his throat and lowering his phone. "Jus' showin' the lads what you're up to." He says, but you can see the tension in his shoulders as he quickly sends the picture to the chat and puts his phone in his pocket.

You smirk - whether it was truly just for Price and Soap, or if it was for himself, you felt a little flattered that you'd caught him in the act. You hoped for the latter.

Simon exhales heavily and rests his palms on the counter. His face burns beneath his mask as he tries to calm his racing heart. Fuck- was that weird? Course it fuckin' was. Goddamn creep.

His phone buzzes again. He sighs and pulls it into his hand.

Price: Cute thing, isn't she?

Simon immediately frowns, any previous shame now replaced with a fire in his chest.

"Fuckin' wot?"