#to be completely honest there is a way to word this in a way where i would genuinely believe it

[stellamarielu]

jack abbot who is unknowingly pouty and stand-offish when he is jealous and is viscerally irritated when he realizes because he believes he’s too old to feel this possessive 🫣

anyone down for a quick possessive jack abbot drabble with a sprinkle of frank langdon bc why the hell not??? frankie mention is harmless but i want them both to want me let’s be honest.

Jack never saw himself as a possessive man. He was extremely secure, and hardly ever jealous.

But that was before he noticed the way Frank Langdon always lingered in your presence.

At first he didn’t pay too much attention to it, he would remind himself that the man had a family at home, and chalked it up to nothing more than an affectionate personality and friendly demeanor.

Until he realized Frank was no where near affectionate nor friendly.

In fact, he was known for his blunt, no bullshit personality, so to see him smiling at you so often and striking up small talk between patients, he began to question his intentions.

Jack’s apprehensive state of mind started with narrow eyed stares while he watched Langdon pick up his stride to catch up with you in the open walkways of the ED. The threatening glares quickly evolved into subconsciously clenched fists when he overheard the way you would cackle at some of his comments.

cackle.

The same outburst of giggles that he usually pulled from you when you laid next to him in bed, only now he had to hear them at the end of another man's jokes.

The worst part was that he was only privy to a handful of interactions between you and Langdon, the ones that took place at the end of his shift and the beginning of yours.

Once Jack left for the day, you were completely at the mercy of the conventionally attractive, blue eyed doctor for the remainder of your work day.

And the real kicker, was that even if he was on the day shift with you and Langdon… even if he was around to witness the extra attention you were getting from another male coworker, he couldn’t do anything about it, because you weren’t even his in the first place.

Or at least he didn't know if you were his.

You certainly had a physical relationship. Having been sleeping together for nearly two months now, there was no question that you were romantically involved.

You stayed over at his place, he stayed over at yours, you talked every day, shared meals, kissed each other goodbye in the morning, and yet he still wasn’t certain of the title of your relationship.

God, he was nearly 50. Formally asking you to be his girlfriend felt so trivial, but the longer he had to walk past Langdon shamelessly flirting with you, he thought he might just get down on one knee in front of the entire hospital just to shut him up.

Langdon was currently leaning unnecessarily far over the triage desk, captivating your attention with whatever stupidity was spewing from his mouth and Jack couldn’t take it anymore.

His face was rigid, and body tense as he pushed toward the back doors of the ED, backpack slung over one shoulder.

He brushed past you on his way out, no good bye, no silent wink hidden from the rest of the staff, not even a subtle smile. Just walked right past you as Frank continued telling you about the new Mediterranean restaurant down the street.

You held up a quick finger, signaling the man across from you to pause his thought, barely acknowledging him as you followed Jack through the sliding doors of the ambulance bay.

"Hey, you okay?"

Your voice stops him in his tracks. The sweet cadence immediately making him feel like the world's biggest asshole.

“You should get back in there before your boyfriend starts to worry about you.” He turns to face you, his words forming through a smile on his lips.

It's clearly a joke, one that immediately makes your brows furrow in confusion.

“Langdon?”

Hearing his name on your lips makes his jaw tick.

You stop for a second, looking back through the glass of the sliding doors. Frank is there, fidgeting with the stethoscope at his neck and talking with Dana, glancing out at you and Jack mid conversation.

“Oh.” Your voice is quiet as you turn back to look at the man in front of you, adjusting his backpack on his shoulder.

Here you were, thinking Jack had a rough night or a challenging case that made him stoic and closed off, when in reality he was just jealous.

“Jack Abbot are you jealous?”

He doesn't respond, just takes a deep breath, chest heaving under his inhale as he keeps his eyes on you.

“It’s Frank.” You say it like you actually can't believe he would imply anything could ever happen between the two of you.

Sure, you and Frank got along well. Of course you were close, you spent nearly 50 hours a week with the guy. But at the end of the day, he was just an annoyingly condescending resident with a good sense of humor. He wasn’t someone you were even remotely interested in exploring a relationship with. He wasn’t Jack.

“you are the only man working at this hospital that I have feelings for.” Stepping forward to close the gap between your bodies, you place your hands on either side of his arms, holding him steady and reiterating that he is your sole focus.

“What about over at St. Johns?”

Classic Jack brushing off the seriousness of his feelings with a joke, bringing up the possibility that you might find another lover at the hospital three blocks away.

“I can’t make any promises there, I hear they have a really hot orthopedic surgeon.”

He shakes his head at your response, a wide smile stretching across his features.

“Seriously. It’s just you for me.”

There it was. A branding of exclusivity.

You seek out his gaze, tilting your head slightly to the side, and a weight leaves his chest at your words of reassurance.

“Dinner tonight? Your place?” You place a quick kiss on his cheek as the questions flood past you lips.

He hums in response, busy looking over your shoulder, “your boyfriend’s staring at us.”

You almost roll your eyes at the smug expression washing over his face as he watches Langdon through the glass.

“My boyfriend, is right here.”

This time your lips find his in a careful, prolonged embrace. A kiss that everyone on the other side of the sliding doors is sure to be gaping at— your relationship laid out in the open air of the ambulance bay in front of anyone who cares to watch.

[dustandthought]

CHARLES’S MOTHER AND MICAH

Charles's reckless decision. Why it contradicts his own principles. Killing Micah as a way to end a years-long inner war.

We clearly see Charles trying to stop the Indians from going to war with the army in Chapter 6 — an army that will destroy what's left of Wapiti and their land either way.

We see his pacifist nature. And not just pacifism — we see a man who believes that if there’s a house full of people, and someone wants to take that house — it's better to save the people than protect the walls where no one will be left alive.

He’s thoughtful. He’s wise. He makes balanced decisions.

That’s the Charles we know in Chapter 6.

But suddenly, eight years later — when it comes to John, his family, and Micah — we see a completely different Charles.

He’s not just going to kill Micah. He’s pulling John into it.

There’s a moment when he tells him:

"We gotta do this."

If Sadie finds Micah — there’s no choice. You have to come too.

John objects:

"Abigail ain’t gonna like this."

But Charles insists:

"It’s the only way."

This is complete recklessness. And in this case? I’m completely on Abigail’s side.

Revenge is one thing. But now you have the life you fought for. Arthur gave his life so John could have a chance at something better — a quiet life with his family, away from all of this.

And even Sadie — the one obsessed with revenge — tells John:

"Your family comes first. I ain’t forcing you."

She’s reasonable, despite being the one who started the whole hunt for Micah. She’s the instigator, but she doesn’t pressure John.

But Charles does.

"It’s the only way."

So why does Charles act like this? Why does he lose his head?

He was always calm. He could restrain himself. He always chose the path of least destruction.

So why, fully aware of the risks, does he still insist on killing Micah? Without hesitation. Without doubt.

We know Charles as a balanced man. But inside him — there’s a storm. Especially when it comes to loss and personal pain.

Think of the mission with the bison. He kills a man instantly. No hesitation. Just reaction.

If you spare the second poacher — he’s angry with Arthur.

Charles is a deeply emotional person. He remembers everything. The kind to remember a kind word — or a cruel one — for decades.

I’m sure he’s the type to notice every detail, and possibly even hold grudges.

But this goes deeper.

We know Charles lost his mother at a young age. He doesn’t know what happened to her. Her fate is completely unknown.

And as players — we don’t know what happened to his father either.

Charles's voice actor — Noshir Dalal — once suggested:

"Maybe Charles killed his own father."

Maybe he knows more than we do — from scripts or background notes. But as someone who reads character psychology?

I don’t buy it.

Yes, Charles has killed. He has shown brutality. But killing his own father? That doesn’t track.

Example: Arthur brings one of the legendary animals back to camp. Charles smiles and says:

"My father said those used to be around, but he never saw one this big."

He says it smiling.

A man who killed his own father wouldn’t talk like that. Not without bitterness. Not with detachment.

He remembers his father warmly — you can tell. And that happened more than once.

Let’s be honest: A man who killed his father wouldn’t casually bring him up in a warm, friendly conversation.

We don’t learn a lot about him. But we learn enough — Charles still remembers his father with lightness, warmth, a sense of memory.

But when it comes to his mother — it’s a different story.

She vanished. He knows nothing about what happened.

I’m sure he tried to find her. Did everything he could. But he was a child. He couldn’t do anything.

Maybe he left his father and tried to search. Maybe the father didn’t help — maybe he was drunk, cruel, uncaring. Whatever happened — he was left with a wound that never healed.

A sense of loss. Powerlessness to change the past.

He would want to know who took her. He would want to get revenge. He would want any information. A clue.

But all he got was silence. Emptiness.

That’s why he’s always doing something. He’s always busy. He can’t rest.

If he’s not doing something useful —

he feels like he’s failing.

It’s not about work ethic. It’s atonement. It’s how he tries to balance the scales.

Later, he finds a kind of family in the Van der Linde gang. He sees those people as close. Arthur — a friend. John — almost a brother.

But it all falls apart.

And he suffers. For eight years. He tells Uncle he’s been drifting — and thinking.

Thinking about everything that happened.

When he came back — it was too late. Arthur was gone. The gang was gone.

He missed it all. He couldn’t change anything.

And suddenly he learns: It was all Micah’s fault.

Now he has a choice: Leave it be — or get revenge.

But it’s not just about Micah. Not just about Arthur. Not even just about John.

It’s about everything.

His mother. The emptiness. The helplessness. The years of unresolved grief.

For the first time — he knows who’s to blame. For the first time — he can fight back. He can END IT.

Yes — he puts John and Abigail’s peaceful life at risk. He risks everything they’ve built together. He risks John’s life —

That Jack loses his father, That Abigail loses her husband, That they lose everything they tried to build together.

It’s wrong. I don’t defend it.

But I understand why he did it.

Charles avenged his mother. As absurd as it may sound — deep inside, I truly believe that’s what it felt like to him.

He struck back at the silence, the loss, the endless unknown.

He finally got to direct all that pain toward something real.

Call it trauma logic — but sometimes, one wound gets pushed out by another. Sometimes, pain finds closure in the most unexpected way.

[eddiesghxst]

BESTIES DONT HATE ME BUT AYBY PT 3 IS NOT DONE FOR THIS WEEKEND🫣

TO BE FAIR i think you will be slightly happy to know that the only reason why it’s not done is bc it’s fucking long and i completely switched things around to draw it out hehe. that being said, since i did not keep my promise (twice in a row😔), here is a very very rough draft of a steddie idea i had when i needed a palate cleanser earlier, enjoyyy <3

18+ — MDNI

word count: 3.5k

Steve needed to get out of his hometown.

Familiarity was safety. Safety was easy, for some time, until it got boring. Until Steve felt like he’d been a body filling a job. Just a guy holding a camera and wasting film on still life.

The small town paper liked his eye for symmetry but hated when he got too close, too real. Too sad, his editor would say, looking over his shoulder as she rejected another frame that didn’t match the ‘local pride’ narrative. 

“More smiling.” She once told him. Didn’t like seeing people in action. Didn’t like busy photos. 

And Steve did what they asked. Still shots. Happy in one snap— that’s what they wanted. But the pictures still felt dead, every last one of them. 

So he left. Worked enough to get a one-way ticket out west and rode a bus for three days straight, wondering if he’d just ruined his life or started it. 

The bus drops him off in downtown LA with a camera slung over his shoulder, twenty-seven dollars in his pocket, and a busted leather suitcase filled with two shirts, two pants, two boxers, and two pairs of socks. 

It’s hot. Smog settles low like a second skin, clinging to his clothes like his uncertainty. He doesn’t know anyone here. Not really. Just a cousin who hasn’t answered his last three letters and a belief that something has to give.

He gets a gig on the first day. Shoots a wedding for a couple who met three weeks ago. They pay him enough to get him three nights in a motel. 

By the fifth day, he’s scoured just about every ad in the city, sat through another miserable wedding shoot where the groom smelled like cheese, and eaten three different variations of gas station sandwiches. 

His fingers itch for something real to shoot. Something messy, honest— alive. 

And unfortunately, with just a few dollars to his name and a bruised ego, Steve’s hope begins to dwindle. 

That’s when it comes.

Folded in the back of a grimy newspaper outside of a diner:

BAND SEEKING LIVE PHOTOGRAPHER. MUST TRAVEL. MUST NOT SUCK. 

PAY: QUESTIONABLE.

ART: PROBABLE.

He tears the page out and sprints to the nearest payphone, coffee forgotten on the sidewalk, heart racing in his chest, camera hung from his neck. He doesn’t even know the name of the band.

The phone booth smells like piss and hot plastic; Steve has to stick his foot in the doorway to keep from drowning in it as he shoves the newspaper under his chin and jams a few quarters in. The numbers are sticky beneath his thumb and the plastic phone could possibly be carrying a few diseases on it, but Steve couldn’t care less as he raises it to his ear. 

It rings twice.

Then: “Yeah?” A man’s voice. Gruff, half distracted, something going on in the background. 

Steve fumbles, grabs the newspaper from under his chin so he can speak properly, “Hi— uh, hi,” he clears his throat, wiping sweat from his brow, “I’m calling about the ad? For the photographer— the one for the band. I saw it in the paper. I have a portfolio, I mean— well, some prints, not on me, but—“

“You busy right now?”

Steve falters. Blinks. Heart thrumming in his chest. “No.”

“Great. Come to Valley Sound, Magnolia and Laurel. Studio 5, doors unlocked.”

And before Steve can grab a pen and ask him to say it again, the line clicks dead.

…Okay.

Magnolia and Laurel. Valley Sound, studio 5.

Steve repeats it to himself all the way to the bus stop.

It takes him almost an hour to get across town. One bus, one transfer, and one wrong turn that lands him near an adult video store before a disheveled man in front of a liquor shop points him back in the right direction. 

By the time he’s standing in front of Valley Sound, Steve’s sweating through his clothes. The building is squat and half-forgotten. The bricks are old, there's fading graffiti on the side, and paint is chipping from the stucco. There’s no sign— just a buzzer and a glass door that gives when Steve pushes it open. 

Inside, the place smells like smoke, spilled beer, and old carpet. Music leaks through the cracks of the walls, different rooms bursting with different sounds. Steve trails through it like an imposter.

He finds Studio 5 by the echo of an argument. 

“No, Rho, that’s not what the line says—“

“Well maybe the line’s wrong, Eddie. Maybe you’re wrong.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time..” Someone mutters. 

Steve inhales sharply, grasps the door handle, and steps inside. 

And because nothing’s ever gone right for Steve, his shoulder catches a guitar case left too close to the door. The thing tips. He lunges too late, watches it clatter to the floor and cut through the room's chaos like a gunshot. 

Everything halts. 

Six heads whip around. 

A girl with smudged black eyeliner and a sharp gaze. A tall, wiry guy with a cigarette hanging from his lips and a bruised ego in his eyes. Another man with a drumstick twirling between his fingers. A bassist in sunglasses, even indoors. And the guy, who Steve assumes is the manager from the phone call, is against the wall with a pad of paper, chewing a toothpick.

Steve stares back. Heart hammering, pits uncomfortably sweaty. He clutches his camera like a lifeline. 

“Sorry.” He blurts. “I’m— I’m Steve. Steve Harrington.” He says, though it sounds more like a question. No one moves, they all stare, the drummer’s jaw ticks around a wad of gum.

“I take photos. Mostly live stuff. Street shots, candid, whatever’s got soul. I saw the ad and—”

The manager lifts a hand, barely looks at him as he walks toward the sound board, “Start takin’ photos. We’ll look at what you got by the end of the day.”

And just like that, the room goes back to a buzz, and the band turns back to the lyric sheet.

The girl lights a cigarette.

The tall guy strums a sharp chord.

The drummer and the bassist follow suit.

Steve’s hands shake as he lifts the camera. From nerves, adrenaline, uncertainty— all of it.

But when he looks through the lens— adjust the finder, zeroes in— he sees it.

Something electric. A little broken. A little holy.

He clicks.

————

Steve ends up sleeping on the studio’s busted couch for four nights straight.

No one tells him to stay that first night. No one tells him to leave, either. 

The next morning, everyone just kind of operates like nothing’s changed. They include him a little bit. Someone slides him a lukewarm coffee, someone else cracks a joke about his shoes, and they even buy him a sandwich from the deli with too much mustard.

He officially learns everyone's names in the band by the end of the day— Eddie, Jeff, Gareth, and Rho.

He learns the manager’s name later that day.

“Binny. Not Benny. Binny. With an ‘I’.”

Steve gets the hang of their operation.

They’re a storm in motion. 

Steve watches them and thinks, this shouldn’t work. 

Jeff barely talks. Gareth seems like he’d follow anyone with a cigarette and a vague plan, and you and Eddie? You orbit each other like dying stars. Violent. Beautiful. Codependent. 

Steve’s never seen anything like it. 

But the moment you play— it clicks. All the screaming, the dissonance, the weird inside jokes, the low-level loathing—you pull it into the music and make something real. Something Steve believed existed, but only just now found.

On the third morning, Steve asks how you all met each other.

Jeff’s plucking a low riff, effortless like it’s been living in his spine. You’re scratching notes of a song onto a pizza box while Eddie’s hunched over the soundboard, and Gareth’s flopped on the couch, arm thrown over his eyes, claiming a “five-minute power coma” that’s already stretched into fifteen.

It comes out without thought, curious and soft— “How did you guys meet?”

Jeff glances up, still playing. You lift your head, curious, and Eddie smirks, still busy with the soundboard.

“High school,” Eddie says. “Shit hole of a place. Jeff and I were in a music theory class together. Both got detention for arguing with the teacher over a Motörhead chord progression.”

Jeff nods, gazing at the yellow tint of sun seeping through the blinds, “You were wrong, by the way.”

“Still got the better grade.”

“You cheated.”

Gareth groans from the couch, “Not this story again.”

You crack a smile, and Eddie moves on, “Gareth came in later— split from his old band. Shitty pop-punk sound that didn’t deserve his skill. We stole him.”

Gareth doesn’t bother opening his eyes when he cuts in, “You begged.”

Jeff grins, “We kidnapped him.”

Steve’s got a smile stretching across his face, fingers dancing over his camera like he wants to capture their past. “And then what? You just… formed a band?”

You grin, leaning forward, “No, they tried to form, like, three bands. One was punk. One was screamo. One was—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—an acoustic duo called ‘Twice Shy’.”

Eddie slaps a hand over your mouth, “Lies. Slander. Shut it.” You lick his palm, and Eddie pinches you with a grimace.

Steve tilts his head towards you, “So when did you come into the picture?”

Jeff drags in a breath and shrugs, “We booked it after graduation. Aimed for LA with eighty bucks and a demo.”

“That’s when we met Rho.”

You smile and offer a lousy bow with a wave of your hand. “I was playing a garage showcase in Barstow. Just me and a loop pedal. I was awful.”

Eddie grins, “She was magnetic. So we stole her, too.”

Steve watches, quiet and fascinated by the story. The way you tell it. The way someone remembers it wrong, and someone else interrupts to fill in the blanks.

“Sounds like fate.” He softly says.

You shrug, picking up a pen and turning back to your pizza box, “More like desperation and dumb luck.”

Eddie says the best things come from that anyway.

Later on, Steve asks another question— “What’s Rho short for?”

Gareth speaks around a mouthful of his sandwich, “Catastrophe.”

You smile with a wink, and Steve decides that makes sense.

By the end of the third day, he’s invited to sit at the soundboard and snap some more shots— and that’s when Steve realizes he might actually be staying.

You record all day and fight all night. Rho yells with her whole body, Eddie spits venom laced with poetry, and somehow it works.

Steve develops film in the back of the manager's office, hung to dry between unpaid invoices and rusty lamps. The pictures are beautiful. Devastating. Sharp and vivid, and so honest it makes Steve want to cry. 

Binny takes one look at them and tells Steve to get a suitcase.

On the seventh day, Steve isn’t sure what’s going on, but they’re moving like there’s a ticking time bomb somewhere. Then at the end of the day, Binny claps his hands and says, “Time to take this show on the road.”

Literally. 

Seven in the morning sharp, they’ll be on their way to San Diego to play their first show on a seven-week tour. Twenty shows, twelve states. 

Steve is wired.

It’s the night before they leave when Steve forgets his camera bag in the studio.

It’s late. Everyone’s asleep or passed out. Steve thinks he left his bag in the wrong room again, rookie mistake. The building is dark, uncharacteristically quiet, but there’s an orange light seeping out from under one cracked door. There’s a soft and quiet hum shifting through the air as Steve walks toward it.

His mind is stuck on finding his bag, and his body’s moving on muscle memory. He doesn’t think. Just pushes the door open. 

Your legs are around Eddie’s waist. Your hands in his hair. His lips at your throat. Both of you leaned against the soundboard. 

You moan— soft, but sharp. Eddie growls something low and filthy— grabs at you like you’re his lifeline, like he can’t get any deeper into you, like the rage isn’t enough.

Steve freezes. 

Eddie’s head turns. Their eyes lock. 

It’s only a second, but it stretches, long and thin. 

You don’t stop. You don’t even look. Like you know, and you don’t care. 

Steve backs out and closes the door. Slowly. Leaves without his bag, doesn’t care anymore.

He doesn’t find sleep easily, too busy running the last few days back and piecing things together because Steve could not, for the life of him, figure you and Eddie out.

At first, he wasn’t sure what you were. Lovers? Enemies? Codependents in matching leather jackets?

He watched from across the studio for an entire week— you curled on the couch, Eddie sat on the floor in front of you, arguing over a chorus, laughing mid-insult, you throwing an empty soda can at his head. 

There’s heat in the way you speak to each other. Hunger. 

Steve just wasn't sure if it was all out of anger or desire. After what he’s seen now, he thinks it’s both.

————

LA TO SAN DIEGO

The van smells like weed, old vinyl, and denim.

Jeff drives the whole way. You smoke in the back. Eddie rides shotgun and flicks ashes out the cracked window. Steve sits in the middle row, camera in his lap, ten bucks in his wallet, and wonders if this is how cults begin.

“We should do Velvet Static tonight.”

You say it in a rare moment of humming quiet, eighty miles out from San Diego. Steve’s body is stiff from sitting, and Gareth is zoned out beside him.

Eddie cracks a grin around his cigarette. Jeff sighs. Gareth groans and digs himself into the side of the van, mumbling that he’s taking a nap. 

Eddie lulls his head to the side, eyes trained on the road ahead as Jeff continues to drive. He lets the silence sit for a moment, a stream of smoke filtering out the window before replying, “No.”

Steve doesn’t need to look at you to see the challenging glare on your face. It’s in your voice when you speak, “Why not?”

Eddie huffs out a laugh, “Because it’s emo bullshit with a tambourine. It’s fake. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Jeff snickers. Easily earns himself a crinkled-up wrapper to his face.

“Fuck you— it’s necessary. It’s a fucking break.” You argue.

Eddie scoffs around a laugh, barely glancing back as he responds, “Exactly! It’s boring. No one’s there for a break, Rho. People want noise, they want chaos—”

“You want chaos.” You cut in, “It’s my song. I wrote it. I wanna play it.” You insist.

Eddie licks his lips like he’s tasting his words before saying them. Steve can see his lashes flutter behind his sunglasses, his fingers twitch around the body of his camera. 

Eddie shifts in his seat, kicks a foot up on the dash, and lets out a breath, “Crowds not gonna like it.”

“I don’t care.”

It’s final and sealed.

Eddie rolls his tongue beneath his cheek, glances out the window, and brings his cigarette back to his lips to take a long drag. 

Later on, when Jeff stops to get gas, Steve hears you humming the song to yourself.

Steve doesn’t say it, but he disagrees with both of you.

————

The venue is a pit.

Steve would say it’s a ‘hole-in-the-wall’, but even a hole in the wall would look better than this.

Low ceilings. Sticky floors. A single busted speaker hanging from a flimsy cable— Binny took one look at it and said, “They’re askin’ for a lawsuit.”. And Steve is a thousand percent sure he saw a rat scurrying around behind the bar. It’s the kind of place you don’t remember until it ruins you.

Steve’s sweating through his shirt, camera strap rubbing the back of his neck raw. His arms are shaking from carrying a heavy amp to the stage, but he says nothing, just shakes them out and flexes his fingers every now and then.

Binny invites him to grab a drink at the bar while the band does soundcheck. Binny gets a whiskey neat, and Steve gets a beer that’s disgustingly warm and makes him sweat harder than before. Gareth is on stage, spinning a stick between his knuckles behind his kit, and Jeff is tweaking his sound when your voice snaps through the room.

“This monitor is fucking dogshit.”

It’s directed at the sound guy, some lousy middle-aged man who’s definitely not getting paid enough to handle half of the bands that run through this place. “We’re working on it.” He bites back, maybe a little too hard. You step forward, sunglasses perched upon your face as you squat down at the edge of the stage to meet the guys level and casually tell him to ‘get your shit together or fuck off.’.

The man throws his hands up. Gareth chuckles behind his kit. Jeff hasn’t looked up from his bass once. Eddie shrugs.

Steve stands at the bar, watching it all unfold with some sort of detached awe, camera resting on the bar top, warm beer churning in his belly. Binny’s next to Steve, down to a few sips of his drink, watching you like someone who's seen this movie before. 

Steve glances over. Binny shifts in his seat and exhales slowly. “I ever tell you how I got here?”

Steve blinks, “Like… with the band?”

Binny nods, eyes still watching you and the sound guy go at it. “I was managing an indie band. Rho was standing on a merch table. Screaming like she was fuckin’ possessed,” he huffs out a laugh, “Called their old manager a limp-dicked coward sack of shit and told him he’d be choking on his badge if he ever crossed her again.”

Steve raises a brow, “Seriously?”

Binny sips his drink, “Dead serious. Eddie told me I was their new manager, and I just… didn’t say no.”

Steve lets out a quiet laugh, grabbing his camera and switching it on, “And you’ve been stuck ever since.”

Binny shrugs, Steve wonders if the lines on his face are from age or stress. “I’ve tried leaving. Once. Gareth sent me a handwritten death threat,” he grins, “It was adorable.”

They both look back toward the stage where you’re pointing now. Eddie’s leaning on the mic like he’s about to throw his voice in. Jeff’s sitting on his amp, chewing gum, unmoved.

Binny leans on the bar with a sigh, watching his kids like a tired yet proud father, “They’re like feral cats. Loud, untrainable. You feed ‘em once and they think they own you.”

Steve lifts the camera, snaps a shot of you mid-scream. He gazes through the lens for a moment longer as Binny adds, “I still haven’t figured out if I’m managing them or just… surviving them.”

Steve lets that hang in the air for a moment.

The crowd comes in like a blur of torn fishnets, leather, and denim. Backstage is really just one boxed room with a table for food, a dying mini fridge, and two couches that should’ve been thrown out in the 70s. 

Eddie’s nursing a joint and repairing a broken string. You’re doing your makeup in the bathroom mirror, grumbling at Gareth when he shoves past you to take a piss. Jeff is sitting cross-legged and tuning his bass like he’s meditating.

It’s a nice hum of anticipation. The calm before the storm.

And it doesn’t last long.

The crowd thickens, and the noise rises, and Steve sinks into the least questionable couch of the two. Nearly blends into the couch with how still he becomes. He holds his camera to his chest, sits patiently and quietly, and watches the band twist seven ways to hell in just forty minutes.

It’s a bit mind-boggling to see. There on the old, withered couch, Steve watches four band members who were nearly zombies two hours ago become something akin to hungry beasts.

You’re pacing near the stage door, cigarette trembling between your fingers and burning the tips of them, lips moving— in a chant or a countdown, Steve can’t tell.

Eddie’s back is to the wall, head tilted toward the ceiling, a sheen of sweat already built over his neck, whispering lyrics like he’s summoning something.

“Three minutes!” Binny calls.

Gareth taps his drumstick against his knee. Jeff cracks his knuckles and twists his neck.

You stub out your cigarette on your boot heel, and Eddie rolls his shoulders before tossing back a shot someone hands him with no explanation. 

Steve watches it all— this quiet, manic prelude— through a lens.

One click here. Two clicks there. Another for good luck.

Then someone yells— “You’re up!”

The band moves like a storm.

And Steve follows.

————

a/n: HIII, a little rockstar moment for the girlies :p like i said, this is a very rough draft and not at all proofread, but I'll be coming back to this probably after I finish ayby TEHE OKAY BYE, GOING TO WRITE BEFORE IM MAULED MWAH

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Waiting and Waiting

Cecil Dennis x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals • Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • buy me a coffee? •

This was written for the @the-oscar-isaac-collective Coffee and Cream NSFW Zine, which you can download (for free!) here!

There are so many amazing stories and fanworks that such talented people made <3

Summary: Cecil forgets to fill up the car, leaving you both stranded.

Warnings: Kissing, swearing, oral sex (reader receiving), car sex, p in v sex, cream pie, please let me know if I've missed a warning.

Word Count: 2107

“Ugh, I’m so bored.” Cecil groaned, dragging out the last word as dramatically as possible.

You turn and pull a face at him where he’s lying down all over the back seat. “And who’s fault is that?”

He pouts, “Yeah, I mean, sure.” He shifts a little, leaning up on his elbows so he can look at you properly. “But that was an accident and-”

“How is forgetting to fill up the tank-”

“I said I was sorry.” He pouts even more, poking out his bottom lip and frowning. “And I am sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Uh huh.” You say unimpressed, turning back around.

Cecil had been driving when the gas ran out in the middle of fucking nowhere. You’d just about managed to call Harry before your phone's signal completely disappeared, telling him where you were and what had happened. He’d headed out to get to you both, with a spare can of gas, twenty minutes ago. But you both still had at least another hour to wait.

Cecil was also being partially whiny because he didn’t have any weed.

He sighed again, checking his jeans and jacket pockets for the twentieth time, “can’t believe I don’t have anything. Not even a half a joint, you know?”

You glare at him in the mirror.

He pauses, biting his lip before he sits up and inches forward, resting his chin on the back of your seat. “I’m sorry.” He says sweetly, trying his best to worm his way back into your good graces.

You stay quiet and seethe.

“I could… make it up to you, you know?”

When you continue to ignore him he lightly touches your shoulder and you flinch, giving him a glare.

“What?” He blinks rapidly at you, trying his best to give you a Puss in Boots stare.

You put your hand on his face and gently push him back, “Fuck off Cecil.” 

“Awwwww,” he whines, “That’s not fair, I’m trying to be nice.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you’re still pissed off at me.”

“I am.”

“I don’t want you to be.”

“Can’t always get your own way.” You keep facing ahead and cross your arms, but there’s a hint of amusement in your voice.

“I’m not trying to get my own way,” He leans forward again, pressing his cheek against your shoulder softly and nuzzling when you don’t push him away. “I’m just trying to be nice.”

“Cecil.”

“Friendly.” He nudges his nose against your neck.

“Cecil.”

“Helping you to pass the time.” The faux innocence in his voice is cut off as he tries to press a kiss to your jaw.

You slide in the other direction at the last moment so he misses.

He lets out a deep groan of frustration and bumps his face into your headrest as he mumbles your name.

You wait a beat before you answer. “What?”

“Please, just come back here and sit on my face so I can apologise properly.”

You turn to look at him painfully slowly. “No.”

He whines exasperatedly, smacking his knuckles lightly on the back of your chair. “Why?”

“I don’t have to give you a reason.”

He moans, sulking and you grin wickedly. “I think you just like seeing me upset.”

“I do.” You nod.

He tuts. “That’s not nice.” “I’m not trying to be nice.”

He sits up, leaning close like an obedient dog. “I’m really good at it.”

“Good at what?”

He groans at your tease, “You know, eating pussy? I’m really good at it.”

“How many stars have you got on Yelp?”

He laughs then scowls, trying to stay serious, “I’m being honest you know?”

“Sure.”

“I am.”

“Okay.”

“Look,” He shuffles closer again, “I’ve had many happy, erm, Pussy Owners who enjoyed-”

You burst out laughing, “Pussy owners?”

“Yeah, all of them said-”

“You know saying you’ve performed a lot of oral sex isn’t the positive you think it is, it  just makes me think you must have a lot of STIs.”

“Hey,” He playfully shoves you in the arm and laughs despite his efforts at fake outrage. “I do not.”

“Sure.” “I got tested.”

“When?”

“Last week!” He folds his arms, raising his chin in self triumphantance.

You can’t help but chuckle, “Have to get those a lot, huh?”

He gives you a mock scowl, “I like to be safe.”

“Sure.”

“And also it’s good to if I wanna give blood.” He shrugs, looking down.

The look shouldn’t get to you, how he nervously plays with his fingers when he speaks. The little flame of affection you have for him warms your chest.

“So how come you’re so good at it.” You say, giving him a little nudge with your shoulder and smile.

He grins back at you, bright eyed. “Practice.”

“Uh huh.” You laugh and he nods enthusiastically.

“It makes perfect.”

You snort.

“Plus, I really like it, which helps because I wanna do it a lot, so that means I get a lot of practice without it feeling like practice or anything, cause it feels like a treat,” He leans closer, practically sitting between the driver and passenger seat at the most awkward angle. “You know, like the treat you would get for doing the practice.”

“Say practice one more time, please.” You tease.

Cecil huffs playfully, “You’re so mean, you know that?”

“I am not.” You laugh.

“You are. Always mean to me.” He sits back, crossing his arms over his chest and you turn around fully in your seat, sitting on your knees to look at him.

“No.”

“Yes.”

You giggle, “Okay, maybe sometimes.”

“All the time.”

“Only a little.”

“A lot!” He bites his lips together to stop himself from grinning, “I think you should come and apologise to me actually.”

“Oh,” you nod sarcastically, “do you?”

He nods back, “I do.”

“And how do you want me to apologise to you then?” You tease, expecting him to demand (beg) for a six-pack of beers, or a burrito when you were back home. So what comes out of his mouth next is a little unexpected.

“You should come back here and let me fuck you.” He swallows, the bob of his throat betraying his nervousness despite the certainty and self-assuredness of his words.

You pause, both of you letting his words hang in the air for a moment before you slowly turn back.

He stays quiet, but you hear the smallest hitch of his breath as you retreat. You don’t stay still for long though.

Before you can lose your nerve, you open the passenger side door and get out. You close the door firmly, letting the sound ring out, before opening the back one.

Cecil gulps, the action clicking in his throat, and slides along the seat quickly, giving you space to join him.

You put your hands in your lap as you sit, getting comfortable before you look up at him, “So-”

“Lay back.” He says softly, his eyes dark.

You swallow and do as he says. He moves to the side, lifting your legs up onto the backseat and kneeling between them.

He leans over you, lightly placing his hands on your side before he traces them down and slides under your sweatpants. He bites his lip, whining softly when you lift your hips to help him pull them down. He’s a little more unceremonious with your shoes, but gets them off quick enough so that he can rid you completely of your trousers. 

Your heart thuds in your chest, echos in your neck as he runs his hands over your thighs, staring at your underwear with his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Fuck, you’re…” he lightly presses his fingers over the damp patch of your panties and your hips buck of their own volition. He groans quietly, his eyebrows pinched together as he rubs the tip of his fore and middle finger up and down. 

Pleasure sparks up your spine at his touch, pooling in your belly like liquid ore. You shudder, a small moan escaping your lips and Cecil whines loudly, diving forward and pressing his mouth against you. 

You gasp, arching up as he groans and licks you over your panties, sucking the cotton into his mouth and grinding the bridge of his nose against your clit. 

His fingers dig firmly into your legs, keeping you spread without causing any pain as his stubble scrapes deliciously against your inner thighs. He laps at you, moaning and soaking your underwear with his salvia. 

You gasp as he sucks at your clit, the friction of the cotton sending shivers up your spine. The sound you make is so high pitched it almost doesn’t seem like it could come from your mouth. 

All thoughts of this being a bad idea rapidly fall out of your head as he continues his onslaught, pressing closer and only pulling back for a fraction of a second so that he can pull your soaked underwear to the side and dive back in. 

“Fuck!” You whine, your hips moving on their own, chasing the pleasure of his mouth as you finally feel his tongue on you. You didn’t expect him to be so good with his mouth, had taken his previous words as false bravado, and now you were sure you could fall apart after barely a second. 

He laps at your folds with boards swipes of his tongue, moaning pornographically as he does, his eyes rolling back in his head as he latches onto your clit and sucks just hard enough to pull you to the edge of madness before releasing you and starting all over again. 

“Cecil,” you thread your hand into his hair to ground yourself, “fuck, god, that’s, that’s so fucking good.”

He groans at your praise, desperate to please you. He moves his mouth back for the smallest moment, giving your clit a quick kiss, “you taste so fucking good.” 

You don’t get a chance to reply, your words lost as he sucks your clit into his mouth once more, swirling the very top of his tongue against you in tight, soft circles that have you screaming. 

You come in a blinding rush, your body throwing you headfirst into the sensations and letting you drown in them as pleasure sweeps over you and leaves you weightless. 

Cecil whines as the flood of fresh wetness hits his tongue, greedily drinks it down and looks up at you with large lust blown eyes as you come undone for him. 

You breathe hard, just about getting your bearings as he quickly sits up and unbuckles his belt. 

The zip of his fly opening brings you back to reality for a second and then the hot, leaking head of his cock is pressing against your entrance. 

“Cecil,” you gasp, he's still got your underwear pulled to the side haphazardly, one hand pressed firmly against your thigh as he pushes in. 

“Oh fuuuuuuck,” he groans, low and deep as he sinks into your heat. “Wow, oh fucking god, knew you’d feel good, but this, Jesus, fuck.” He swallows harshly, cutting off his own words with a cry as he sheaths himself fully inside. “Not gonna last more than thirty seconds, I’m sorry.” All his words run together as he shallowly thrusts, experimentally pulling out a fraction to sink back in. 

He feels good, hard and hot and stretching you in the most perfect way. You moan softly, moving with him and he groans loudly, snapping his hips into you like a man possessed. He moves in a rush, so overcome with sensations that he barely has time to remember to breathe. 

“Oh god, you’re so pretty, you know that? So beautiful? I wanted to kiss you for the longest time, wanted to taste you and make you come and,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut as he gets lost in the pleasure of your heat. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I’m gonna…” 

He whines, his thrusts uneven and sloppy as he shudders, stutters and then moans. His back bowing as he comes deep. 

He looks so beautiful as his face screws up in pleasure, his mouth open and neck taut. 

You barely have a moment to enjoy the view before he's pulling out roughly and yanking your panties off your legs. 

“Cecil,” you chuckle, “what are you doing?” 

He grins up at you as he pushes back between your legs and runs his tongue through your folds. 

You gasp and shiver at the spark of heat that ignites again. 

“I made a mess, gotta clean it up.” He gives you a cheeky smile and wink before he dives back in and groans. 

Thank you for reading!

Taglist:

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[mrs-delaney]

Hide | All I Need | Chapter Eleven

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 18.6k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, strong language, messy family dynamics, generational tenderness, the good kind of exhaustion after a long day in the sun, and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you’re building a life together.

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 repost, translate, or share my work without permission.

📌 Requests: OPEN. I’ll be spending the weekend working through the ones I’ve already received, but feel free to send new ones in.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me.

Author’s Note:

This chapter isn't about grand gestures or dramatic turning points. It's about the quiet way distance can erode even the strongest connection—how two people can be speaking different languages without realizing it. The studio lights at 3 AM. The empty bed. The text that goes unanswered just a little too long.

Writing this felt like watching two people trying to hold onto something slipping through their fingers. Joe, buried in his routines and training, missing the significance of what Riley shares with him. Riley, pouring herself into her music and still making space for him, wondering if he'll ever truly do the same.

There's that moment we've all faced: standing in someone's kitchen, realizing they've forgotten you were coming, and deciding whether to voice your hurt or smooth it over. The courage it takes to finally say "this isn't working" to someone you're desperately hoping won't let you go.

Thank you for being here through their highs and lows. For the comments about wanting to shake Joe or needing to hug Riley. For understanding that sometimes the most honest love stories aren't about perfect people, but about real ones trying their best and sometimes failing spectacularly. I hope this chapter leaves you feeling that ache—not the sharp pain of a breakup, but the hollow feeling of wondering if what you have is enough. And then, maybe, that small flicker of hope when someone chooses to stay and really listen.

💙📱🎵

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

***

"One more with a little more vulnerability in the bridge." Pete's voice came through Riley's headphones, patient but unwavering. She nodded at the glass where he sat with Andy and Daniel, their eyes fixed on her with quiet intensity. She'd already recorded "Daylight" four times, and her throat felt raw in the amber glow of Sad Banger Labs' isolation booth. This converted pool house had become her sanctuary these past three weeks—the place where she'd finally found words for what Joe had shifted in her. Something honest and unguarded that felt different from anything else on the album.

"One more with a little more vulnerability in the bridge." Pete's voice came through Riley's headphones, patient but unwavering. She nodded at the glass where he sat with Andy and Daniel, their eyes fixed on her with quiet intensity.

Riley pressed her headphones tighter against her ears as the track began again. She closed her eyes, letting the familiar melody wash over her. This song—the one she'd written after their time together, after Joe had shifted something fundamental in her it felt different from anything else on the album. Raw in a way that wasn't about pain. Open without bleeding.

Pete's voice came through her headphones. "That's it. That's the one."

Riley opened her eyes, surprised. "You sure? I can do another."

Pete's voice came through her headphones. "That's it. That vulnerability in your voice when you hit the line about seeing daylight? Perfect. Just what we needed."

Riley smiled, feeling a small surge of relief. The song had come to her unexpectedly, a last-minute addition to an album they'd thought was complete. She hadn't explicitly told the guys it was about Joe—hadn't needed to. They knew, and they'd been oddly careful with her as they worked on it, like they were handling something fragile.

***

Two thousand miles away, Joe Burrow moved through the Bengals' practice facility with purposeful strides. Rookie minicamp meant the building hummed with nervous energy—new players trying to make impressions, coaches evaluating talent, media capturing soundbites. Joe wasn't required to be here, but leadership meant showing up when you didn't have to.

He spent the morning in the film room with the offensive coordinator, breaking down tendencies they'd observed in the rookies' college tape. Later, he joined the quarterback coach on the field, standing back and observing drills, occasionally stepping in to demonstrate a footwork pattern or the proper placement for a particular throw.

This was the part of leadership Joe excelled at—present but not overbearing, available but not intrusive. Setting a tone without having to announce it.

By late afternoon, most of the veterans who'd made appearances had cleared out, but Joe lingered in the weight room, watching the rookies cycle through their assessments. Some of them kept glancing his way, clearly aware of his presence. He remembered that feeling from his own rookie days, the weight of proving yourself to the established players.

When his phone vibrated in his pocket—Riley for the third time that day—he silenced it without checking. Team time was team time. He'd call her back later.

***

That evening, Joe joined the traditional rookie dinner at Jeff Ruby's Steakhouse downtown. The gathering was unofficial but important—veteran leaders welcoming new players to the city, to the team, to the brotherhood. Sitting at the head of the table, Joe made a point to engage with each rookie, asking about their hometowns, their families, their adjustment to Cincinnati.

"Tradition matters in this building," he told them, voice steady but commanding. "How we practice, how we prepare, how we treat each other. It starts now."

Next to him, Emma, one of the team's athletic trainers, was explaining recovery protocols to a cluster of attentive rookies. Joe leaned in occasionally to emphasize a point or share an example from his own experience. The rookies hung on every word—from both of them.

Joe didn't notice one of the restaurant's other patrons discreetly taking a photo of their table, capturing a moment where he was leaning toward Emma, both of them laughing at something one of the rookies had said.

***

Meanwhile, Riley sat cross-legged on the floor of Sad Banger Labs at nearly midnight, takeout containers scattered around her like casualties. She checked her phone again. No response to her last three messages. The clock read 11:48 PM in LA, which meant it was nearly 3 AM in Cincinnati. Joe would be deep asleep by now.

She typed a message anyway.

Just finished the new track. The one that came to me last week. I think it might be the best thing I've ever written. Can't wait for you to hear it someday. Miss your voice.

She sent it knowing he wouldn't see it until morning, when he'd already be up with the sun, methodical as always. Their lives moved at different speeds, in different orbits. His days regulated by training schedules and protein shakes, hers by sound checks and studio time. The distance wasn't just geographic.

She glanced at the mess of takeout containers. Her third consecutive dinner in the studio. When had that become normal?

Absently, she opened Instagram, scrolling through her feed to distract herself. Algorithms were strange things, especially once you started searching for someone regularly. Though she'd never followed any Bengals-related accounts, her feed had begun suggesting Cincinnati content ever since she'd started typing Joe's name in the search bar more frequently.

Her thumb froze mid-scroll. A post from a Cincinnati sports bar had appeared in her suggested content, showing a photo taken just hours earlier. Joe at a restaurant table, leaning close to a woman Riley had never seen before. They were both smiling, Joe's expression more relaxed than in most of his public appearances. The caption read: "QB1 welcoming the rookies to the Queen City tonight at Jeff Ruby's. #WhoDey #SeasonStartsNow"

Riley stared at the image longer than she meant to. It wasn't the woman that bothered her, not really. It was that Joe had time for team dinners but couldn't return a call. It was seeing photographic evidence that while she sat alone in a studio missing him, he was out living his life as if nothing was missing at all.

"You're spiraling," she muttered to herself, setting the phone down.

"Talking to yourself now?" Pete asked, appearing in the doorway with two beers. "That's concerning."

"Just having an existential crisis. The usual."

Pete handed her a beer and settled on the floor beside her. "What's going on Riles?"

Riley wordlessly handed him her phone, the photo still on screen. Pete studied it for a moment, then shrugged.

"Looks like a team dinner."

"He hasn't called me back all day. But he's got time for this."

"Some things aren't optional in his world, Ri." Pete's tone was gentler than usual. "You know that."

"Yeah, well, it feels like I'm optional right now."

Pete took a long swig of his beer. "You gonna ask him about it?"

"And sound like the crazy jealous girlfriend? No thanks."

"Since when do you care about sounding crazy?"

Riley laughed despite herself. "Fair point."

"You want company tonight?" Pete asked, already grabbing the spare blankets from the cabinet. He'd been staying over most nights during the final push—not because there was more work to do, but because he could sense the loneliness in her without her needing to say a word.

Riley nodded, exhausted. “Booth’s calling.”

Pete dropped the blankets on the couch and stretched his back with a groan. “Good. The couch and I are in a codependent spiral.

She cracked a smile. “Toxic as fuck.”

He smirked. “We’re working through it.”

They settled into their makeshift sleeping arrangements. Pete sprawled out on the couch with two cushions under his head, Riley curled up in the sound booth. The familiar sounds of the studio at night surrounded them—the hum of equipment never fully powered down, the distant drone of late-night traffic, the occasional pop from the old speakers.

"Hey Pete?"

"Mmm?"

"You think it's weird that he's never asked me to meet his family? After I introduced him to Papa and everyone?"

Pete was quiet for a long moment. "You let people all the way in. I think he's still figuring out how to do that."

Riley didn't need to ask which approach was better. She already knew what Pete thought.

Her phone stayed silent next to her pillow. In Cincinnati, Joe's phone sat in silent mode on his nightstand, Riley's message waiting unread. His alarm would wake him at 5:15 AM, and her words would be the first thing he'd see—a small bridge between their worlds that was growing increasingly separate despite all her efforts to stay connected.

His first thought upon waking, before even checking his phone, would be calculating the miles he needed to run that morning. His second thought would be wondering if Riley had called.

He didn't yet realize these two thoughts were beginning to compete for priority in a way they never had before. And he certainly didn't realize that a casual team dinner photo was already creating a small fracture in their carefully maintained long-distance balance.

* * *

The alarm shattered the silence of Joe's bedroom at precisely 5:15 AM. His hand silenced it with practiced efficiency, muscle memory from thousands of identical mornings. He allowed himself exactly one deep breath before sitting up, his body already calculating the day's first workout.

Joe reached for his phone, remembering Riley had called multiple times yesterday. Three notifications from her waited on his lock screen, the most recent sent close to 3 AM his time.

Just finished the new track. The one that came to me last week. I think it might be the best thing I've ever written. Can't wait for you to hear it someday. Miss your voice.

Something in his chest tightened. Her words carried a weight that made the space between Cincinnati and Los Angeles feel both vast and paper-thin. He typed quickly:

Sorry about missing your calls yesterday. Rookie camp, then dinner with the team. Want to hear this track. Call you after training?

He set the phone down and headed for the bathroom. No point staring at the screen waiting for a reply that wouldn't come for hours.

***

Across the country, Riley woke to sunlight filtering through the studio's small window. Her neck protested from another night in the sound booth, but her mind felt clearer than it had in days. Completing "Daylight" had released something in her, a creative tension she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.

She checked her phone, expecting nothing. Joe's message surprised her.

Riley’s thumb hovered over his text. She reread it twice, heart catching on the phrase “team dinner.” Her eyes flicked to the corner of the screen—no photo follow-up, no ��how was your night?” Just acknowledgment. Logistics. Polite warmth.

She typed a reply. Deleted it. Tried again.

Her fingers moved slowly over the keyboard.

Glad you got some rest. Hope today’s not too brutal.

She stared at the screen for a long moment, then added:

I'm still sitting with the track. I'll send it when it feels right.

There. Honest, but not dramatic. She hit send and set the phone aside, then pushed herself up off the floor.

The side door stuck a little as she pushed it open, heading from the studio into the main house. Pete was already in the kitchen, the smell of coffee and toast filling the air.

Pete handed her a mug without looking up from the toaster. "You sleep at all?"

“Enough,” she said, accepting the cup. “Joe texted back.”

“Yeah?” he asked, glancing over. “All good?”

Riley took a sip, buying herself a pause. “He said he’ll call after training.”

Pete didn’t say anything, but she could feel the we’ll see behind his eyes.

“He asked to hear the track,” she added, before he could say anything. “I decided I’m not sending it. Not yet.”

Pete nodded once. “Good.”

She looked up. “Good?”

“You don’t owe anyone the inside of your chest just because they ask for it.”

“He didn’t ask.”

“Even more reason to wait.”

* * *

Riley was deep in a mixing session with Pete when her phone lit up beside the console.

Joe.

2:18 PM.

She stared at the screen a second longer than she meant to.

Pete caught the glance. “You good?”

“Yeah,” she said, already standing. “I got it.”

He nodded and slipped on his headphones, giving her space.

“Hey,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

“Hey,” Joe replied, and she could hear the fatigue under his usual calm. “Sorry it took me a minute. Today got away from me.”

“How’d rookie camp go yesterday?” she asked, letting the question land lightly.

“It was good,” he said. “Long. But good. Lot of energy in the building.”

“Were they nervous?” she asked.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “A couple were nervous. But it settles fast once we start running plays.”

There was a pause. Not comfortable, but not tense either. Just the quiet of two people trying to hold onto something while standing miles apart.

"You've been going nonstop," Joe observed, his voice carrying that quiet concern she'd come to recognize.

"Yeah," Riley sighed, pushing hair from her face. "It's that part of the process. The final push is always a blur."

“You sit with the track anymore?”

“Yeah.”

“Still not ready to send it?”

“Not yet.”

Joe didn't answer right away. Just the soft sound of movement on his end - settling maybe, or absently reaching for something to keep his hands busy.

“I thought you were done adding songs,” he said eventually.

“I was.”

“So?”

"This one's going at the end."

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. Not pushing. Just trying to understand.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she wasn’t sure how to say it without giving too much away.

“Because the rest of it’s… heavy,” she said finally. “And I guess I needed to end on something that didn’t make it feel like I was drowning the whole time.”

Riley glanced at the soundboard, her notebook pushed to the edge, a half-empty water bottle wedged between the cables.

Joe was quiet. Just listening, not rushing to fill the space.

“I want to hear it,” he said, softer now.

“I know.”

“I can wait.”

Riley traced the edge of her notebook, gathering courage.

"So, um—I saw a photo yesterday," she said finally, keeping her voice deliberately casual. "From your team dinner."

Joe went quiet, the kind of quiet that told her he was choosing his words carefully. "Riley, that was just—"

"It's not her," she cut in, words tumbling out faster now. "I'm not jealous, or whatever. That's not what this is."

“Okay.”

She hesitated. "Maybe I am a little jealous," she admitted, the words low. "But not of her. It's just..."

She trailed off, trying to find the right words for what she was feeling.

“It’s been almost four weeks, Joe. You’re the one who said we shouldn’t go more than two.”

“You’re right,” he said, finally. “I’ve been trying to stay locked in. Everything’s ramping up fast.”

“I get it,” she said. “I do.”

“I’m busy too,” she said. “And I’m still trying to make time. Even when it makes me feel a little… clingy or whatever.”

She gave a short laugh, but it didn’t quite land. “Which is not a great look, by the way.”

"I get it," Joe said quietly. "I'd feel the same way."

Riley nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. She didn’t totally believe him, but she appreciated that he said it.

“I know you’ve been trying. I’m not saying you haven’t. You came to LA, you flew to meet my family—like, I see that. I do.”

She paused. “It just… it felt like we were figuring it out together. And now it kind of feels like that’s starting to slip.”

Joe set his phone down, running a hand through his hair. Riley's words still hung in the air between them, even through the screen.

"I hear you," he said finally, his voice low and steady despite the tightness in his chest. "You've been making space for us, and I haven't matched that lately." He paused, searching for the right words—not his usual calculated response, but something honest. "It's not that I don't want to. My schedule's always been like this, but it's never felt like a problem before."

Riley's eyes softened on the screen. "Because you've never had to make room for someone who doesn't fit neatly into your routine."

He nodded, the truth of it settling between them. His voice dropped lower. "I want to. I'm just..." He rarely struggled for words, but now they seemed inadequate. "Football's always come first. I've never questioned it."

"I'm not asking you to change that, Joe."

"I know." He closed his eyes. "That's what makes this harder. You deserve more than what's left over after everything else."

Riley was quiet for a moment, and he could hear her shifting, imagined her pulling her knees to her chest the way she did when she was thinking.

"It's not about what I deserve," she said finally. "It's about what we choose. Every day. Even when it's hard."

Joe opened his eyes, studying her face on the screen. There was no ultimatum there, just honesty.

Joe leaned back against the headboard, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "I don't want you to feel like you're chasing me, Riley. That's not what we are."

"I know," she said. "It hasn't felt like that—until recently."

"It used to feel like we were both making it work. Even with all the chaos. But lately… I don't know. I keep checking the clock, waiting for a call, hoping a window opens up."

She glanced at the screen. "It just feels different."

Joe felt the weight of her words settle in his chest. These past few weeks, his training sessions with Dak had intensified, and the meetings with Bill, Mark, and the Bengals staff had taken up more of his bandwidth than he'd anticipated. He'd been so focused on proving nothing had changed, that he hadn't noticed how much actually had.

"I know my schedule's been tight lately," he said, the acknowledgment feeling inadequate even as he said it. "The prep work with Dak, all these meetings."

Riley nodded slightly. Not accusatory, just confirming she'd noticed too.

"After I left New Orleans, I thought I had it figured out." His voice was quieter than usual. "But then everything started ramping up and I just..." He trailed off, unaccustomed to not having the right play.

"I get it," Riley said. "I do. The album's consuming everything right now too." She ran a hand through her hair, messy from a day in the studio. "But even in the middle of all that, I'm still making room. And sometimes it feels like I'm the only one trying to find the space between."

"You're right," Joe said simply, the admission foreign on his tongue. He wasn't used to being caught off-balance, to not executing perfectly. "I've been treating us like another thing on my schedule. And you deserve better than that."

She looked up at that, something softening in her expression.

"So what are we going to do about it?" she asked.

A heavy silence settled between them. Riley tucked her knees up to her chest, waiting. She’d said her piece, laid it out there. The ball was in his court now.

Joe considered her question with the same focus he'd give a defensive lineup. "I can't change training. Or the schedule." The words came out clipped, factual. "But I can change how I approach it. How I make time."

Riley bit her lip, nodding slightly. Then, before he could continue, she straightened her shoulders.

"What if I fly out there?" she offered. "Next weekend?" She spoke quickly, already working it out. "I could be in Cincinnati by dinner."

Joe paused. "You sure?"

"Yeah," she said. "I think it'd help to see you."

“That could work,” he said, already mentally rearranging his Sunday. He had training with Dak in the morning, but he could move it earlier. “I’ve got something Saturday night—nothing major—but Sunday’s pretty open.”

“I don’t need a big plan,” she said. “I’m tired too, Joe. We’re finishing the album, starting rehearsals, planning the tour, locking down the documentary and all the promo—I just want time that doesn’t feel like another thing to manage.”

She rubbed at her temple, the fatigue catching up to her all at once. “I just want to sit still with you for a minute. That’s it.”

Joe didn’t say anything right away.

He knew she was busy—he’d known that. But hearing it laid out like that, the exhaustion threaded through her voice, made something settle heavy in his chest.

She was stretched thin, same as him. Maybe more. But the way she still reached for him in the middle of it—that wasn’t the kind of space he’d been holding for her.

She was carving out time for them.

He was trying to fit her in without changing anything.

Joe glanced at the time, thumb brushing the edge of his phone. “You need to get back to it?”

“Yeah,” she said, already hearing faint movement through the walls—someone shifting a mic stand, the subtle thump of bass bleeding from another room. “We’re locking in the last section before we send to mastering.”

“Will you call me later?” he asked. “Even if it’s late.”

“I will,” she said. “Try to relax a little in the meantime.”

“I’ll try if you do.”

She smiled, tired but real. “We’ll see.”

They sat in it for a breath longer—closer now, if not entirely fixed.

“Talk soon?” she said.

“Soon,” Joe said.

She ended the call, the screen going dark in her hand. For a moment, she just sat there, the low hum of the soundboard steady under her fingers.

Then she stood, stretched the stiffness from her shoulders, and headed for the side door that led into Pete’s house.

* * *

The side door stuck as she pushed it open. Outside, the air hung warm and heavy, sun dipping low over the canyon. Riley squinted against the light as she crossed to the house, her sandals scraping against the gravel path.

Pete's place smelled like old incense and coffee grounds. Same as always. She found him in the kitchen, barefoot at the stove, flipping something in a cast iron pan with the unhurried focus of someone who had all the time in the world.

He glanced over when she walked in but didn’t say anything right away. Just grabbed a plate and slid a grilled cheese across the counter toward her—extra crisp at the edges, the way she liked it when she was running on fumes.

She dropped into the nearest chair, the weight of the call still hanging somewhere in her chest.

"How'd it go?" Pete asked, not looking up.

Riley took a bite before answering. "Better than I expected."

Pete gave a slow nod, eyes still on what he was doing. "You two figure anything out?"

She exhaled through her nose. "Not really, but at least we're talking about it now."

Pete didn’t say anything else. Just pushed a can of Bubbly across the counter toward her and turned back to the stove like that was all he needed to hear.

Pete carried on cooking, giving Riley space. She watched him move around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had fed her a thousand times before—after late shows, during all-night writing sessions, those first blurry months after Ethan when she'd barely eaten at all. He'd never made a big deal about it, just slid food in front of her whenever she needed it, like now.

Riley finished half the sandwich in silence, letting the weight of the conversation with Joe settle around her.

"Tomorrow we finish this thing, yeah?" she asked, already feeling the familiar pre-completion anxiety buzzing under her skin.

"Full stop," Pete agreed. "All the way done. Nick's coming in at ten to finalize the sequence."

She nodded. "You think it's good? Like, actually good?"

Pete turned to look at her fully, setting the spatula down. "Riley. It's the best work we've ever done." He paused, eyes steady on hers. "And 'Daylight' is the best thing you've ever written."

“Yeah,” he said, with the quiet certainty that had steadied her through a decade of doubt. “I don’t say that lightly.”

Riley stared at her plate, eyes unfocused. “I didn’t think I’d write like that again after Ethan.”

Pete didn’t say anything yet. He knew she wasn’t looking for a response.

“I kept trying,” she said quietly. “Everything was either too careful or too mean. Like I couldn’t find the part of me that knew how to be honest anymore.”

“But you did,” Pete said. “You found it.”

She nodded, slowly. “I don’t know if it’s a breakup album. Or a healing album. Or just… a reckoning.”

“It’s all of that.”

Riley reached for her sparkling water, the can damp in her hand. “It doesn’t forgive him. But it lets me walk away.”

Pete tilted his head. “And ‘Daylight’?”

A pause.

"That's the part where I stop looking back," Riley said.

Pete looked up at her. "That's what makes it powerful."

"I don't say that lightly," he added, with the quiet certainty that had steadied her through a decade of doubt.

* * *

The studio dimmed to just the glow of the board and Nick's lucky lava lamp spinning colors across the wall. No one spoke. They didn't need to. Everyone was locked in.

Andy leaned against the back wall, scrolling through mix notes on his phone. Daniel hunched by the rack, playing the same four seconds of track ten over and over, hunting a click only he could hear. Pete made his ritual laps from console to couch, hands on his hips, listening from different corners of the room.

Riley stood behind Nick, arms crossed over her chest, eyes sharp. She hadn’t moved in twenty minutes.

“Pull the transition between nine and ten back two frames,” she said, her voice low, focused.

Nick didn’t question it. Just nodded and adjusted.

Track after track played through the monitors, every sound familiar but freshly dissected. The low hum of bass under her vocals. The breathing space between verses. The way a certain harmony fell into place without trying.

The board was scattered with scribbled notes, water bottles, and the fading memory of chaos. Now there was only precision. Discipline. The quiet hum of people chasing the end of something that mattered.

“Okay,” Nick said finally. “Let’s run the whole thing, start to finish.”

No one spoke. They just took their places—Daniel sliding back into his seat, Andy folding his arms across his chest, Pete still and silent by the door.

Nick hit play.

* * *

The clock on the wall read 5:17 AM, but the room felt suspended in something outside time.

The final playback filled the room. They sat frozen in their spots, like survivors after a storm. Nobody spoke. Just listened, leaning into the sound with everything they had.

They hadn't made the whole album here, but this was where it found its heart. Where it came to life. Where it truly became theirs.

No label suits walking in mid-take. No half-hour rental clocks ticking down. Just them—choosing every sound, stacking every harmony, gutting every lyric until it landed.

It had been a risk. Pouring their own money into this place, building something from scratch while the industry told them to play it safe. But tonight, the risk felt like freedom. Like proof they could do it.

"Daylight" filled the final stretch. Riley stayed on the floor, back against the rack. Pete stood silent in the corner. Andy swayed slightly, eyes closed. Nick just stared ahead, perfectly still.

You gotta step into the daylight and let it go. Just let it go, let it go…

The song ended, and for a long moment, nothing replaced it. No sound. Just breath and disbelief.

Then Nick clicked the board to stop. "That's the record," he said.

Pete nodded, still rooted in place. "That's the one."

Riley dragged her hands down her face, raw with exhaustion. "We really did it."

Andy let out a quiet "fuck," not angry, just stunned.

Daniel tapped a knuckle against the desk. "That's ours. Nobody fucking gets to say otherwise."

Pete crossed to her, pulled her into a quick, strong hug. "You brought this home, Riles."

Riley blinked hard, throat thick. "We all did."

Nick looked up, finally smiling. "Guess the name stays, huh?"

"No," Riley said. "Sad Banger Labs it is."

The fridge opened. The champagne they'd been saving appeared. No toast. No glasses needed. Just the bottle making its way around the circle, everyone taking a swig, trading quiet, stunned smiles.

It was 5:22 AM, and the album was done.

Not perfect. Not clean around the edges. But honest. Theirs. Every second of it.

And no one could take that from them.

By 6:00 AM, the room had started to dim.

Daniel crashed on the back couch, hoodie covering his face. Pete slipped out without a word, leaving the door unlocked like always. Nick closed his laptop, mumbling about four hours of sleep before one last check of the masters.

Andy stood in the doorway, blinking hard. "I'm gonna steal the guest room."

"Don't snore," Riley said without looking up.

"No promises," he called back, already gone.

Within minutes, the studio had gone still.

Riley stayed.

The studio rang with that hollow quiet that follows hours of noise. Stale coffee, a hint of whiskey, and the warm scent of bodies pushed past their limits filled the air. Her fingertips felt raw, hands still humming with phantom chords.

She worked through the last steps by feel - saving, bouncing the master, naming the file. When it finished, she sent it straight to her phone, the notification appearing instantly.

She opened her thread with Joe and typed:

We finished it. I wanted you to be the first to hear it.

She attached the file and hit send.

The weight of finishing settled in her chest. This album was different—not just because they'd made it their way, gambling everything on their vision. But because for the first time since Ethan, she'd written from a place that wasn't shattered. The scars showed in the lyrics, the doubt was still there, but something else had crept in too. A steadiness. A current of hope she hadn't known a year ago.

And suddenly she cared, more than she'd expected, what he might hear in these songs. What parts of herself, raw and unguarded, she'd just handed over without warning at six in the morning.

She didn't regret it. But the vulnerability caught in her throat, made her grip the edge of the console a little tighter.

Too late now. It was his to hear, to understand or not.

* * *

The weight dropped with a satisfying clang as Joe finished his fourth set.

"Two more," Dak called from across the room, not looking up from his clipboard.

Joe reached for his water bottle, taking his thirty seconds of rest. Black Sheep smelled like rubber mats and metal, sweat and disinfectant. At 9:00 AM, the place was still nearly empty—exactly how he liked it.

His phone screen lit up on the bench beside him. He usually kept it on silent during training, but something made him glance down.

Riley.

He wiped his palm on his shorts before picking it up.

Riley: We finished it. I wanted you to be the first to hear it.

Below it, a file. The album. The whole thing.

Joe nodded slightly, a quick smile crossing his face. Good for her. He'd heard enough about the late nights and arguments over tracks to know this was a milestone.

"Thirty seconds is up, Burrow. Let's go." Dak's voice cut through his thoughts.

Joe set the phone down, switching gears without missing a beat. Album done. Riley finished her project. He'd listen later. Right now, there was work to do. 

Eight clean reps. Focus. Breathe. The rhythm of it was meditative, his mind clearing of everything except the controlled movement.

After his final set, he grabbed his phone again, thumbs moving quickly between swigs of water.

That's awesome. Congrats on finishing. I'll listen when I get home tonight.

He hit send and slid the phone back into his bag, already mentally preparing for the next exercise Dak had lined up. 

It never occurred to him that Riley had stayed awake after an all-nighter just to send him this file. That in the music world, being the first person outside the inner circle to hear a completed album was an intimacy few were granted. That embedded in those tracks was a song about him—her feelings laid bare in lyrics he might not even recognize were about him.

He didn't realize that while his response was supportive, it missed the weight of the moment entirely. That what to him was a professional accomplishment to be acknowledged was, to Riley, a vulnerable offering of her most intimate creative self. That waiting until tonight, treating it like any other task to get to when convenient, diminished what she'd entrusted to him.

Joe turned back to his workout, not realizing what he'd just missed - how his practical response had landed squarely in the growing gap between their worlds.

* * *

Riley stared at her phone, the screen dimming before she reached out to tap it awake again.

Joe: That’s awesome. Congrats on finishing. I’ll listen when I get home tonight.

The words sat there, polite and measured. Perfectly Joe. She read them again, looking for something more between the lines, some hint he understood what she'd just shared. Nothing.

The exhaustion crashed over her—not just the physical drain of the all-nighter, but something deeper. A hollow space where excitement had been. She'd sent him the album while the music still vibrated in her bones, while she was still raw from what they'd created. And his response felt like a stranger's handshake.

She set the phone down on the console, screen-side down.

What had she expected? That he’d drop everything at 9 AM on a Tuesday to listen? That he’d somehow hear “Daylight” and instantly know it was about him? That he’d call her right away, voice warm with understanding?

Yes. Some small, foolish part of her had expected exactly that.

Pete wandered back in, hair sticking up on one side, eyes puffy with sleep. He glanced at her, then at the phone, then back at her face.

“You sent it to him,” he said. Not a question.

Riley nodded.

“And?”

“And nothing.” She tried for casual, but even to her own ears, it fell flat. “He’s training. Said he’d listen later.”

Pete leaned against the doorframe, waiting. He knew her too well to believe that was all.

“It’s fine,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “It’s not like he knows what it means. Sharing an album like this. He’s not—” She gestured vaguely at the space around them, at the world they inhabited that Joe only glimpsed from the outside.

“Not us,” Pete finished for her.

“Yeah.” The word tasted bitter. It wasn’t fair to Joe, and she knew it. This was her fault for expecting him to intuitively understand the significance of something she hadn’t bothered to explain.

“You told him about ‘Daylight’?” Pete asked, though he already knew the answer.

“No.” She reached for her half-empty coffee mug, now ice cold. “That would’ve been weird, right? ‘Hey, listen especially closely to the last track because it’s about you.’ That’s not… I don’t want to make him feel…”

“On the spot,” Pete supplied.

“Yeah.”

Pete studied her for a moment. “You know he’s gonna like it, Riles. The whole thing. He’s gonna be proud of you.”

“I know.” And she did know that. Joe would listen carefully and tell her how impressed he was. He’d mean it, too.

But it wouldn’t be the same as understanding what it meant that she’d sent it to him first. Before her label, before the music blogs, before anyone who wasn’t in this room last night.

Before everyone except the people who were her home.

Riley stood, suddenly desperate for air, for sleep, for something to fill the strange emptiness expanding in her chest.

“I’m gonna crash for a bit,” she said, gathering her things. “Can you—”

“I’ll handle the label call,” Pete said. “Go sleep.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words. This was what she'd always had—people who knew what she needed before she had to say it. Who heard what lived between her sentences.

As she stepped into the LA morning, sun already harsh above the hills, Riley wondered if she and Joe would ever bridge the gap between their languages. Or if this was just the first verse of an old song—her offering pieces of herself he couldn't quite recognize, him responding in ways that made sense to him but missed what she was really saying.

She was too tired to figure it out now. Maybe there was nothing to solve. Maybe this was just what happened when two people from different worlds tried to meet in the space between.

* * *

Joe was halfway through his third set of weighted pull-ups when his phone buzzed on the bench. He ignored it, focusing on the controlled movement, the precise count in his head. Three more. Two. One.

He dropped to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he reached for his water bottle. The notification light blinked at him from his phone screen. He glanced at it absently, then froze.

Riley: boarding now, see you soon 💙

Joe stared at the message, his stomach dropping. Riley. The visit. Today.

"Shit," he muttered, immediately checking the time. 10:32 AM.

How had he forgotten? They'd talked about it just two days ago during their last phone call. He'd even made a note in his calendar.

A calendar he'd completely ignored this morning when Coach Taylor had called about reviewing new offensive schemes. Then he'd headed straight to Black Sheep for his training session with Dak, his mind already locked into workout mode.

"You good?" Dak called from across the gym, where he was preparing Joe's next set.

"Yeah," Joe said, already scrolling through his contacts for Sarah. "Just need a minute."

His mind raced, calculating times. Riley's flight would land around 2:00. He still had this entire workout to finish, then the meeting with Coach Taylor and the offensive staff at the facility was scheduled for 1:30, and those never ran less than three hours. There was no way he could make it to the airport.

Sarah picked up on the second ring.

"I need a favor," Joe said, stepping toward the empty corner of the gym, aware of Dak watching the clock. "Riley's flying in today. Can you pick her up at the airport?"

A pause. "Today? As in, right now today?"

"Landing at 2. Delta from LAX." Joe glanced back at Dak, who was now pointedly tapping his watch. "I know it's last minute."

"Last minute?" Sarah's tone shifted to that particular professional coolness that meant she was annoyed. "Joe, did you forget she was coming?"

He hesitated before admitting, "Yeah. With everything today... it completely slipped my mind."

"So you want me to just show up at the airport instead of you," Sarah clarified, "and what—pretend this was the plan all along?"

"If you could." Joe watched as Dak started adjusting weights for his next set. "Just say I got tied up with the coaches. Don't make it sound like I forgot."

The silence on the other end stretched out long enough that Joe wondered if the call had dropped.

"So let me get this straight," Sarah finally said. "You want your girlfriend's first impression of me to be when I lie to her face and pretend you didn't just completely forget she was flying in to see you?"

When she put that way, it did sound bad. But the alternative—Riley knowing he'd completely forgotten her visit and that seemed worse.

"Yes," he said simply.

Sarah exhaled sharply. "Fine. But I'm using the company card to get some things that I'll tell her were your idea. To smooth this over."

"Whatever you need," Joe agreed quickly, relief washing over him.

"What does she like? If I'm going to sell this, I need details."

Joe thought for a moment, aware of Dak's growing impatience. "She loves sour gummies. And blood orange sparkling water. Maybe some pinot noir, see if you can find a Louisiana brand."

"Anything else?" The sarcasm was subtle but unmistakable.

"Taco stuff," he added, remembering how Riley had raided his kitchen at 3 AM last visit. "She likes making tacos when she can't sleep."

"This is going to cost you," Sarah warned. "And not just the grocery bill."

"I know. I appreciate it, Sarah."

"You'd better." She paused. "What exactly should I tell her about why you couldn't make it?"

Joe hadn't thought that far ahead. "Meeting with the offensive coaching staff? Been in session since this morning?"

"Fine. I'll text her now." Her voice softened slightly. "But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't do this again," Sarah said firmly. "She's flying across the country to see you. That matters."

The words landed with unexpected weight. "I know. I know." he said, and meant it. "I'll make it up to her."

"See that you do." With that, Sarah hung up.

Joe quickly sent a thumbs-up emoji in response to Riley's message as Dak called out, "We've got a schedule to keep, Burrow!"

"Coming," Joe replied, sliding his phone back into his gym bag. 

As he positioned himself under the bar again, an uncomfortably familiar feeling settled in his chest. The vague sense that he'd missed something important. That he'd failed some test he hadn't known he was taking.

He pushed it aside, focusing on the weight, the movement, the count. The way he always did. But the thought of Riley—tired from weeks in the studio, excited to see him, probably already at the airport—lingered at the edges of his concentration. He'd been looking forward to her visit too, had talked about it for weeks. How had he managed to forget entirely?

Three more sets. Meeting with the coaches. Game film review. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Riley arriving at his house, waiting for him.

By the time he finished his workout, the guilt had faded to a dull throb, compartmentalized like everything else that threatened his focus. He'd handle it later. Make it up to her tonight. Order in, open that wine Sarah was picking up, give Riley his full attention.

But as he headed to the showers, Joe couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a scheduling mistake. It was part of something bigger—the fundamental difference in how they moved through the world. Riley, who lived in the moment, who rearranged everything for the people she loved. And him, with his structures and systems, his life divided into careful, separate pieces.

He pushed that thought away too. Just a missed airport run. They'd be fine.

* * *

The captain's announcement barely registered as Riley blinked awake. Her neck ached from sleeping against the window, and her mouth felt like cotton. The flight from LA had only been three and a half hours, but after nearly a week of minimal sleep, her body couldn't tell the difference between a nap and a coma.

"We've begun our final descent into Cincinnati/Northern Kentucky International Airport. Local time is 2:17 PM with clear skies and a temperature of 72 degrees..."

Riley pulled her phone from airplane mode, watching the signal bars reappear. She'd texted Joe before takeoff, a simple "boarding now, see you soon" that he'd acknowledged with a thumbs-up emoji. Not exactly effusive, but it was Joe.

They'd settled into a rhythm of sorts since the album incident—regular calls, supportive texts, carefully neutral. She hadn't brought up her disappointment, and he'd been impressed with the album when he finally listened. Just like Pete had predicted. But something subtle had shifted, a tiny fracture in their understanding of each other that neither acknowledged directly.

Her phone buzzed with a text from an unknown Cincinnati number.

Unknow: Hey Riley! This is Sarah, Joe's assistant. He got tied up with Coach Taylor so he asked me to come get you. I'm so excited to finally meet you after hearing so much about you!

Riley stared at the message, something heavy settling in her stomach. Joe wasn't coming. After weeks apart, after night-long calls where they'd planned this visit, he'd sent his assistant instead.

She swallowed the disappointment and typed back:

Thanks Sarah! What are you wearing so I can find you?

As she hit send, she caught herself wondering if this was how it would always be—adjusting her expectations, smoothing over disappointments, pretending it was all fine. She pushed the thought away before it could fully take shape.

The plane touched down, and Riley found herself switching into performance mode—the same calm, gracious exterior she wore for interviews she didn't want to do. For radio hosts who asked about her relationships instead of her band. For moments when disappointment needed to be concealed beneath a smile.

She spotted Sarah immediately at baggage claim—a petite woman with a sleek ponytail and the perfect blend of casual and professional in dark jeans and a cream blazer. She held a small sign that read "RILEY" with a little music note drawn in the corner.

"Sarah?" Riley approached with a warm smile that carefully masked the hollow feeling in her chest.

"Riley! Hi!" Sarah stepped forward with genuine enthusiasm. "I hope you don't mind me coming instead of Joe. The defensive coordinator called an emergency meeting, and you know how it is during training..." She trailed off, but there was nothing in her expression that suggested anything other than standard NFL unpredictability.

"Of course," Riley said easily, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "I'm just grateful for the ride."

Sarah led her to a sleek SUV in short-term parking, chatting about the weather and asking about her flight. As they pulled away from the airport, Sarah reached for a small tote bag between the seats.

"I brought you a few things for the ride," she said, handling Riley the bag. "I wasn't sure if you'd be hungry."

Inside was a selection of snacks—those sour gummy candies she loved, blood orange sparkling water, and a bar of dark chocolate. Thoughtful touches that would have required input from Joe. Riley remembered mentioning these to him once, during a late-night call when they were sharing random facts about themselves.

"Thank you, this is perfect," Riley said, genuinely touched despite herself. "The last real food I had was lunch yesterday."

"You guys finished the album, right? Joe mentioned you've been working crazy hours."

Riley nodded, something bittersweet twisting in her chest. Joe had talked about her to Sarah, remembered her favorites, but couldn't make it himself. The gesture was thoughtful and frustrating all at once - care without presence, attention without showing up.

"Yeah, we finally wrapped it," she said, keeping her tone light. "Took us about a year and too many late nights, but we got there."

The drive to Joe's house passed with Riley in performance mode - friendly and engaging, the way she could be even when exhausted or disappointed. But underneath, she kept thinking about how this wasn't the reunion she'd imagined: Joe at the airport, that crooked half-smile when he spotted her, his arms steady around her. Not his assistant, however sweet she seemed.

When they arrived, Sarah showed her inside and went straight to the kitchen. "I stocked some things for you," she said, opening the refrigerator. "Breakfast stuff, that pinot noir from Louisiana Joe mentioned you might like, and everything for tacos since he said that's your comfort food..."

Looking at everything Sarah had prepared, Riley felt caught between gratitude and disappointment. Joe had remembered all these details about her - but somehow still wasn't the one standing here with her.

"Sarah, this is incredibly thoughtful," Riley said, and meant it. "Thank you."

"It's no problem at all," Sarah replied with a genuine smile. "I'm just glad to finally meet you. I'll get out of your hair now, but my number's the one I texted you from, so reach out if you need anything. Joe should be home around seven."

After Sarah left, Riley stood alone in the kitchen, feeling Joe's thoughtfulness and his absence all at once. She traced the edge of the counter with her fingertips, trying not to sulk. This was Joe's world—organized, planned, handed off to others. She'd seen glimpses of it before, but standing in the middle of it felt different.

She dragged herself upstairs to his bedroom, disappointment heavy on her shoulders. She texted Joe quickly—Landed safe. At your place. Going to sleep for a bit. See you when you get home.—then fell onto his bed.

His pillow still smelled like him, and she buried her face in it, inhaling deeply. The familiar scent made the ache worse somehow, a reminder of the Joe she missed while lying in the empty space he should have occupied.

She'd flown across the country to see him, and he'd sent his assistant with snacks.

Sleep claimed her before she could dwell on it further, her exhaustion finally overwhelming the hurt.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

* * *

Joe sat in the car for a full minute after pulling into the garage, the engine off, his phone glowing dimly in his hand.

He’d texted her a handful of times throughout the afternoon.

You still asleep?

You need anything?

Want me to bring dinner?

Headed home. Be there soon.

Still nothing.

She'd said she was going to crash when she got in, but that had been hours ago. Too long for just a nap. He wasn't panicked—but something felt off. The silence wasn't just silence anymore.

He rubbed a hand over his face, jaw tight. Maybe she was pissed. Maybe she hadn't bought the story. Maybe she'd walked into that kitchen full of snacks someone else had picked out and realized the truth.

Maybe she'd changed her mind about being here at all.

Joe stared at the house, suddenly unsure what waited inside. He'd spent the afternoon practicing what to say—how to explain without admitting he'd forgotten. How to handle the guilt now sitting heavy in his chest.

He exhaled hard, pushed the door open, and stepped inside. His shoulders ached from hours over game film, everything feeling heavier now that he was home.

The house was quiet.

He moved through the entryway slowly, eyes scanning for signs—her bag near the couch, a charger plugged into the wall, the scent of her shampoo lingering faintly in the hallway.

He’d already played every version of this in his head out in the garage. How to explain. How to apologize without fully admitting he’d forgotten. How to soften the damage without looking like he was trying to manage her feelings instead of facing them.

Now, standing in the quiet, it felt worse. More real.

No Riley curled up on the couch. No music drifting from the speakers. Just stillness—the kind that didn’t feel neutral anymore. The house didn’t feel empty. It felt like it was missing something.

Like someone had been here… and maybe decided not to stay.

He dropped his keys on the entryway table and toed off his shoes, adding them to the small collection already scattered by the door. His gym bag landed with a thud beside the couch where he'd left yesterday's hoodie.

"Riley?" he called, his voice sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet space.

No answer.

He moved through the living room, noticing her bag on the floor near the couch, her phone charger already claimed a spot in the nearest outlet. The door to his bedroom was partially open, spilling a triangle of darkness into the hallway.

Joe paused in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.

Her clothes were scattered across the floor—black track pants half-folded near the foot of the bed, that worn Nine Inch Nails tee crumpled nearby, one cow-print slide tipped on its side by the dresser. A few of her rings sat in a loose line on the nightstand, like she’d taken them off without thinking.

It looked like she’d barely made it under the covers before sleep pulled her under.

Riley was curled on her side in his bed, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other stretched across to what had somehow already become her side of the mattress. The sheet was tangled loosely around her hips, leaving the curve of her back bare. Her hair was loose across his pillow, her face softened by sleep.

The sight of her hit him like a blow to the chest.

Relief. Guilt. And something deeper—quieter, heavier—something he wasn’t ready to name.

His bedroom looked the way it always did—comfortably lived-in rather than methodically organized. Jeans draped over the chair in the corner, a book splayed open on the nightstand, his watch tossed carelessly beside it. The normalcy of the scene made Riley's presence even more striking—the small addition of her to his everyday space.

He stepped back quietly, suddenly not wanting to wake her. In the kitchen, he filled a glass with water, leaning against the counter as he drank it slowly. The reality of what had happened—of his complete failure to remember something this important—settled over him now that there was no meeting to focus on, no workout to push through.

Sarah hadn't told her. Relief mingled with a deeper discomfort at the realization that he'd been saved from immediate consequences, but the underlying problem remained.  But consequences didn’t disappear just because they were delayed. And Riley—Riley never missed much. He'd forgotten she was coming. Had somehow pushed their carefully planned visit entirely out of his mind until her text snapped him back to awareness.

The water didn't wash away the guilt, but it gave him a moment to breathe, to recalibrate. He rinsed the glass and set it in the sink before heading back to the bedroom.

Joe shed his clothes down to his boxers, leaving them in a pile with the others on the floor, and carefully slid into bed beside her. Despite his efforts to be gentle, the dip of the mattress stirred her.

Riley shifted, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, there was only sleepy confusion, then recognition, then—before her mind could fully engage with the day's disappointment—a soft, genuine smile.

"Hey," she murmured, voice rough with sleep. "You're home."

"Yeah," he said quietly, reaching out to brush hair from her face. "Sorry I'm late."

She blinked slowly, consciousness gradually returning. "What time is it?"

"Little after seven." He settled onto his side, facing her. "Didn't mean to wake you."

"S'okay," she said, stretching slightly. "I crashed hard."

Joe watched her face, trying to read what lay beneath the surface—how much disappointment lingered, how much she knew or suspected.

"Sarah get you settled okay?" he asked, the question feeling inadequate against the weight of what he needed to say.

"Mmhmm." Riley's eyes were more alert now, studying him with that perceptiveness that sometimes unnerved him. "She was great. Got me snacks for the drive. Said you were stuck in meetings all day."

There it was—the moment to tell the truth or let the lie stand. Joe hesitated, caught between relief that she wasn't upset and guilt that she didn't know she should be.

"Yeah," he said finally, choosing the easier path. "Coach called an emergency meeting this morning. Film review went long."

She nodded, accepting this, though something passed across her face—not doubt exactly, just a flicker of something reserved. For a moment they just looked at each other, relearning faces after weeks apart, everything unsaid hanging between them.

Then Riley moved closer, tucking herself against him, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder like it belonged there.

"Missed you," she murmured against his skin.

His arm wrapped around her automatically, his body easing into the contact even as his mind stayed troubled.

"Missed you too," he said, and that, at least, was completely true.

* * *

She shifted, barely conscious, her voice muffled by his t-shirt.

“Will you lay with me for a bit?”

“Yeah Birdie,” Joe said quietly. “I got you.

He settled in beside her again, careful not to disturb the fragile line of her body curled against the mattress. She was already slipping back under—limbs heavy, breath slowing, worn down to the bone. He smoothed her hair back once, then let his hand rest near hers on the sheets.

She didn’t say anything else.

Within minutes, her breathing deepened. Asleep again.

He stayed with her for a while, listening to the steady rhythm of her breath. The house was dark and still, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel peaceful—just hollow.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed, as quietly as he’d come in.

In the kitchen, he opened the fridge, blinking at the light. The shelves were neatly packed—grapes washed and stored, oat milk, three kinds of sparkling water, the taco ingredients he hadn’t remembered to get himself. Sarah had done all of it.

Joe pulled out one of his prepped meals, reheated it, and stood leaning against the counter while he ate. He wasn’t really hungry, but his body was on autopilot—routine over reflection.

Halfway through chewing, he opened his phone again.

The file was still there. The album. The one Riley had sent at the start of the week. I wanted you to be the first to hear it.

And he hadn't.

Not really.

He'd skimmed it once—half-distracted, folding laundry. Let it play through the speaker while answering texts. Told her he loved it. Told her it was incredible.

And it was.

But he hadn't actually listened.

Not properly.

What if she asked him about specific songs? What if she wanted to know what he thought of a particular lyric?

He stared at the file for a long beat, then grabbed his headphones off the counter. Paired them. Hit play.

The opening track hit different this time.

He remembered this one. The rhythm. The hook. He'd nodded along to it earlier in the week while sorting socks. But now, sitting still, headphones in, Riley's voice sounded... different.

Less like a performance.

More like a confession.

The lyrics hit hard. Not pointed at him—he knew that—but raw enough to make his chest tighten. Words about losing yourself, about being loved conditionally, about someone coming back like a wave when you're finally feeling alright. They weren't about him, but they were clearly part of what she was carrying when they met.

He hadn't asked much about the man who came before. And she hadn't offered details—just edges of a story. A name. A presence that had left its mark.

Now, here it was. Not the details, but the wreckage.

Each track peeled back another layer. Not just heartbreak - something more surgical. Songs about being displayed like a trophy then abandoned, about masks and lies, about the smallest man who ever lived. She wasn't mourning someone. She was excavating him.

And all this time, Joe had thought he was meeting Riley after the storm had passed.

Now he understood—he was showing up while she was still drying herself off.

His fingers pressed against the granite countertop, suddenly aware that he'd been gripping the edge. The realization wasn't just about her past. It was about what it meant for them now. About how the way he'd treated the album—casual, distracted, an afterthought between workouts—might have echoed something she'd lived through before. Someone who'd made promises then disappeared. Someone who never gave her what she deserved.

He rubbed at his jaw as the next song bled into the next, headphones pressing against his temples.

These weren't just lyrics. They were evidence. Of what she'd endured. Of what she'd fought through.

He'd thought he understood. He didn't.

Not until now.

And then the final track began—Daylight.

He sat back in his chair.

It was quieter than the others. Simpler. Just piano and Riley's voice, soft and clean. No barbs. No armor.

I don't wanna look at anything else now that I saw you…

His throat tightened.

I've been sleeping so long in a twenty-year dark night…

He exhaled slowly.

And now I see daylight. I only see daylight.

There was no question who that one was about.

Not Ethan. Not regret.

Him.

The only part of the record that was written after they met. The only track he hadn't heard fragments of before. The one she'd added at the last minute, when they'd already thought the album was done.

That was the one she'd ended on.

The last few lines weren't sung, just spoken, like she was thinking them out loud in real time.

I wanna be defined by the things that I love. Not the things I hate. Not the things I'm afraid of…

You are what you love.

And then it was over.

Joe didn't move for a long moment.

She had ended that record on him. After everything she'd excavated, everything she'd laid bare—he was the hope at the end of the tunnel. The daylight after the dark.

And he'd kept her waiting at an airport.

And he'd waited five days to really hear it.

* * *

The morning light slid across the bed in slow golden stripes. Riley blinked against it, her eyes dry but heavy, her body aching from the kind of sleep that didn't soothe—just shut everything off.

She turned onto her side and saw him—Joe, still asleep, one hand curled near his face, the other resting palm-up between them. His breathing was slow, deep. Steady.

The kind of steady she hadn't felt in weeks.

It was 7:42 AM. With a start, she realized Joe was still asleep at almost eight—something that never happened. The Joe Burrow she knew would be halfway through his second workout by now, protein shake in hand, mentally reviewing plays.

But here he was, still beside her.

The calendar in her mind did the math automatically: eighteen hours left before her flight tomorrow. Eighteen hours that were supposed to be twenty-four, if yesterday hadn't dissolved into sleep and disappointment.

And that's when it hit her.

Not the sadness exactly—but the disappointment. The ache of what they didn't get yesterday. Not a full day, no—but the part that mattered most. The part she'd stayed up late mixing for. The reason she'd sent the album early. The moment she'd pictured walking into.

Gone before it ever happened.

Her eyes stung. She blinked fast.

Joe shifted beside her, sensing the change in the air before he woke. He turned toward her, eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

"Hey," he murmured, voice rough.

"Hey."

He reached out gently, his hand landing on her hip, thumb brushing slow circles through the blanket.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Almost eight."

She tried to smile, but it faltered.

Joe blinked fully awake then, his brows knitting as he took her in. "You okay?"

She hesitated. Swallowed. Tried again. "I don't know. I think I'm just really tired."

He watched her carefully. Said nothing.

And then, before she could stop it, her voice caught.

“I don’t know. I just… I missed you. And I hate that I slept through half of being here.”

Joe’s hand stilled on her back, then resumed, slow and steady. Grounding.

“Baby,” he murmured. “We’ve got time.”

She didn’t respond right away. Just pressed her face into his chest, the fabric of his shirt catching at her cheek.

“I think I’m just overwhelmed,” she admitted. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I feel like I missed out on a lot of time… and you’ve got plans tonight, and I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Joe’s throat tightened. She wasn’t accusing him. Wasn’t even upset. But the ache in her voice was enough to make his stomach turn.

“You didn’t miss anything,” he said quietly. “We're here now.”

Riley sniffed, half-laughing through it. “God, I’m sorry. I told you last time—I’m a crier. I’ll pull it together, I’m just… tired. And everything’s been so loud lately.”

Joe shifted, pulling her closer. “You don’t have to pull it together.”

She nodded against him, her fingers curling around the fabric at his side.

They lay there for another minute—quiet, warm, her breath steadying again.

Her breath warmed the cotton of his shirt, slower now, less shaky. Joe didn’t move, didn’t press—just let her stay tucked into him, his hand moving in quiet loops at the small of her back.

Eventually, her voice broke the silence again. Smaller now. Almost embarrassed.

“I know I’m being extra.”

“You’re not.”

“I kind of am.”

Joe pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were still red, but steadier. Her lashes clumped slightly from the few tears she hadn’t quite wiped away.

“You’re tired. You care. That’s not extra,” he said. “That’s you.”

That pulled the barest smile from her—soft, wobbly, but real.

She blinked at him, then glanced toward the window. Morning was starting to fill the room, pale and bright and indifferent to how little time they had left.

“I don’t want to waste today.”

Joe pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We won't."

She looked at him again. "What about your thing tonight?"

He hesitated, then ran his fingers gently through the back of her hair. "I'll have to make an appearance, but I won't stay long. Just enough to show my face."

Her eyes searched his face. "You sure?"

"Yeah." He brushed a knuckle along her jaw. "I'll be back before you know it."

"Okay," she whispered.

Joe’s hand found hers under the blanket. She laced their fingers together without hesitation this time.

“I’m not in a rush to get up,” she said.

“Good,” he murmured. “Neither am I.”

He didn’t say I’m sorry I didn’t listen when you sent the album.

He didn’t say I forgot your flight time.

He didn’t say I was so in my own head I almost missed all of this.

But he stayed close—facing her, their legs tangled under the blankets, the air between them warm with morning light and everything unspoken.

He reached up, his hand brushing her cheek, then smoothing her hair behind her ear like he was relearning her face. No rush. Just touch.

Riley didn’t look away.

He kissed her once—soft, gentle.

Then again, taking his time, saying the things he couldn't put into words.

His hand slid along her side, over the curve of her waist, until it found the small of her back. Skin to skin, nothing in between. He didn’t pull her in—just rested there, a quiet offering

Riley exhaled, eyes fluttering closed for a second, and then opened again. She moved closer—not dramatically, just enough that her forehead brushed his.

He stayed there.

Their breaths synced.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, her cheek, her jaw, then found her lips again. Not asking for anything. Just being there. His apology without words. His promise without sound. And she understood without him having to explain. Because his eyes stayed on hers. Because his hands held her like she was the only real thing in the room.

Riley shifted closer, her leg sliding over his hip, skin warm against his beneath the sheets. Not demanding anything. Not yet. Just closing the space between them.

Just closeness.

Joe’s hand slid along the back of her thigh, anchoring there. His palm was warm, steady. She felt him breathe her in like she was something calming, something worth slowing down for.

They kissed again—longer now. Less hesitant. She opened to him without urgency, just need. Simple and quiet and real.

He deepened the kiss, his hand moving to her ribs, thumb tracing the curve beneath her breast with familiar ease.

She didn’t stop him.

She moved against him, her breath catching as his skin warmed hers. No barriers left between them, nothing held back.

Joe shifted, drawing her beneath him without breaking the kiss. Each touch deliberate, focused, like he needed to get this right.

His hand moved between them, slow and careful, until her body arched into him, her fingers tightening at his shoulders.

Still, he didn’t rush.

He stayed with her completely—eyes open, watching, taking in every response like he was learning something essential.

And when he finally moved into her, there was nothing rushed about it.

Riley wrapped her arms around his back, holding him close—not just for the feeling, but for what it meant. For everything he was showing instead of saying.

For the way he hadn't left.

And when she whispered his name into the quiet space between them, he answered with a kiss to her cheek, then her mouth, then her collarbone—like yes,

I hear you,

I’m right here.

They moved together slowly, finding something neither had named yet. Something like forgiveness. Like coming home.

Afterward, they stayed close, sheets twisted around them, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin.

Joe watched the ceiling, then turned to her.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly.

Her hand paused.

"You don't have to say it," she murmured, knowing what those words cost him.

"I do," Joe said, voice low but certain. "For these weeks. For not showing up. For making you chase me when I should've been meeting you halfway."

Riley watched him, no tears now. Just seeing him clearly.

"You've felt far away," she said.

"I know."

He took her hand where it rested against his chest, threading their fingers together.

"I don't want to miss you while you're right here."

Riley exhaled, something finally settling between them.

"Then don't," she whispered.

* * *

By the time they left the bed, sunlight warmed the hardwood floors and the house felt wrapped in weekend stillness.

Riley pulled on one of Joe's shirts—soft cotton that fell to mid-thigh—and wandered into the kitchen. Joe followed, tugging on shorts as he went.

Without asking, he opened the fridge and started gathering ingredients. Eggs, spinach, feta, herbs.

"Sit," he said, nodding toward the counter.

Riley arched an eyebrow but slid onto a stool as he set coffee in front of her—already fixed exactly how she liked it. She wrapped both hands around the mug, letting the steam rise to her face, body still heavy with sleep.

"You're cooking?" she teased, voice still rough from sleep.

"I've cooked for you before," he said, cracking eggs one-handed into the bowl.

"I know. Just like seeing this side of you."

He didn't say anything—just that hint of a smile as he turned back to the stove.

Nothing fancy. Scrambled eggs, avocado toast, half a grapefruit each. Simple food that somehow tasted better here. With him. Actually present.

They ate without hurrying, knees touching under the table. No agenda. Just quiet morning sounds and easy words between bites.

"How's the album launch stuff going?" Joe asked, carefully dividing the last of the grapefruit.

Riley pushed her plate away, satisfied. "The team's been sending me press schedules. It's kind of overwhelming."

"When does all that start?"

"Already has. We're doing press next week, then photo shoots, interviews." She traced the rim of her mug. "The whole circus."

Joe nodded, his eyes steady on hers. "How are you feeling about it?"

Riley considered this. With most people, she'd brush it off, say something light. But Joe had that way of asking things that made her want to answer honestly.

"Excited. Nervous." She paused. "Kind of dreading the Ethan questions. They always go there."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly at the name, but he didn't look away. "What's your plan?"

"Say it's in the past, that the album speaks for itself." She shrugged. "Then talk about the music instead."

"You're good at that," Joe said, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Redirecting."

Riley gave him a look. "Says the master of 'next question, please.'"

He conceded with a slight nod, then reached across the table to take her empty plate. "You want more coffee?"

"Always."

As Joe rinsed dishes, Riley leaned against the counter, her eyes catching on something familiar on his fridge. The gaudy "Love from Louisiana" magnet that had disappeared from her kitchen last month.

"You stole my magnet," she said, amusement in her voice.

She pointed to the colorful state outline with its cartoon crawfish and alligator. "That was on my fridge. I thought it fell or something."

"You stole my magnet," she said, amusement in her voice.

She pointed to the colorful state outline with its cartoon crawfish and alligator. "That was on my fridge. I thought it fell behind the stove or something."

Joe glanced at it, expression neutral except for the slight lift at the corner of his mouth. "Just borrowing it."

Riley smiled, something softening in her eyes. "Keep it. Looks good there."

She drifted into the living room, looking over his shelves again. Same careful arrangement as her last visit - books lined up, team photos in matching frames, nothing too personal left in plain sight.

The only sign of her from previous visits was the turntable he'd bought after seeing her record collection in New Orleans. She crossed to it now, running her fingers along the edge.

"You've been using it," she observed, noticing a small stack of vinyl beside it—not the carefully curated collection he'd first purchased, but new additions. Things he'd chosen himself.

Joe appeared in the doorway. "Yeah," he said. "Helps me think sometimes."

Riley selected one at random—Tame Impala—and set it on the turntable. The warm crackle of vinyl filled the room, followed by smooth vocals. She turned to find Joe watching her, something unreadable in his expression.

They stayed like that for a minute—Riley standing at the turntable, coffee in hand, Joe leaning against the doorway, watching her.

The music drifted into the room, smooth and woozy, filling the silence like water. Riley took a sip, then nodded toward the couch.

“Sit with me?”

Joe followed her wordlessly, settling into the cushions as she curled beside him, legs tucked under her, her head finding the space between his shoulder and chest like it was made for her. He wrapped an arm around her without thinking, pulling her in.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to.

The record spun. Her fingers traced idle shapes on the inside of his forearm. Joe’s thumb brushed slow circles across her hip. Everything about the moment felt suspended, like time had taken a breath and decided not to move forward just yet.

At some point, Riley shifted, pulling the blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over both of them. Joe adjusted to let her fully curl into him, resting her cheek over his heart.

They stayed there for a while, the Tame Impala record winding toward its final track, the music drifting soft and spacey through the quiet house.

Then Joe said, his voice low, "That last track on the album…"

Riley didn't move, just waited.

"Is that the one you told me about? The one you said I couldn't hear yet?"

Her fingers curled slightly into the fabric of his shirt. "Yeah," she said. "When I first started writing the album, I was angry. Raw. Trying to burn everything down just to see what would be left. I didn't think there'd be space for anything soft."

She paused, her voice catching a little.

"But by the end... I don't know. I felt so far away from that version of me. Like I'd already made it through the worst part. I just hadn't figured out how to say that yet."

Joe's hand moved slowly against her hip. He didn't speak right away.

Then, quietly: "It's about me."

She nodded against his chest. "It is."

He was silent for another beat. "Why?"

Riley exhaled. Not in frustration—just in honesty.

"I don't know," she said. "You made me feel like… like something was still possible. Like maybe I wasn't just a collection of everything that hurt."

Joe didn't answer, but the way his arm tightened around her said enough.

The record ended, needle lifting with a soft click.

The needle lifted with a soft click, leaving them in a silence that felt deeper than before. Neither moved to change it or put on something else.

The needle lifted with a soft click, leaving them in a silence that felt deeper than before. Neither moved to change it or put on something else.

"I get why you put it last," he said finally. "It's the after. The part where you made it through."

Riley's throat tightened. "I wasn't sure I'd ever write a hopeful song again," she admitted. "After Ethan—after all of it—everything I wrote came out sharp. Dfdnsive."

Joe's eyes hadn't left her face, studying her with the same focus he brought to everything that mattered.

"And then you met me," he said, not a question.

"And then I met you," she agreed softly. "And something shifted."

The words hung between them, simple but profound. Not a declaration exactly, but an acknowledgment of something neither had fully articulated before.

Joe's hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "I wasn't looking for this," he said, voice rough with honesty. "For you. For any of it."

"I know," Riley said. "Neither was I."

"I've never had anyone write a song about me before," he added, a hint of vulnerability in his voice that she rarely heard.

Riley shifted to see his face better. "Really? Not even in college? Some girl with a guitar and a crush on the quarterback?"

A small smile touched his lips. "Not that I know of."

"Well," she said, settling back against his chest, "now you do."

His fingers traced idle patterns against her hip, seeming to follow some rhythm only he could hear. "It's a good one."

"Don't let it go to your head. It was just one song."

The playful edge in her voice made his smile widen. "I don't know. I might need another. Just to be sure."

"We'll see," she said, feeling his quiet laugh vibrate through her. "One might be enough."

Riley shifted slightly, angling to see his face better without losing contact. "We're doing this small thing at the Troubadour in a couple weeks. Not on the official schedule. Just for some of the fans, testing out the new songs live before tour."

"Yeah?" Joe's voice was casual, but his hand stilled against her hip, attention fully caught.

"Yeah. Very low-key, no press. Just seeing how they translate onstage." She traced an absent pattern on his chest. "It's not a big deal if you can't make it but I want you to."

Joe was quiet for a moment, and she could practically hear him mentally reviewing his calendar, weighing commitments, calculating possibilities.

"I'll see what I can move around," he said finally, his voice careful but tinged with something that sounded like determination. "When exactly?"

"Two Fridays from now. Night before we start full production rehearsals."

He nodded slightly, his chin brushing the top of her head. "Let me figure it out."

Riley didn't push, didn't make him promise. Just settled back against him, understanding that even this—the willingness to consider rearranging his meticulously planned schedule—was its own kind of progress.

"Okay," she said simply.

* * *

They wandered outside eventually, drawn to the sunlit stillness of the backyard.

The outdoor couch sat in perfect shade, tucked beneath the overhang where the breeze still reached them. Riley settled in first, stretching along the cushions. Joe followed, fitting himself behind her, one arm draped across her waist.

His hand moved lazily across her stomach, warm through the thin fabric. Her leg slid back between his without thinking. Their bodies aligned like they'd always known how to fit together this way.

The afternoon stretched around them, unhurried and golden. Joe's thumb traced slow circles at her hip, his face close enough that her hair caught his breath.

"This is nice," Riley murmured, barely above a whisper.

Joe hummed agreement, lips brushing the curve where her neck met her shoulder. Not quite a kiss. Just there.

"I only stop when I'm with you," he admitted, words warm against her skin. "Everything else is always... moving. Planning. Working."

Riley's hand found his where it rested against her stomach, her fingers slipping between his. “That’s because I’m a terrible influence,” she said with a soft laugh.

"Best kind of influence," he murmured against her shoulder.

"I was thinking," Riley said after a while, shifting slightly to tuck herself more securely against him.

"Dangerous," Joe replied, his voice warm with affection.

She squeezed his hand in gentle admonishment. "I was thinking about how we keep trying to fit each other into the cracks of our lives. And maybe that's why it feels so hard sometimes."

Joe's body tensed almost imperceptibly behind her. "What do you mean?"

Riley chose her words carefully, not wanting to break the delicate harmony they'd found. "We're both so used to making our work the center of everything. And then trying to find space for each other around that." She paused. "Maybe we need to start thinking of us as the constant. And everything else has to fit around that."

Joe was quiet for a long moment, his breathing steady against her back. She couldn't see his face, couldn't read his expression, and for a moment she worried she'd pushed too hard.

But then his arm tightened around her, drawing her impossibly closer. "That's a big shift," he said finally, his voice low and thoughtful. "For both of us."

"I know," she said. "It scares me too."

He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, and she could feel him processing, weighing her words with the same careful consideration he gave everything.

"It's not that we'd put football or music second," she continued. "Just that... we'd put us first. Together."

Joe's hand moved from her stomach to her arm, fingers trailing lightly over her skin. "I've never done that before," he admitted. "Put someone ahead of the game."

Riley nodded slightly. "I know. I haven't either. Not really."

Another silence, but not an uncomfortable one. Just the space they both needed to feel the weight of what they were discussing.

"When does all the album promo stuff start?" Joe asked finally.

"A couple of weeks," she said. "We've got some intimate shows lined up. The actual tour doesn't kick off until next year."

He exhaled slowly. "That's going to test this theory."

Riley turned in his arms then, needing to see his face. His eyes were serious, searching hers with that quiet intensity that had drawn her to him from the beginning.

"It is," she agreed. "But I think we're worth testing it for."

Joe's hand came up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. His touch was gentle but sure, like everything else about him—no wasted motion, no unnecessary force.

"I think so too," he said simply. 

They stayed curled together on the outdoor couch, the sun warming their skin, the conversation between them still vibrating beneath the surface. Nothing else needed to be said—not right now. Not after that.

Then Riley moved.

Not suddenly, not abruptly—just unfolded from his arms like her body had finally remembered it could. She stretched once, slow and lazy, then sat up, pushing a hand through her hair.

Joe didn’t ask where she was going. Just watched as she stood and peeled off his sweatshirt, her back to him, skin glowing in the late morning light.

She didn’t pause. Didn’t look over her shoulder.

Just stepped out of her panties, left them pooled next to the shirt, and walked barefoot across the patio to the pool.

A moment later, she slipped into the water—quiet, smooth, no performance.

Joe sat up, watching her move through the water like she belonged there. She surfaced at the far end, pushing wet hair from her face with one hand.

“Are you just gonna stare, or are you coming in?”

He smiled to himself—that quiet, almost surprised expression she could pull from him without even trying.

By the time he crossed the patio, Riley was floating on her back, arms spread wide, eyes closed against the sun. Her hair fanned around her, weightless, and the soft rise of her chest mirrored the water’s rhythm.

Joe stepped down into the pool, slow and deliberate, letting the cold bite at his skin before he pushed off and swam toward her.

She opened one eye when she felt him near, but didn’t say anything. Just watched.

Joe didn’t fill the silence. He reached her without urgency, one arm slipping around her waist beneath the surface, guiding her gently toward him. Her body drifted easily into his, like she’d been waiting for the anchor.

For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. They just floated—joined at the center, water lapping softly against their shoulders, the sun warm on their skin.

“I feel different when you’re here.”

Riley didn’t respond. She just looked at him—eyes half-lidded, her lips slightly parted, like she wasn’t sure if she was breathing him in or about to say something.

Joe leaned in, slow and sure, until his mouth found hers—not urgent, not searching. Just certain.

The water pressed gently against their bodies, keeping them weightless as the kiss deepened—still soft, still steady, but anchored now by everything they hadn’t said and everything they had.

When they finally pulled apart, they didn’t drift far.

Just stayed there.

Chest to chest.

Mouths close.

Breathing the same quiet air.

Joe’s hand slid from her waist to the small of her back, fingers splayed underwater. He wasn’t pulling her closer—he didn’t need to. Her leg had already hooked loosely around his, the barest friction between their bodies sending a ripple through the space between stillness and want.

Riley’s fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck.

She kissed him again—slower this time. Deeper. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth underwater.

Joe's hand tightened at her back. His breath caught. Then he kissed her again like he couldn't help himself.

Something shifted between them—a quiet, inevitable pull. The kind that comes without warning or thought.

Neither of them tried to stop it.

They stayed like that, pressed together in the cooling water, steam rising around them. The bathroom lights had dimmed with condensation, casting everything in a soft haze.

Then Joe's grip changed. His fingers pressed into her skin, not rough, just urgent in a way he rarely allowed.

It wasn't desire now. Just tension. Something heavier.

His forehead rested against hers, eyes closed like he was memorizing the moment. "When you're here, this feels easy. Like... possible. Like I can hold it all."

His voice dropped, rougher now. "But when you're not... it's like I can't find the shape of anything. Everything gets heavier. Harder."

Riley's brows drew together, her breath catching. She stayed silent, knowing that interrupting would close whatever door had just opened in him. Joe Burrow didn't do vulnerability on command—it came in these unplanned moments, like water finding cracks in stone.

"I know I was the one who pushed for the structure," he continued, words coming slower, as if each cost him something. "The calendar. The every-other-week rule. The team check-ins. That was me. I asked for all of it."

The water lapped quietly between them, marking time neither wanted to acknowledge.

"And you've shown up, Riley." His voice softened with something like wonder. "You've actually made it work. I'm the one who keeps dropping shit. I forget things. I let stuff slide. And every time I realize it, I feel like I'm fucking it up. Like I'm fucking you up."

Her hand moved gently up into his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands. Something tightened in her chest—the recognition that this wasn't just about missed calls or forgotten plans. This was Joe Burrow admitting he was afraid.

"I'll think something didn't matter that much in the moment," he continued, barely audible now, the words warm against her skin. "And then a few hours later, or days, it hits me. What it really was. What you were giving me. And I didn't even see it.

The water lapped gently around them, warm and still in the afternoon sun. Riley's hand remained steady against his neck, her eyes locked on his—waiting, patient in a way he didn't deserve.

"I feel like I'm always late," he whispered, finally opening his eyes to meet hers. "Like I finally understand something... right after the moment I was supposed to show up for it."

"I don't—" He broke off, jaw tightening. This wasn't a post-game interview or a huddle call. Those were easy. Those followed a pattern. But with Riley, there were no playbooks, no practiced responses. Just the raw truth he'd been avoiding for months.

"I don't know how to carry this," he finally said, the confession rough in his throat. "Whatever this is between us. It's too much." His hands tightened on her waist, contradicting his words with their need to hold on. "My whole life has been about focus. Having a plan and executing it. Keeping it simple." His eyes found hers, something vulnerable flickering there. "And then you—"

He exhaled sharply, frustration and wonder mixed in his voice. "You're in my head all the time. You've got me doing things I'd never do. Feeling things I don't..." he paused, swallowed, "I don't know how to manage."

Riley started to speak, but he pressed on, needing to get it all out before he lost his nerve.

"And it pisses me off sometimes," he admitted, the words coming faster now. "How much space you take up in me. How much it throws me off balance. I don't recognize myself half the time."

His voice dropped lower, almost confessional. "But the thought of going back to before? Of not having this? Of not having you?" His eyes held hers, raw with honesty. "That scares me more than anything. Because at least now I feel something real. Before you, I didn't even know what I was missing."

The vulnerability in his expression was staggering—Joe Burrow, who never flinched under pressure, looking utterly exposed. Not just afraid of losing her, but afraid of what it meant that he couldn't imagine his life without the very chaos she'd brought to it.

"I don't like needing anything this much," he whispered. "But I think I need this. Need you."

The vulnerability in his expression was staggering—Joe Burrow, who never flinched under pressure, looking utterly exposed. "I'm in deep, baby," he whispered, the rare term of endearment falling from his lips like a confession. "I'm fucking drowning."

Riley's eyes softened, one hand rising to cup his cheek. She didn't rush to fill the silence or offer empty reassurances. Instead, she just held his gaze, thumb brushing across his jawline with a steadiness that anchored him.

Her voice wavered slightly, her own vulnerability bleeding through.

"Because Joe, I need you too."

She felt him tense—not pulling away, just holding still, like the words were something he hadn't known he was waiting to hear.

"I need the way you see everything," she said, her voice low but sure. "How you walk into a room like you're already thinking about what I'll need before I even say anything. Like when we're somewhere crowded—you always keep your hand on my back. Not possessive. Just... steady. Like you're there.

Her fingers moved gently at the back of his neck, where his hair was still damp from the water.

"I need how you listen. Not just to what I'm saying, but to what I don't say. The way you bought that turntable for your house. And started picking records that reminded you of me, without me ever having to ask. You remembered what mattered."

She paused, her eyes flicking up to meet his. The blue in them seemed deeper now, like the shallow end dropping suddenly into the deep.

"No one in my life has ever paid that kind of attention. Not the way you do. And it makes me feel..."—she searched—"anchored. Like I could let go of some of the noise and still be okay."

Her throat tightened, but she didn't stop.

"The way you take care of me without making a thing of it. Like it's just part of your day now. Not performative. Not for show. You just... do."

He hadn't moved. His hands were still on her waist, but she could feel the shift in him—something giving way, like her words were reaching the places he never let anyone touch.

"When I'm spinning too fast, you slow me down," she whispered. "And when you're holding everything too tight, I help you let go. I didn't know it could be that simple with someone. That we could just... balance each other without trying so hard."

The water rippled between them as she leaned closer, her forehead touching his.

"I need you," she said again, the words so honest they almost hurt. "Not because you fit some image or because you're Joe Burrow or any of that. I need you—the guy who gets up at 5 AM and still makes time to call me at night. The one who looks at me like you're seeing all of me and staying anyway."

Riley didn't speak after that. She didn't need to.

He looked at her for a beat longer—like she was the answer to a question he hadn't known he was asking—then leaned in and kissed her.

Soft. Deep. Certain.

Not to distract. Not to fix.

But to stay. To mark the moment with something only they would remember.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.

"You're the first real thing I've felt in a long time," he whispered. "Maybe ever."

The pool water had cooled around them, but neither seemed to notice. Riley's fingers traced the line of his jaw, memorizing the contours of his face like she might be tested on them later.

"We should probably go inside," she said finally, though she made no move to pull away.

Joe nodded, but his hands stayed firm at her waist. "Probably."

Neither moved for another long moment, as if leaving the water might somehow break whatever spell had settled between them. As if the confessions they'd shared might evaporate in the dry air beyond the pool's edge.

Eventually, Joe pressed one more kiss to her temple and released her, swimming backward toward the steps. Riley followed, water streaming from her shoulders as she emerged. Joe handed her a towel, wrapping another around his waist. Their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them—an understanding that what had happened in the water wasn't staying there. They were carrying it with them, this new weight that somehow made everything lighter.

* * *

The afternoon drifted by in a peaceful rhythm, both of them reluctant to acknowledge the hours slipping away. After the pool, they'd moved inside, Joe making sandwiches while Riley put on another record. They ate on the couch, her legs draped over his lap, talking about nothing and everything—her upcoming press schedule, his training regimen, stories from their childhoods that somehow had never come up before.

Around five, Joe glanced at his watch, a small frown creasing his forehead.

"You've got that thing tonight, right?" Riley asked, catching the look.

"Yeah," Joe nodded. "Sam's charity poker tournament. Should be pretty low-key, just some of the guys raising money for his brother's foundation."

Riley nodded, taking another sip of her La Croix. "What time do you need to head out?"

"Around seven," Joe said, his thumb absently tracing circles on her ankle. "It's at that brewery downtown. Probably won't be home till midnight or so."

Riley stretched slightly, her toes pressing into the edge of the couch cushion. "Sounds fun."

Joe nodded, but didn't take the opening. Didn't ask if she wanted to come. Didn't suggest it might be nice to introduce her to more of his friends.

And Riley, true to form, didn't push. Wouldn't dream of asking to be included. She'd rather set herself on fire than be the girl who invited herself along, who made him uncomfortable with her neediness.

"You sure you're good to chill solo tonight?" he asked, his voice quieter now. Like he already knew the answer and was asking anyway.

Riley nodded. "Yeah," she said. "I'm gonna finish this book—finally." She held it up briefly, dog-eared and worn. "I've started it three times and never made it past chapter four, so tonight's the night."

She set it aside and stood to stretch, then moved toward the kitchen. "And I'm making tacos. I saw the stuff Sarah picked up—she got the good tortillas."

Joe watched her move, absorbing the familiar rhythm of her body in his space. The way she always managed to make it feel more like home than he ever could on his own.

"What time do you think you'll be back?" she asked, opening the fridge to pull out the wine.

He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not sure."

She nodded, too, even though her back was still to him. "Okay. I might be asleep when you come in depending on the time."

Then she turned, giving him a small smile—tired at the edges but still soft. "But I'll try not to be, baby."

Joe crossed the room and kissed her forehead, his hand warm on the side of her neck.

She didn't lean into it. Didn't pull away either.

"I'm gonna shower," he said, lingering for just a beat.

"Alright," she said, turning back to uncork the bottle.

He watched her for another second, noting the way her shoulders settled just a little too carefully. The way she poured the wine with her eyes lowered. Quiet cues. Things most people would miss.

But Joe didn't miss them.

And still, he went to get ready.

* * *

Joe came down the hall around seven, pulling on a plain gray T-shirt as he walked, his jeans already slung low on his hips, keys in hand. He paused when he saw her on the couch—legs tucked beneath her, book open in her lap, wine glass untouched on the table. She looked composed, relaxed. But something in the air told him it wasn’t the whole story.

“I’m heading out,” he said.

Riley looked up, smile already there. Soft. Controlled. “Okay. Have fun.”

He nodded once. “I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”

She hesitated, then closed the book around her thumb. “If I’m asleep… will you wake me up?”

His gaze lingered on her. “Yeah. Of course.”

“I wanna hear how it was,” she said, voice light but clear. “Even if it’s just who won or something dumb.”

That tugged a smile from him, small but genuine. “You got it.”

He walked over, slow, and leaned down—not rushed, not distracted—and pressed a kiss to her forehead then her mouth.

It was brief, but warm. His hand found the side of her neck like it always did. Her lips parted just slightly beneath his. And for a second, it felt like he might say something else.

But he didn’t.

“I’ll see you later,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” she replied.

He watched her for another breath. Then turned and walked out.

The door closed softly behind him.

Riley sat still for another moment, the wine glass finally finding her hand. Then she closed the book and reached for her phone.

* * *

Joe eased onto the highway, knuckles flexed against the wheel, mind already halfway back to the house.

Riley had said she was fine. Had smiled. Kissed him goodbye.

But her eyes had told a different story.

His phone buzzed in the cupholder.

Zac.

He answered on the second ring. "Yo."

"Hey," Zac said. "Riley get in okay?"

"Yeah," Joe said, checking his mirror. "Got in yesterday. She's at the house."

"Nice. You two laying low tonight?"

Joe tightened his grip on the wheel. "I'm on my way to Sam's thing. That charity poker tournament."

The silence on the other end stretched a beat too long.

"She's not going with you?"

Joe swallowed, remembering how Riley's smile had faded at the edges. "Nah. Said she wanted a quiet night. Tacos and a book."

Zac let out a low breath. "It's not a mandatory thing though, right?"

"No."

"So," Zac's voice sharpened slightly, "she flew across the country to see you, and you're leaving her alone to play cards with guys you see every day?"

Joe didn't answer. The image of Riley standing in his kitchen, shoulders too carefully straight, wouldn't leave him.

"Just making sure I understand what's happening here," Zac added, not accusatory—just cutting straight to what Joe was avoiding.

Joe exhaled slowly, jaw tight.

"She said she was fine," he muttered.

"Man," Zac said quietly, "when has 'fine' ever actually meant fine?"

Joe's eyes caught on the exit sign he'd just passed. Sam was expecting him. The team would be there. But Riley had crossed time zones just to sit in his space, after weeks apart.

"I gotta go," he said finally.

"You turning around?"

Joe was already slowing for the next exit. "Yeah."

"Now that's the smartest thing you've done all day," Zac said, and Joe could hear the approval in his voice.

He ended the call, hit his turn signal, and headed home.

* * *

The kitchen smelled like cumin and garlic. Riley stood barefoot at the stove, wine glass within reach, spatula moving methodically through the pan. Her phone was propped against the backsplash, FaceTime filling the screen—Haley sprawled across her bed with wine, Laura cross-legged on her couch, Andy and Daniel shoulder-to-shoulder on a sectional, game paused between them.

"So wait," Haley said, eyebrow raised. "You flew across the country. His assistant picked you up. You had what, a few hours together? And now he's at a poker game?"

Riley exhaled quietly, stirring the meat. "He mentioned it when I said I was coming. It wasn't a surprise."

She flipped the spatula, voice flattening. "I just thought I'd be going too."

"That's exactly why I'm pissed," Daniel said. "That after everything, you're still wondering where you stand."

"This morning in the pool," she said, looking up briefly, "he told me he needed me. That he doesn't know how to do this without me."

Her fingers tightened around her wine stem. "And I was there. Holding him. Telling him he's not alone in this."

"It's always the same pattern," she continued, eyes back on the pan. "These moments where he lets me in, and everything feels real. Then he just... checks out. Like I'm visiting his life, not part of it."

She took a long drink. "Should've made enchiladas instead. Could've kept my hands busier."

Daniel didn't hesitate. "Keep going. I need to know I'm not overreacting for you."

Pete's voice came through, quieter than the others. "Can I ask something?"

Riley glanced at the screen. "Yeah?"

"Did you tell him you wanted to go?"

She stared at the pan, voice dropping. "No."

"I'd rather set myself on fire than ask to be included," she said, the words sharp but tired. "If he wanted me there, he'd have said so."

"That's fair," Pete said. "This isn't on you."

Haley leaned closer. "So that's it? Status quo?"

Riley laughed without humor. "Looks that way."

"What if," Daniel started carefully, "and nobody kill me for this—but I actually like the guy. What if when he gets home, you just tell him how you feel?"

"No," she said firmly. "I'm not going to guilt him into wanting me around."

"But you're upset," Laura said simply.

"Of course I'm upset," Riley said, then softened immediately. "I just want to be chosen, not accommodated."

The call went quiet.

Then Andy said, "If he saw you right now, he'd already be on his way back."

A mechanical whir filled the background.

Riley froze.

Her eyes flicked toward the ceiling. "Is that—"

"The garage door," Haley whispered.

Laura gasped. "He came back."

"Don't jump to conclusions," Riley hissed.

"Shhhhh," Daniel stage-whispered.

The sound of the door unlocking.

Riley straightened. "It's him—I'll call you later."

She ended the call and turned back to the stove like she hadn't been mid-confession.

She filled tortillas methodically, hands betraying slight tremors. One shell filled, then another. Lettuce. Salsa. Her fingers steadied with each practiced movement.

She didn't turn around. Just kept moving.

Cotija. Lime. Stay busy.

She sensed him before she heard him—his presence changing the room. She half-turned, keeping her voice deliberately light.

"Hey," she said. "Forget something?"

She didn't hold his gaze. Just enough to seem casual, as if her pulse hadn't quickened.

Joe didn't answer immediately.

He just looked at her—taking in her busy hands, her careful composure, the way she was working so hard to seem unbothered.

He swallowed. "No."

She turned fully, searching his face. "Did something happen?"

His jaw tightened. "Yeah," he said. "I realized I was being a fucking idiot."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly.

"I'm messing this up," he said, quieter now. "And the worst part is, I knew it when I was walking out the door."

Riley didn't speak right away.

She just stood there, spatula lowered, looking directly at him.

"Yeah," she said finally. "You were."

Not cruel. Not angry.

Just honest.

He held her gaze. "Why didn't you ask to come with me?"

Riley let out a short breath. "Because I shouldn't have to."

"I don't want to be somewhere just because I inserted myself," she continued. "I want you to want me there."

Her voice softened. "I needed to see what you'd choose if I didn't say anything."

He stood still for a moment, taking in her words.

Then he stepped forward, fingers brushing her wrist.

She didn't move away.

That was enough.

Joe drew her toward him—gently, giving her space to refuse.

When she didn't, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her like he'd finally understood what he'd almost lost.

She stayed straight-backed for a moment.

Then slowly, she let her head rest against his chest.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Finally, she said quietly, "Coming back doesn't automatically fix this."

She didn't pull away.

She was simply telling the truth.

Joe nodded against her hair.

"Tell me what would."

She looked up at him. Not cold. Just worn thin.

"That's exactly it, Joe. I don't want to have to explain it every time."

She stepped back slightly.

"After Vegas, after you met my family—I thought you understood. Then we're apart, and you just... disappear."

Her voice remained steady.

"So I come here, and we have these moments like today by the pool, and I think we're finally getting somewhere."

She met his eyes directly.

"And then you're gone again, right when I need you to stay."

Joe didn't argue.

He just stood there—taking it all in, accepting it.

"You're right," he said finally. "I keep saying I'll do better, but I'm not showing it."

Riley watched him, something shifting in her expression—beyond disappointment. A deeper weariness with the cycle.

"This isn't working," she said quietly. "We have these moments where you realize something's wrong, you say the right things, and nothing changes."

She reached for her wine. "I'm not even mad about the poker game. I'm tired of feeling like a visitor in your life."

Joe watched her, surprisingly calm, completely present.

"If this isn't what you want," she said, gesturing between them, "just tell me. Because I can't keep believing that next time will be different."

"I want this," Joe said without hesitation. "I do."

Riley studied his face. "Then show me. Not with words. Not with promises. Be here, with me. Actually present."

She picked up one of the tacos she'd made. "I don't need grand gestures. Just sit with me. Eat dinner. Talk about something real."

She met his eyes directly. Not asking for everything. Just this moment, genuine attention, the choice to stay.

Joe took a breath, visibly shifting from defense to understanding.

"Okay," he said simply, reaching for plates. "Let me help."

Riley turned back to the stove. She'd already prepared one taco—seasoned meat, lettuce, a sprinkle of cheese.

"Salsa?" she asked without looking up.

"Please," Joe said, watching her hands work.

Riley finished and handed him the plate. Their fingers brushed—brief contact, weighted with everything unsaid.

They moved to the kitchen island. Joe sat beside her, present but not pressing.

They ate in silence for a moment. Not comfortable, not tense. Just quiet, reorienting.

"These are good," Joe said, the simple words genuine.

Riley nodded. "Sarah got the right tortillas."

His assistant's name hung between them. The woman who'd picked her up when he forgot. Not accusatory. Just fact.

"I should have been there," Joe said quietly. "At the airport."

Riley looked at him. "Yes," she agreed, without heat. Just truth. "You should have."

She took another bite. "But we can't keep having the same conversation. I don't want to waste the little time we have."

Joe watched her, noting the shadows under her eyes, the slight curve of her shoulders—exhaustion beyond just physical tiredness.

"Come with me," he said suddenly. "To Sam's thing."

Riley shook her head. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to be an afterthought," she said, firm but calm. "I don't want to be there because you feel guilty."

"It's not guilt," he insisted, though they both knew better.

"You made your choice earlier," she said. "Going now doesn't change anything."

She pushed her hair back. "Maybe everything just feels worse because I'm tired."

Joe studied her face. "We're not okay, are we?"

"No," Riley said simply. "But I didn't cross zones to keep arguing."

She set her taco down. "What happens next time you have to choose, Joe? Do we just repeat this whole thing?"

Joe considered her words, then reached for his phone and sent a text.

"What are you doing?" Riley asked.

"Telling Sam I'm not going," he said, setting the phone down. "I'm staying here."

His voice grew more certain. "We're going to finish dinner. Then I want to talk about your album."

Riley looked up, genuine surprise crossing her face.

"I listened to it." Joe continued. "But I want to hear about it from you. The stories behind each song. Especially 'Daylight.'"

Something changed in her expression—not forgiveness yet, but a softening. "You want to know how I wrote them?"

"All of it," Joe said, meeting her eyes. "Whatever you're willing to share."

"I don't usually talk about my process," she said, studying him.

A small smile touched the corner of her mouth.

"But for you, I might make an exception."

[cryptidbear]

Preview of a one-shot fic I'm writing where Jason learns just how not okay Tim is, and learns how to be a better brother and overcome their communication issues. Why? Self-indulgent reasons.

TW: Hinting towards Suicidal ideation but no outright mention of it. Mentions of death and funerals, the after life, emotional vulnerability.

Also, beware, this might be very ooc, still learning how to write these characters. And write in general!!!

Sneak peak!!!

🦇🦇🦇🦇

🦇🦇🦇🦇

“Would you come to my funeral?” 

The words, spoken so abruptly in the silence of their stakeout on a random rooftop near the docks, catches Jason completely and utterly off guard, damn near dropping his food in surprise.

He blinks slowly behind his domino mask, red helmet resting lazily in his lap as he eats a greasy batburger, a tradition for really any stakeout that always elicits a look of disapproval from Alfred.

He chews the food that suddenly tastes like ash on his tongue as he looks over at the teen sitting right beside him. His throat clenches with old guilt and new worries, his fingers digging into the burger and squishing it slightly.

He eyes Tim silently for another few moments, eyes dragging over the weary form of his younger brother. Surely, he had simply misheard him, right? Surely the brat wasn’t asking what he thinks he’s asking.

“Why?” He croaks out finally, his hands lowering towards his lap, a lone pickle falling unseen to the cold concrete of the rooftop, a sure treat for whatever bird found it come morning.

Tim shrugs lightly, not meeting Jason's gaze. He faces the docks instead, eyes hidden behind the white out lense of his domino mask sweeping over the area. “I don't know. Just… been thinking lately, I guess.” His voice is quiet in a way it often is, quiet in a way that has Jason’s skin itching beneath his armor. 

“ ‘bout yer funeral?” Jason feels at a loss about what to do in this situation, more than lost really, if he was being honest with himself. “Uh, why… why are ya thinkin’ ‘bout such a gruesome thin’?”

He was never any good at emotional stuff. Clearly, with his whole murder spree and hunting down the boy who took over the Robin mantle and slitting his throat.

Heck, he couldn't even deal with his own emotions half the time!!

He really, truly just wasn’t fit for this conversation, not in the slightest.

Plus… he and Tim… they weren't close. Not like that, at least. Not close enough to be talking about their own funerals and shit, or whatever was happening right now.

Sure, he loved Tim, much as anyone could love the chaotic bastard of a brother Tim was, but…

Jason always kept his distance. He always made sure to with the guilt that weighed him down from the Titan's Tower attack.

He was trying to be better, but it was hard some days. And he didn't want Tim caught in the crossfire of his real bad days when the anger wound tight around his chest and wouldn't let go.

Or really, any of his family. It’s one of the reasons he rarely comes around the manor or the cave.

Better to be distant and achingly lonely than risk another incident, especially when his relationship with Bruce was still so rocky.

Jason clears his throat when Tim doesn't answer, concern growing at the teen’s silence.

It really was never a good sign when he fell so silent like that. Always thinking far too much. .

“No, I wouldn't.” He answers honestly, and he sees the way his brother's shoulders slump, his heart, once still and buried six feet under, squeezes tightly at the sight. Sometimes it’s so telling of how Tim held himself in his mind, how little he thought of himself with the way he reacted to things sometimes, no matter how much he tried to hide it. He takes a small breath before continuing in what he hoped was a softer voice.

🦇🦇🦇🦇

End of sneak peak!! I'm actually very excited for this one since I haven't actually written Tim before, well not properly at least.

(Also, to note, Tim knows he's a good Robin, knows he's smart and skilled. But I have to imagine with some of the things that happen in canon... that kids gonna have issues. He's going to doubt his place sometimes. He's going to question things. I like to imagine this is set maybe a few months after the whole time stream situation. Also I don't know 100% of what happens in canon so 😓)

And don't worry, Jason doesn't just say no. He has a reason. He'll comfort Tim as best he can.

[arctic-space-penguin]

For the bad things happen bingo, could you do mistaken identity with Leo and Donnie (this is called disaster twins right?) where one gets mistaken for the other and that both A: causes one to get hurt & B: causes the other to feel guilty and think it’s their fault for their twin getting hurt. (I’d prefer if Leo is the one getting hurt. I would be curious to see what emotional turmoil Donnie goes through, but do it any way you want too)

if you don’t like the idea feel free to ignore it

OH BOY DO I HAVE EMOTIONAL TURMOIL FOR YOU!!

I'm gonna be honest, it's night where I am right now and I thought Donnie would come out of the shadows just to kill me himself for this 😭😭😭😭😭

Seventh BTHB fic - Mistaken Identity - 5277 words

tw: temporary major character death, one blood mention at the end, psychological torture, hallucinations, and panic attacks

---

Leo doesn't know why he even went anymore. He was too busy trying to not pass out, breaths coming out quicker by the minute. The spell that witch had sent at him, he had a small understanding of what it did now. If the shadows he could practically feel smothering the inside of his head was anything to go by. It only made his breath increase further.

Donnie had trackers surely, right? They could find him before he passed out? He had been in the Hidden City square for an hour or two before heading for Witch Town after all. Perhaps they would show up any second now. They had to. Right?

Half an hour flew by. Pedestrians continued past the alleyway he was in. How did he manage to get up to the surface in the first place? He doesn't know that either.

His breath was the quickest it had ever been by now. It was terrifying. Did he tell someone where he was going? He didn't, did he? Maybe he was a dum-dum like Donnie said a lot.

They'renotcomingthey'renotcomingthey'renotcoming

He had to get himself out of here on his own. With newfound (rapidly waning) determination, he grabs onto the wall and uses it to get himself to his feet. His head spins with the movement, but he keeps going.

The second he reaches the manhole cover at the back of the alley, he sinks to his knees to pull it away. Leo throws his legs over the edge of the hole, reaching for the ladder.

About halfway down the rungs, still a moderate height from the ground, his eyes flutter close, hand slipping from the railing, as the shadows complete their takeover of his mind. He lands hard against the ground shell-first and gasping, blacking out in the same instant.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Donnie sighed and put his palms up to cover his eyes as the spiking headache hit again. He pushed out of his chair and went to the kitchen for his tenth cup of water in two hours. Mikey was there making lunch and greeted Donnie with a happy chirp.

"Hey Dee! Have you seen Leo around anywhere?"

Donnie drank the water in one sip. "No, I haven't. Wasn't he here for breakfast?"

Mikey hummed. Right, Donnie almost never came to breakfast. "Nope. Has he bothered you at all today?"

Donnie refilled his cup and realized, "No, no he hasn't yet. Maybe he just left the lair and didn't tell us again."

"But he's been getting better at that!" Mikey protested. "If he wasn't here for breakfast and hasn't bothered you at all, something has to be wrong."

Raph entered the kitchen then, freshly showered after his second workout of today. "You talking about Leo?"

"Yes," "You know it," Mikey and Donnie replied.

"I thought I saw him leaving before breakfast," Raph supplied, earning weird looks from both little brothers. "Woke up a little earlier than usual."

Donnie sighed and held his wrist tech up to examine it in silence for a minute. "It says he's still in the sewers..."

"We split up and search for him then!" Mikey switched the stove off. "Lunch can wait, let's go!"

Donnie and Raph exchanged a glance before following the box turtle out of the kitchen. The snapper went with Mikey down the right tunnel while Donnie went down the left tunnel toward where they normally leave the sewers. The softshell never stopped scanning the tunnel for something, eyes flicking every which way.

The worst time for the headache to come back was right now, but it had it's own rules. Donnie held his head and had to pause for a second. He continued on the moment it subsided, only for it to come back full force, almost sending him to his knees. He growled and pushed through it.

He eventually reached the ladder they used to leave and the sight made him widen his eyes in horror. Leo was on the ground, eyes closed, breath so fast it didn't even look like he was breathing. Donnie sank down and the headache vanished for good.

"No no no," Donnie's hands hovered over Leo's unconscious form despite not knowing what he could even do. "Leo! Leo, wake up, c'mon!"

He tapped Leo's face desperately. Should he try to get him home by himself or call the others? Raph could probably carry Leo better than any of them. Donnie shook away those thoughts and got his arms under his twin himself. He pushed himself up with difficulty and ran as fast as he could back to the lair.

Once he had gotten Leo in a safe spot on a cot in the med bay, he yanked his phone out and texted Mikey and Raph to come home immediately and that he had found their missing brother.

The older and younger brothers made a swift appearance after the text was sent. They both crowded around the cot Leo was on.

"What happened to him?!" Mikey cried.

"I don't know, I just found him like that!" Donnie replied.

"Deep breaths, you two," Raph commanded. "We can't be freaking out right now, we need to find out what happened. Mikey, call Draxum. Donnie, get Dad."

Mikey had his phone out in a flash. Donnie turned tail and sprinted for the living room. Dad was on his couch like always.

"Dad, Leo's--" Splinter leapt from his chair the second his son spoke. "Leo's sick, I-I think. He was missing and we just found him, but--"

Splinter was gone. Donnie took a second to recompose himself before going straight back to the med bay. Raph and Mikey were still close to the cot, but not enough for Dad to hear their whispers. Donnie went in their direction to listen.

"Draxum should be here soon," Mikey was saying. "Hopefully he can at least tell us what's going on because that doesn't look like something human medicine can fix."

"Raph agrees," Raph nodded.

Donnie stayed silent for now. He turned to Leo and stared, eyes glazing over the longer he did. He didn't know how long he had been doing that when Draxum's gruff voice cut through his haze.

"Donatello, I need to be where you are," the goat man said.

"S-sorry," Donnie blinked and backed up out of the way.

The three brothers stood off to the side and let Draxum do his thing. It only took him a minute to find out what was wrong and he looked a little worried despite himself when he turned to the brothers. A panic button almost identical to Donnie's creations was pushed into Mikey's arms at the same time.

"Put that on," Draxum commanded.

"Where'd you find that?" Donnie asked him back.

"Abandoned by the ladder," Draxum replied.

Mikey slowly slipped the button on after removing his own. When the magic that came up vanished, the button was revealed to really be a cloaking brooch.

That had Mikey look like Donnie.

"Why would Leo have had this?" was the first thing the box turtle asked, examining himself.

Donnie snatched the button-brooch away. Draxum sighed.

"The mystics currently taking over Leonardo's brain can only be done by one being in the Hidden City," Draxum eyed Donnie. "A witch."

Donnie's whole life came crashing down when Draxum said that. His breathing quickened and all he wanted to do was hide.

"--ello!"

"D--!"

"Pu--e!"

Voices cut in and out of his consciousness. He recognized them. His family? No, they would hate him for what he did, right? They wouldn't be talking to him. He scrambled under the cot Leo was on and pulled his legs to his chest to bury his head in between. People continued to speak above him, but he didn't care to listen.

"Should we call April?" Raph wondered. "Raph has a feeling he'd take seeing us badly right now..."

"Do not bother April yet," Splinter commanded. "I will see what I can do first."

The rat slowly got closer to Donnie and reached a hand out. Donnie's head shot up all at once. He saw the hand coming at him and the person, no, witch behind it, wearing a sinister smirk on it's face.

"Stay away from me!" he cried, maneuvering out from under the cot quickly.

He fearfully looked up at the legs he ran into and shrank under the similar smirk as the first. He rushed away as fast as he could, but ended up tripping a few feet from the lair exit. He twisted back around to see darkness swallowing up the walls and floor as the too-wide smiles exit the med bay. He choked on spit when he tried to scream.

He needed to get out of here.

He turned tail and scaled the ladder two rungs at a time, looking down once he was at the surface to see the darkness had followed him. It had taken over his home. He couldn't go back until it was gone. So where could he go?

April.

Yes! Right! He could go to April's! She was safe.

Donnie leapt up the building on his right to the roof and reached his best friend's apartment before he knew it. He frantically knocked on the bedroom window until she came to open it.

He threw himself inside, still panicking a little, and muttered out begs for her to close the window, to which she complied.

"Donnie, what's going on? You normally don't just show up out of the blue," April asked softly.

"Witches," he whimpered. "E-everywhere. In... In Leo t-too."

Her eyes widened as she settled by his side. "Everywhere where?"

"T-the lair. Can't go... can't go b-back," he replied.

She gently rubbed his shoulder. "Okay, deep breaths, baby. You're safe now, you know that."

"I k-know," he sucked in deeply then released.

Silence stretched between them as he continued taking the breaths. She gently rubbed thumbs into his shoulders comfortingly. Eventually, his breathing evened out and he was able to speak clearer again.

"Good," April praised. "Now, what was this about a witch being inside of Leo?"

"The dumb-dumb went to the Hidden City, Witch Town, more specifically..." oh God, he didn't want to admit this part. "With a cloaking brooch to disguise himself as me."

Her eyes widened again. "It's because we didn't tell him what happened there, wasn't it?"

"He's been unconscious for about an hour now since I found him. I don't know," Donnie supplied.

"An hour?! And none of you told me?!" she shouted.

"We would have eventually," he rested his chin on his knees.

She sighed. "So he got cursed, then?"

He nodded. Silence filled the empty space in the room. His phone inevitably started going off with worried texts that she made him answer. They both decided to go back to the lair after. Mikey threw himself at Donnie the second he stepped a foot into the lair.

"Donatello," Draxum spoke over everyone else. "I believe you and I need to talk."

Donnie exchanged a frightful glance with April. Was he allowed to say no to this? He really, really (that's two reallys) didn't want to talk about what happened.

April stepped forward and hooked her arm around Donnie's. "If you're going to talk about the Witch Town thing, I'm coming too."

"Very well," Draxum beckoned them both to the living room.

The goat settled himself on the couch when they both there and gestured for them to start explaining. Donnie didn't want to, but there was also no way April would let him get out of explaining when this was all his fault.

"I messed up when we went," Donnie admitted first. "I thought April would've been better off with me helping her and not the witches so I..." Insulted them. Destroyed their statue. Helped unsuccessfully. "I just messed up."

He avoided gazes and stared at the very interesting floor on his left. Painful nothing happened for a few seconds following his words, as if no one wanted to address his failure. Seconds turned to minutes. He finally looked up, but when he did, Draxum and April were just... gone.

He panicked again. He tore around the couch back to the main atrium only for it to be empty. His brothers and dad were gone too, fantastic. He took deep breaths to attempt to calm himself down. That is, until movement in his peripheral caught his eye and made him crane his head up to the right.

Leo stood on the edge of the platform in front of the medbay, almost looking like he would fall off. Donnie widened his eyes and was about to shout up at him to back up, but Leo spoke up first, pointing his finger at the softshell and staring him right in the eyes.

"Seize him! Seize the scientist!"

Donnie's breath hitched dangerously at those all-too-familiar words. What's worse: the witch's voice that had initially said those words was echoing along with Leo. The slider leapt down from the platform and landed easily behind Donnie.

The purple twin spun around. The blue twin's eyes were pure white, like he was angry. When Leo opened his mouth to say something, glowing blue liquid poured out of his mouth.

"This is all your fault, Donnie~" Leo singsonged, advancing, more liquid dripping down his chin. "You didn't tell me what happened down there~"

"No!" Donnie screeched, reaching back for his techbo only to realize he had left it elsewhere and therefore didn't have it.

Leo practically pounced on Donnie when his backing away buffered. "It's your fault I got cursed~"

"I would've told you eventually! I just wasn't ready to yet!" Donnie whimpered.

Leo snarled, some of the liquid falling to land on the ground in between them. Without warning, Leo grabbed Donnie's forearms, spun around once, and threw him right into the wall behind them. The impact knocked Donnie's breath from his lungs. He didn't have time to recover before Leo slammed him back against the wall again and hands tightened around Donnie's throat.

"L-Leo, let g-go!" Donnie cried, scrabbling at the slider's ever-tightening hands.

Leo leaned in close. Donnie shivered at the impact of breath against his tympanum. He felt Leo smirk before whispering something in a voice that definitely wasn't his own.

"Well, aren't you fun to torture," Whatever it was said. "Should've done something sooner."

Donnie's second shiver was much more violent than the first. Leo spun Donnie around by his throat twice before releasing him. Before Donnie could hit the sewer wall directly outside of the lair, he opened his eyes, sat up, and screamed.

Splinter, who had been sleeping nearby, startled awake with his son's scream. "Purple!"

At their dad's call, Raph and Mikey hurry into Donnie's bedroom.

Wait, how did he get in his bedroom? Wasn't he going to explain to Draxum what happened?

"You passed out," Mikey supplied, as if having read his mind, squeezing Donnie in a hug.

"P-passed... out?" Donnie asked in a barely audible voice.

Raph got behind the softshell and pulled him closer. "Yeah, bud."

Donnie keened and sobbed, covering his face with his hands. "S-sorry..."

Mikey started crying too, ever the empathetic one. Raph churred comfortingly deep in his chest. Donnie melted between his brothers and didn't hear Splinter say he'd be right back.

When Donnie got the courage to open his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was their dad gone, just like before. Donnie thrashed in a panic trying to look for him. Raph yelped a little when Donnie scratched his arms in desperation, but didn't let go.

"Don, what are you looking for?" the snapper asked as gently as he could.

Donnie continued frantically searching and didn't seem to hear his older brother. Raph tried again.

"Donnie, stop. What are you--"

The moment Splinter came back into the room, Donnie stopped moving and hiccuped. Raph opened his arms to let Donnie go and Mikey didn't hesitate to do the same. Splinter seemed shocked when his son wrapped his arms around him.

"I'm sorry," Donnie dug his beak into the robe. "This is all my fault. Leo's cursed because of me."

"You do not know for sure," Splinter whispered.

"I am!" Donnie insisted, pushing away. "I am sure! He would've never gone to Witch Town looking like me if I had just told him what happened!"

Splinter looked up at Raph and Mikey with a serious stare that said they needed to be alone. The duo exchanged a glance before getting up and leaving. Donnie resisted in going after them to make sure they wouldn't disappear.

Splinter's gaze flicked to Donnie, who was hugging himself and openly sobbing again. "My son, it is not your fault."

Donnie continued like he hadn't spoken. "Why couldn't it have been me?"

Splinter hovered his hand over Donnie's knee. Donnie noticed and let him rest it on top. Splinter did.

"It is not your fault, Donatello."

"How do you know?" Donnie muttered.

Splinter sighed. "You could not have known what Leonardo would do. You didn't tell him because you felt uncomfortable, correct?"

Donnie nodded slowly.

"Blue is stubborn, as are you at times. He does what he likes when he wants. He wanted to know, and made a decision that wasn't the smartest and got him cursed. But it is not your fault."

Donnie pulled his dad in for another much-needed hug, wetting his robe again with tears.

"Repeat it," Splinter commanded. "Repeat what I said last."

"I can't. I don't... I don't believe it," Donnie returned to hugging himself.

"It is not your fault. Say it. I'll repeat it as many times as I need to," Splinter smiled.

Donnie opened his mouth to say it, but then snapped it back shut. He hiccuped. C'mon, Tello, just say it already! "It's-- It's not my f-fault."

Splinter initiated a final hug before leaving Donnie's room. Donnie scrambled back under his blankets and cried himself to sleep.

A week bordering on two passed following that talk. Draxum had revealed Leo had a month at find a cure two days following the talk. Donnie only had solace from nightmares, panic attacks, and hallucinations when he was under his twin's cot.

Which is where he was now.

Donnie was scrolling through feed after feed without really seeing any of the posts when Mikey crouched beside the bed.

"I made pancakes for breakfast," the box turtle informed. "Want some?"

"Not hungry," Donnie replied immediately.

Mikey frowned. "Dee, come on. You've been under here all day."

Donnie paused from scrolling to glare at his little brother. "I haven't and I said I wasn't hungry."

Mikey's face turned unimpressed, but he groaned and left. Donnie poked his head out from under the cot to make sure Mikey was gone only for a plate with two pancakes to be shoved his way.

"You're going to eat," Mikey demanded from somewhere above him.

Donnie rolled his eyes and grumbled, taking the plate to retreat back into his solitude. He grumpily stabbed into the top pancake. About halfway through it, creaking from the cot above made him abandon them both. Especially when a pair of light olive green skinned legs appeared over the edge.

"Leo?" he asked cautiously. The legs opened enough for a head to appear between them. "Leo!"

Then Donnie noticed the glowing blue eyes, almost like one of his twin's portals.

"Not exactly," Leo laughed nervously. "He's actually, um... been taken prisoner."

Donnie narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't make any sense. Who are you then?"

"A manifestation of your beloved twin's ninpo of course! You can call me Blue!" the slider smiled widely.

Donnie didn't take long to decide to go along with this. "Assuming I believe you, color me skeptical, how was Leo 'taken prisoner'?"

"I can explain everything later, but right now what I need is Draxum. Like, immediately," Blue said.

Donnie had already sent a text off to Mikey and the family before 'Blue' had even finished talking. Speaking of Mikey, the youngest brother sprinted into the room after summoning Draxum with a text.

"What's up with Leo?! What do we need... Draxum... for...?" Mikey trailed off at the sight of Blue.

Donnie crawled out from under the cot, stood up, and stretched his back. "Before you jump to conclusions, this isn't actually Leo. Apparently it's some of his sentient ninpo of his."

"Blue's the name, portals the game! I was supposed to protect your brother, but I got him taken instead," Blue caught Mikey up. "That's why we need Draxum."

"What's he supposed to do about a kidnapping situation?" Mikey blurted without thinking.

"Uh, determine how much time he has left to live?" Blue adjusted himself to put the world upside down, muttering "Oo, make Leo do this more often, it's amazing."

Donnie had to blink. "I'm sorry, live?"

Blue looked over at him. "Yeah, this curse is supposed to make his mind deteriorate until either she kills him herself, she kills me, or until his mind falls to her magic."

Donnie threw his hands in the air. "And who's this 'she' you keep bringing up?"

"The witch," Blue replied simply, shrugging. "Oh, hey, Draxy's here!"

Donnie and Mikey turned away from Blue to face an almost buffering goat man. Draxum yanked himself out of it violently to stomp over to Blue, forcibly sit him up, and waved his hands around in thinly veiled confusion and worry.

"Look, I know I screwed up, but if you want Leo to live, we probably don't have very much time left," Blue warned.

Draxum eventually got himself to calm down and pulled Donnie and Mikey to the side. "That is not Leonardo's ninpo. I don't know what it is exactly, but stay vigilant when I send you into Leonardo's mind."

Donnie and Mikey shared a nervous glance before Mikey lowered his voice.

"Should we bring Raph too, then?" he asked timidly.

Donnie nodded confidently. Draxum agreed too.

"Go fetch Raphael while I prepare to get you two into his mind," Draxum told Donnie.

The softshell nodded again and hurried off to the garage where he knew he was. Sure enough, there was Raph, just finishing up using a dumbbell.

"Donnie, you okay?" Raph asked when he noticed him.

Donnie could finally shake his head. "Leo's been captured by the witch in his mind. There's something claiming to be some manifestation of Leo's ninpo in control of his body right now that told us." Donnie curled in on himself standing up and sobbed. "I d-don't want us t-to die, Raphie."

The snapper got up and went over to comfort Donnie. "Hey, hey, it's okay. Neither of you are going to die with me there, I promise. We'll do whatever we have to do to save Leo, okay?"

Donnie shakily nodded. "Y-yeah... okay."

Raph offered a reassuring smile before leading Donnie back to the medbay. The three brothers stood where Draxum wanted them to and did whatever he said. Soon enough, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey were standing on a beautiful green hill that sloped down into a valley with a castle right in the middle of it all.

"That's where he's being held," Blue appeared next to them, revealed to be a see-through, glowing light blue (same color as his eyes earlier) version of Leo. "We just need to go in, get him, and get out before she knows and can stop us."

Mikey and Donnie both recalled Draxum's warning to stay vigilant. Blue started down the hill and Donnie made Raph wait an extra second so Blue wouldn't hear what he had to say to him.

"That's not actually Leo's ninpo," Donnie whispered. "Draxum said so. He warned us to watch our backs too."

Raph played it off by pretending he didn't hear. Donnie knew he did though. The group reached the castle gates surprisingly fast for being on foot. Blue pushed open the large doors easily and gestured for them to go inside.

"Shouldn't we be sneaking directly to where Leo is and not going in the front door?" Raph questioned with narrowed eyes.

Blue waved off his question. "Relax. She doesn't have any guards since she didn't believe we'd reach her castle and there's no other surveillance that I've seen."

"What do you mean 'you--"

Blue cut off Donnie's question by leading the way into the castle. Was it just Donnie or was it really dark in here? Mikey clung to Raph's arm and jumped at just about every shifting shadow in the dark. Donnie wanted to bolt the darker it got.

At some point, the trio didn't notice that they're guide had vanished. They reached some room, the doors slamming closed behind them, effectively just making it all even darker. Donnie went to push his goggles down, but they weren't on his head anymore. Raph and Mikey didn't have their tonfa or kusari-fundo either. How stra--

A light flicked on in front of them all, illuminating a familiar face tied up to a chair and gagged. Leo. The slider squirmed and whined and tried to shout a warning around the cloth in his mouth, but to no avail. Suddenly all the lights turned on, making Donnie flinch at the sudden brightness.

"Wait, where'd Blue go?" Mikey asked, finally noticing him missing.

A sinister laugh echoed around all of the walls. Leo widened his eyes, staring at something behind his three brothers and tried to shout or yell a warning. Raph spared him a glanced and followed his gaze before widening his own eyes.

"Donnie, look out!"

The softshell stiffened when he felt something cold brush his arm.

"If it isn't the mutant I'm after," the voice said. "The one that the other one sacrificed himself for," the cold reached further up Donnie's arms, making him shiver. "The one that's so easily tortured."

Donnie had to lift his head up when the cold reached his neck. He whimpered, whined, and shook his head as if that would make it go away. It actually worked though. Raph had to rush to catch his purple brother before he could fall.

"But glad you could all make it to the show. It's a killer one."

Donnie immediately thought the worst. Raph and Mikey did too, judging by the looks on their faces. The witch laughed again in a mocking way.

"Don't worry, it's not any of you who're going to die. It'll just be the worthless one."

Donnie growled and sprinted forward only to run into an invisible wall. He didn't get time to straighten his stance before the witch froze the three brothers on the outside of the wall so they wouldn't try to break it and just watch.

"Leo is not worthless!" Donnie shouted. "I know you want me, so why not kill me instead?"

"Because maybe the only way to make you really sorry for what you did," she answered simply.

And just like that, time slowed down as the spear-shaped piece of ninpo reached Leo's front. Donnie screamed bloody murder the second it skewered his twin open from lower plastron to the top of his shell. When Donnie met Leo's too-calm-for-the-current-situation eyes, he felt the whiplash of being thrown back into his body.

Donnie caught a glimpse of the light in Leo's eyes dying before collapsing to the floor to just scream until his throat couldn't take it anymore. Raph and Mikey weren't sure what to do for someone who had just lost not only a brother, but a twin. They just hugged each other close and released their own tears.

The softshell scrambled under the cot and tried to get the images of Leo dead and bleeding out of his mind, but failed. He refused to move from his spot no matter what.

"Don, we're all grieving. Please come to dinner and we can find a spot to bury him in the morning," Raph tried to sooth.

"No!" Donnie's throat was still a little scratchy from screaming so much earlier. "I'm not coming to dinner! I'm not coming to help find a spot and admitting Leo's really dead!"

Raph sighed and left. Donnie stared at the floor mindlessly for hours. It wasn't until the middle of the night that something miraculous occurred. Leo coughed.

Donnie was at the bedside in a blink with wide eyes staring down at his twin for any other signs of life. He quickly lost hope when nothing happened for three minutes. He was about to get right back under the cot when Leo coughed even more and much more violently. Donnie wasted no time to sit Leo up so he could breathe (Donnie really wished he had a tail right now).

The slider's coughing died off after a few more and Leo blearily looked around. Donnie laid Leo back down and sank to his knees, burying his head in the sheets. He felt a hand rest on his head and gently rub in a circle.

"I'm okay now, DonTon," Leo whispered.

Donnie raised his head at that, tears still running down his cheeks. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," Leo smiled, a rare genuine one.

Donnie pulled himself closer to his twin, curling up on the cot. Leo wrapped his arms around him. Donnie buried his beak into Leo's shoulder.

"You were dead," Donnie's breath hitched. "I saw you die..."

Leo waved his hands around dramatically. "I arrived on this sick spirit plane place. There were so many spirits there, all wearing almost the same clothes. It was soooooo coooollll. I was told it 'wasn't my time to die' like almost every hero movie ever and sent back into my body."

Donnie chuckled softly at his retelling. Leo was always the best at making boring stories interesting. The softshell closed his eyes, churred comfortably, and promptly fell asleep at his (alive) twin's side.

When morning came, Donnie woke up in his bed. He panicked and hurried to make sure last night wasn't just a dream. It wasn't.

Raph and Mikey were both crowded around the bed when Donnie got there. The purple-clad turtle went up to the cot quietly, not wanting to disturb the other's time with Leo. Mikey noticed him and chirped excitedly.

"Can you believe this Dee?! Leo's actually back and-- what's wrong?" the box turtle broke off when he noticed his second-oldest brother crying (and realized Donnie had cried more in the past two weeks than in his entire life).

"Nothing," Donnie wiped them away. "Just happy to have a twin again."

"Deeeeee!" Leo drawled. "I knew you loved me."

Donnie huffed and rolled his eyes. "And you ruined the moment."

Leo pouted and frowned, crossing his arms. Raph recognized they needed another moment and led Mikey away to finish making breakfast. Donnie feigned acting annoyed at being left alone with the slider.

"You owe me a movie night," Leo told Donnie out of nowhere.

"For what? What did I do to owe you a movie night?" Donnie asked back.

Leo smirked. "You blamed this on yourself."

Donnie spluttered. "How-- What-- When--"

Leo laughed. "I knew it! You're not escaping a twin's only movie night tonight or I'll get Mikey to help me bother you for an entire week."

"Fine. I'll be there," Donnie got closer to the cot. "Promise you won't go down to Witch Town looking like me ever again like a dum-dum."

"I promise I won't go down to Witch Town looking like you like a dum-dum," Leo repeated. "And I also promise to wait for you to tell me something on your own time. I think I already learned my lesson."

"Good," Donnie smiled. "I can't wait for our movie night now."

"Me neither," Leo agreed.

---

Tags:

@ceciturtle-myproudtime

@tonystarkwasrobbed

@kitkatthekitkatkat (even though this was your ask)

@badthingshappenbingo

Ao3 Link

[mychlapci]

hi local idw1 expert (i have read all the comics... more than once)

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an expert has just logged on. anyone who’s curious about transformers lore, pls listen to this explanation and trust it blindly right now.

[blind-healers-blog]

Healer Cookie raises an eyebrow and follows behind, trying to be mindful of where he steps along the riverbank. While Healer Cookie has a bad habit of falling into them when he isn't being careful enough, he might just crumble himself if he slips and falls this time. He already made quite a fool of himself earlier in the village. His heart probably wouldn't be able to handle much more embarrassment today.

What would be the odds of it happening, anyway?

"Quite the... interesting place to leave behind prey..." Healer Cookie laughs nervously, glancing at the river beside them. It's nothing but a blur of blue next to his feet though, hard to spot in the dimming light outside. The bandages may be off his face, but to be completely honest, it really didn't make a difference whether he had them on or not. He can hardly see anything, especially at night.

The way the forest seemed to fall quiet around them was also quite peculiar. "Astral Milk, are you sure this is—" Healer Cookie had barely uttered the words before a sharp yelp escapes his lips, quickly followed by a loud splash in the river.

A small misstep in the dark seems to have sent the blind man falling into the river.

Shadow Milk Cookie felt lost, drained of his magic, the power was slowly returning but it was mere trickles compared to the torrents he was used to.

He needed to seek refuge, some place far from that cold silver prison he'd clawed his way out from.

What better place to lay low in than somewhere many cookies thought to already be deserted?

Thought to be, because he knew better. Oh, he knew it well, tugging at his collar, beckoning him forth to this bare minimum of a village.

His soul jam was here, it had to be, he just needed to get it back.

Except, that treacherous thing took another soul! One that wasn't even allowed outside without another cookie trailing after him, so full of light, this cookie–

Hm, perhaps he could take him too. Shadow Milk just had to set the stage right, to have the final act have his preferred ending.

Which is why he was injured now, hair mussed up from it's braid, his arm scattered with cracks as he all but stumbled towards the village.

"Help! Some... Somebody, please!" He cried out, wincing at the crumbs that flaked off, he had turned off the circulation of his magic there and was reminded of his fate should he lose the chance to regain his strength.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾ @false-ouroborus ☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

The Raisin Canyons had been relatively quite until then, the cries for help heard quite clearly. Raisin crows the had flown overhead that caught wind of the stranger nearby immediately returned to send the report. An injured stranger wandering through the canyons, getting closer to the Raisin Village.

Healer Cookie, who happened to by speaking to Black Raisin Cookie when the report arrived, was immediately concerned. Despite Black Raisin's wariness and warnings of strangers in the past, Healer Cookie just can't let himself ignore those who need him.

He had made his way to his tent to grab supplies he may need if his healing wasn't enough on it's own before setting off.

Following the sound of the voice, Healer Cookie can hear the shuffling of another drawing close. He picks up his own pace, drawing close and quite nearly bumping into the stranger.

Once he's close enough, he could smell it.

Jam. A lot of it.

"Oh my! Are you alright? Here, let me help you! You're bleeding so much..." He grabs the stranger's arm, allowing the other cookie lean against him for support as they walk back to the Raisin Village.

He's curious on this new stranger, where they came from and what happened to them... but that can wait until after the injuries have been dealt with.

[kirbyddd]

barkbarkbark Riichi Book I's writing is like screeching chalkboard to my game designer's, translator's, and writer's ears all at once

it's got great concepts buried in there but it's in like the most anti-comprehension packaging conceivable

[harrysfolklore]

misunderstood hero with a heart of gold - mv1

summary: max verstappen has never been one to read books, but everything changes when he comes across a pretty booktuber who describes him better than anyone else did before

word count: 8.2k + social media posts

folkie radio: another one of my babies finally sees the light of day 🥹 this fic is really special and i was lowkey gatekeeping it but i feel ready to share it, plss take care of it <3 i hope you like it

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Max Verstappen was bored.

It was late and he was alone in his hotel room. He had a race the following day and he knew better than staying up late. His team was already on his ass for sim racing at ungodly hours of the night when he had a race, but nevertheless, he was bored and not sleepy yet.

He scrolled through his phone, not really paying attention to what popped up on his Instagram feed, Tiktok for you page or Twitter timeline.

After a few minutes, his finger landed on the YouTube app, one that he barely used if he was completely honest, but for some reason he never deleted it.

A bunch of videos showed up on his main page, most of them about F1, gaming, fitness or cats. He scrolled through the thumbnails absentmindedly until one title caught his eye: "Formula 1 Drivers as Romance Book Character Tropes."

Max had no idea how that video ended up in his suggestions page. He wasn't much of a reader—he had only read two books in his entire life, for crying out loud— but curiosity got the better of him. He clicked on the video.

The screen shifted to a bright and lively setup, where a young woman with vibrant energy and a contagious smile greeted her viewers. "Hey everyone! Welcome back to my channel. Today, we have a fun video where I'll be pairing Formula 1 drivers with romance book tropes!"

Max found himself smiling for some reason, he thought she was really engaging and funny — and really pretty—. He leaned back against his pillows, more intrigued by the second.

"As some of you might already know, books are not my only passion, I'm also a huge Formula 1 fan since I was a little kid thanks to my dad, so I thought it would be fun to do a little crossover of my two obsessions."

Max grinned again, finding himself oddly invested in this unexpected combination of romance literature and Formula 1. Or maybe just mesmerized by the pretty girl who was talking on his screen.

"Let's begin with Mercedes," she said, clapping her hands together, "Lewis Hamilton is definitely our 'Charming Prince Charming.' He's got the looks, the talent, and that air of royalty about him."

Max chuckled, thinking it was a fitting description for his rival.

"Now for George Russell," she continued, "I'm going with 'The Boy Next Door Who Grew Up Hot.' I mean, have you seen his glow-up?"

Max chuckled again, nodding in agreement. George had indeed transformed quite a bit since his Williams days.

"Moving on to Ferrari," she continued enthusiastically. Max wondered if that was her favorite team on the grid, "Charles Leclerc is our classic 'Childhood Best Friend You've Always Had a Crush On.' He's got that sweet, familiar charm, but with a spark that makes your heart race every time you see him."

Max raised an eyebrow, surprised by the change in description. He had to admit, it fit Charles quite well.

"And for Carlos Sainz," she paused dramatically, "he's either our 'Older Brother's Best Friend' or the 'Bad Guy Who's Mean to Everyone but His Sweetheart', just think about it, he's got that rugged exterior, but you just know he's a total sweetheart deep down."

Max laughed, realizing she had Carlos pegged perfectly. He watched with growing interest as she continued.

"Now, let's talk about McLaren," she said with a sparkle in her eye. "Lando Norris is our 'Adorkable Comedian Who Steals Your Heart.' He's funny, relatable, and has a way of making you fall for him before you even realize it," Max grinned at the description of his good friend, "And Oscar Piastri... he's 'The Shy Genius.' Quiet, reserved, but incredibly talented and intelligent. He might not be the loudest in the room, but he's someone you'd definitely want on your side."

Max nodded in agreement, thinking of how Oscar had impressed everyone since joining McLaren. She continued pairing each driver with a character trope, she described Daniel as the "Life of the Party with a Sensitive Soul," highlighting his infectious energy and hidden depths. Pierre was dubbed the "Resilient Underdog," emphasizing his ability to bounce back from setbacks. Yuki was described as the "Fiery Spitfire with a Soft Center" and Logan was labeled the "Rookie with Untapped Potential," suggesting a character arc of growth and discovery.

With each driver's description, Max's anticipation grew. He found himself eagerly awaiting his own characterization, both curious and slightly apprehensive about how the pretty girl with an obsession with books and Formula 1 would describe him.

When she finally got to Red Bull, he sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued.

"Now for Sergio Perez," she said, "he's our 'Loyal Wingman Who Deserves His Own Happy Ending.' Always there to support, but with a story of his own waiting to be told."

Max nodded, thinking it was a pretty accurate description of his teammate.

"And finally, saved the best for last," she said, her eyes twinkling, "we have Max Verstappen."

Max held his breath, oddly nervous about how this stranger would categorize him.

"Max is our 'Misunderstood Hero with a Heart of Gold,'" she said with a warm smile. "Often perceived as cold or distant, but actually deeply caring and protective of those close to him. He's the type who shows his love through actions rather than words."

Max felt his cheeks warm significantly. This description caught him completely off guard. It wasn't the usual 'aggressive driver' or 'arrogant champion' narrative he was used to hearing. Instead, it felt... true. Uncomfortably true. He wasn't sure how to feel about being seen so accurately by a stranger.

As the video ended after she said her goodbyes, Max found himself staring at his phone screen, replaying her words in his mind, his thumb hovering over the comment section. He had never left a comment on a YouTube video before, but something about this one compelled him to break that habit.

After a moment's hesitation, he tapped the comment box and began typing, Once he was done, he paused, reading over his words. It felt strange, almost vulnerable, to acknowledge her characterization of him. But there was also something liberating about it. He added a thumbs-up emoji at the end and hit 'Post' before he could second-guess himself.

As Max set his phone down and settled into bed, a small smile played on his lips. He had a important race the following day, but all he wanted to think and dream about was the pretty stranger who had somehow seen through his carefully crafted public persona.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 10,725 others

f1gossip “I went to bed early last night. Just listened to the team’s orders, you know?”

Max Verstappen for media day today, however he left a comment on a YouTube video around 2:46 am 😭

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username1 HES SOOOOO

username2 the fact that he left a comment on a BOOKTUBER’S channel MAX VERSTAPPEN YOU DONT EVEN READ BOOKS 😭

username3 he looks so pretty tho

username4 MAX WE ALL SAW YOU

username5 max was actually checking which romance trope is him according to booktubers

username6 HES SO RANDOM

username7 max’s search history: lestappen as fictional couples

liked by username1, username2 and 102,438 others

ynreadsbooks in honor of max verstappen x3 world champion commenting on my latest video (which is insane to say out loud wtf) should i do another f1 themed video?? any suggestions?

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username1 YES QUEEN

username2 that max comment was so random but so real

username3 max verstappen, the man who has read two books in 27 years watching booktubers was not on my bingo card

username4 @/maxverstappen1 you favorite youtuber will do another video about you

username5 BOOKS WITH RACING THEMES

username6 books inspired by f1 circuits would be fun

username7 @/maxverstappen drop a suggestion

maxverstappen1 started following ynreadsbooks

liked by username1, username2 and 15,836 others

f1gossip Max Verstappen was seen outside of a bookshop in Monaco today !

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username1 BABYYYY

username2 max ??? bookshop ????

username3 WHAT SHIFTED

username4 he thought it was jimmyz

username5 HEELPP what is he doing there

username6 hello i work there. he arrived with a list of books in hand that he wanted, he bought around 15 action and fantasy books

↳ username1 FOR REAL???

↳ username2 max said book girl summer

↳ username3 this is so random

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

If someone had told Max that this year he would spend his summer break reading, he would've laughed at their faces. Yet here he was, lounging by the pool in his Monaco house, a book in his hands and a smile on his face.

As he turned the page of "The Martian," the latest sci-fi recommendation from YN, Max couldn't help but reflect on how different this summer break was.

Usually, his days off were filled with lavish yacht parties, exclusive clubs, or intense training sessions and hours of sim racing to stay sharp for the second half of the season. But now, he found himself eagerly devouring books and spending hours chatting with YN about plots, characters, and everything in between.

As the weeks passed, Max found himself growing increasingly close to YN, despite never having met her in person. Their text conversations flowed effortlessly, ranging from in-depth discussions about the books they were reading to playful banter about racing and life in general.

Max was surprised by how much he enjoyed her company, even in this digital form. Her wit, intelligence, and genuine interest in his thoughts beyond his racing persona were refreshing. He found himself sharing things he rarely discussed with others, and looking forward to her messages became a highlight of his day.

He also thought she was absolutely gorgeous.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed with a new message from her.

Max chuckled, about to reply when he heard the doorbell. He remembered Lando and Daniel were coming over for dinner. As he got up to let them in, he quickly typed a response, telling her that he would talk to her later.

"Well, well, well," Daniel's voice boomed as Max opened the door. "If it isn't the newly minted bookworm of Formula 1!"

Lando peered around Daniel's shoulder, "I half expected to find you wearing glasses and a sweater vest, mate."

"Very funny, guys. Come in," Max rolled his eyes as he stepped away from the door.

Ever since his friends noticed his brand new habit, they took it upon themselves to tease him whenever they could. As they made their way to the backyard, Daniel spotted the book on the lounger.

"The Martian?" he read, picking it up. "Isn't this a bit advanced for your reading level, Maxy?"

"Ha ha," Max deadpanned, snatching the book back. "It's actually really good. It's about this astronaut who gets stranded on Mars and has to use science and engineering to survive-"

"Whoa, whoa," Lando interrupted, holding up his hands. "Who are you and what have you done with Max Verstappen?"

Daniel draped an arm around Max's shoulders. "I think our boy here is trying to impress a certain bookish YouTuber. What was her name again? YN?"

Max felt his cheeks warm. "It's not like that. We just... talk about books and stuff."

"And stuff," Daniel repeated, wiggling his eyebrows. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Max rolled his eyes, trying to brush off their teasing. "Seriously, it's not like that. We just have a lot in common."

Daniel and Lando exchanged knowing glances before bursting into laughter.

"Sure, mate," Daniel said, patting Max on the back. "Whatever you say."

They settled by the pool, beers in hand, and started chatting about the upcoming races and their plans for the rest of the summer. Despite the playful ribbing, Max found himself genuinely enjoying their company. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed his friends.

As the evening wore on, the conversation eventually circled back to Max's books and his little friend on his phone.

"So, Max," Lando started, a mischievous glint in his eye, "have you color-coded your bookshelf yet? Or are you more of a chronological order kind of guy?"

"Nah, mate. I bet he organizes them by how many times YN has mentioned them," Daniel chimed in, "Top shelf is probably her favorites, right Maxy?"

Max felt his cheeks flush, but he couldn't help grinning. "You two are impossible."

"When are you finally going to meet her in person anyway?" Lando said, sipping from his beer.

Max shrugged nonchalantly, trying to hide the slight flutter in his chest. "I don't know. That's not something I've really thought about,"

He lied. In truth, the thought of meeting YN had crossed his mind countless times. The idea of finally seeing the girl who had captivated him with her intelligence, humor, and beauty made his heart race. He'd catch himself daydreaming about her smile, wondering if it was as warm and infectious in person as it seemed in her videos. But he wasn't ready to admit that to his friends just yet.

Lando and Daniel exchanged a look, clearly not buying Max's nonchalant act.

"Oh come on," Lando scoffed, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You expect us to believe that? You've been glued to your phone for weeks, mate."

"I bet he's already planned their first date," Daniel leaned in, "What'll it be, Max? A romantic book reading by candlelight? Or maybe a visit to the library?"

Max felt his cheeks heating up again. "It's not like that, guys. We're just friends."

"Friends who talk every day and have you blushing like a schoolgirl," Lando teased, nudging Max with his elbow.

"I do not blush like a schoolgirl," Max protested, knowing full well that his face was probably bright red by now.

"Sure, sure," Daniel said with a wink. "Just friends. So, have you at least thought about inviting her to a race? You know, show her what you do when you're not reading about Mars?"

"Why would I invite her to a race, that would be weird," Max protested again, "And she already knows what I do, she's a fan of the sport."

"Man, you're so stubborn sometimes," Lando rolled his eyes at him, "If you like this girl, why don't you invite her to a race? It could be a great way to finally meet in person."

"And who said that I liked her," once again, Max's defensive self came through.

Daniel and Lando shared an exasperated look before turning back to Max.

"Come on, mate," Daniel said, his tone gentler now. "It's pretty obvious. We've never seen you this invested in someone before. Not to mention, you're reading books voluntarily for the first time since... well, ever."

"It's written all over your face," Lando said, shaking his head. "You like her, and there's no shame in that. You light up every time your phone buzzes. It's kind of adorable, actually."

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew his friends were right, but admitting it out loud felt like a big step. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do like her. But it's complicated, you know? We've never even met in person."

"That's exactly why you should invite her to a race," Lando insisted. "It's the perfect opportunity. She gets to see you in your element, and you get to finally meet face-to-face."

"Plus," Daniel added with a mischievous grin, "if things go well, you can always show her your trophy collection. I hear that's a great way to impress the ladies."

Max couldn't help but laugh at that. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"Maybe," Daniel shrugged, "but I'm also right. What have you got to lose?"

Max pondered this for a moment. The idea of meeting YN in person both thrilled and terrified him. What if they didn't click in real life the way they did over text? But then again, what if they did?

"I'll think about it," Max finally conceded.

Lando and Daniel exchanged triumphant grins.

"That's our boy," Lando said, patting his back.

After a few more beers and food, Lando and Daniel left.

As the night deepened, Max found himself lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Lando and Daniel kept replaying in his mind. His phone sat on the nightstand, silent but somehow still demanding his attention.

Max's thoughts raced. Should he text YN? Invite her to Zandvoort? The idea made his heart beat faster. He imagined seeing her in person for the first time, wondering if her smile would be as pretty as it was in her videos. But doubt crept in too. What if things were awkward? What if the chemistry they had online didn't translate to real life?

He rolled onto his side, eyeing his phone. The urge to reach out to her was strong, as it always was. Max realized that Lando and Daniel were right - he did like her. A lot. The thought of meeting her filled him with equal parts excitement and nervousness.

Taking a deep breath, Max grabbed his phone. Before he could overthink it, he started typing.

Hey YN, hope I'm not messaging too late. I was wondering if you'd like to come to the Dutch GP at Zandvoort? It's the first race after the summer break, and my home race. Thought it might be fun if you could make it.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. The wait for her response felt eternal. When his phone finally buzzed, Max's heart leapt.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing and 286,375 others

ynreadsbooks this week’s video will be delayed for some ~personal reasons ☺️

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username1 GIRL

username2 ARE YOU GOING WHERE I THINK YOU’RE GOING

username3 f1 x books this is literally me

username4 hot girls support max verstappen

username5 ahh if she’s going to the gp i’ll be so happy bc she’s a huge fan

username6 the way roles reversed and now max is his fan 😭

redbullracing We can’t wait 💙

↳ username1 REDBULL???

↳ username2 AHHH THEY PROBABLY INVITED HER

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

As Max headed to Zandvoort Circuit for the Dutch Grand Prix, he felt the familiar weight of expectations settling on his shoulders.

The second half of the season loomed ahead, and the pressure to maintain his championship lead was on. He knew the team was counting on him to deliver strong results, especially at his home race where the orange-clad fans would be out in full force.

But amidst the pressure and responsibility, there was another emotion bubbling up inside him - a giddy excitement that he couldn't quite contain.

The thought of finally meeting YN in person after months of texts, calls, and shared book recommendations made his heart race in a way that had nothing to do with driving at a car at a very fast speed.

As he drove to the track, Max found himself smiling at random moments, his mind drifting to imagine what it would be like to see her smile in person, to hear her laugh without the filter of a phone call.

Max realized that for the first time in a long while, he was looking forward to a race weekend for reasons that extended beyond the track.

Unfortunately, his busy schedule kept them from meeting right away. Media commitments, team briefings, and practice sessions consumed his time, leaving him feeling frustrated and guilty for not being able to see her sooner. He sent her a quick message apologizing for the delay, promising they'd meet after qualifying.

As he made his way to the garage, a familiar voice called out behind him.

"Oi, Max! Ready for the big day?"

Max turned to see Daniel jogging up to him, his trademark grin in place.

"Yeah, should be a good quali," Max replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't talking about qualifying, mate. Your special guest arrives today, right?"

Max felt his cheeks warm. "How did you even remember that?"

"Please," Daniel scoffed. "It's all you've been talking about for weeks. So, have you met her yet?"

"No, my schedule's been packed. We're supposed to meet after quali."

"Ah, saving the best for last, eh?" Daniel's grin widened, "Smart move. Nothing like the adrenaline of a good qualifying session to make a great first impression."

"Or to completely mess it up," Max muttered.

"Hey, none of that," Daniel clapped him on the shoulder. "You'll be fine. Just be yourself. She already likes you for who you are, remember?"

Max nodded, feeling a bit reassured. "Thanks, Dan."

With a deep breath, Max headed into the garage, Daniel's words echoing in his mind.

Qualifying went smoothly, with Max securing a front row start to the delight of the Dutch fans. The cheers of the home crowd were deafening as he climbed out of the car, but his mind was elsewhere.

After the post-qualifying interviews, Max sent YN a quick text letting her know that he was free now and she let him know that she was around the hospitality area.

As he walked towards there, Max spotted YN standing near one of the motorhomes, looking around with wide eyes. She hadn't seen him yet, and for a moment, Max just watched her, taking in the sight of the girl who had been on his mind for months now.

She was even more gorgeous in person than he had imagined.

Her eyes sparkled with excitement as she took in the bustling paddock around her. The way the sunlight caught her hair, the gentle curve of her smile as she observed everything with wonder - it all took Max's breath away.

He noticed little details he couldn't have seen through a screen: the way her eyes sparkled, the subtle freckles across her nose, the graceful way she moved as she looked around.

Taking a deep breath, Max walked over, his heart pounding. "YN?"

She turned, her face lighting up with a radiant smile that made Max's breath catch. "Max! Finally!"

They moved toward each other, and without hesitation, Max pulled her into a hug. The embrace felt natural, as if they'd done this a hundred times before. He was aware of how perfectly she fit in his arms, the subtle scent of her perfume, and the warmth of her body against his.

"It's so good to finally meet you," he murmured into her hair. "I'm so sorry it took so long, this weekend's been crazy."

She pulled back slightly, looking up at him with understanding in her eyes. "It's okay, Max. That qualifying was amazing! I've never experienced anything like it."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. Come on, let me show you around."

He took her hand and he was struck by how natural it felt. Her fingers intertwined with his perfectly, and a warm sensation spread from their joined hands throughout his body.

They strolled through the paddock, Max pointing out the various team motorhomes, the garages, and the media center. YN was all wide-eyed fascination, asking questions and soaking in every detail. As they walked, Max found himself relaxing more and more, his previous nerves about their chemistry being gone fading away.

As they rounded a corner, they nearly bumped into Lando Norris. Who couldn't help but smirk at the sight of their hands intertwined.

"You guys met already!" he cheerfully said, "You must be YN."

Her cheeks flushed, clearly surprised that Max had mentioned her to his friends. Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her reaction.

"Yeah, this is YN," Max said, unable to keep the smile off his face, "Meet Lando, the perpetual pain in my ass."

"Nice to finally meet the girl who's got Max reading," YN laughed, and Lando extended his hand, "Quite the accomplishment."

"Nice to meet you too, Lando," YN said, shaking his hand. "I've enjoyed watching you race, I'm a big fan. Congrats on the pole position."

"Cheers," Lando replied, then turned to Max with a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, has he bored you with car talk yet, or has he actually remembered how to discuss books?"

Max rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "Shouldn't you be preparing for tomorrow, Lando?"

"Alright, alright, I can take a hint," Lando chuckled. "Enjoy your tour, lovebirds!"

As Lando walked away, Max felt a mix of embarrassment and pleasure. He glanced at YN, relieved to see her smiling.

"Sorry about him," Max said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Lando has a way of making everything awkward."

YN laughed softly, her eyes twinkling. "It's fine. He seems like fun."

They continued their walk, finally making their way to the rooftop terrace of the Red Bull hospitality area. The view was stunning, offering a panoramic look at the circuit and the sea of orange-clad fans below.

"This is incredible," YN said, leaning against the railing and taking it all in. "Thank you for showing me around, Max."

"Of course," Max said, standing beside her. "I'm really glad you could come."

They stood there for a moment, enjoying the view and each other's company. Max felt a sense of contentment wash over him, the stress of the weekend melting away in her presence.

"Max," YN said softly, turning to face him. "I know this weekend is important for you, and I don't want to be a distraction. But I'm really happy to be here and to finally meet you."

"You're not a distraction," Max replied, reaching out to take her hand again. "You're the best part of this weekend, honestly."

They shared a smile, Max was well aware of the butterflies that fluttered on his stomach and the high school girl blush his friends teased him about, but he didn't care. He felt happy with the pretty girl who had been his source of comfort for months, finally face to face.

"You know," YN said softly, "when I made that video calling you a misunderstood hero with a heart of gold, I never imagined I'd get to see it firsthand. But being here, seeing how you are with your team, with the fans… I was right about you, Max Verstappen."

Max felt a warmth spread through his chest at her words. He had always been guarded about his public image, but hearing her perspective meant more than he could ever imagine.

"I'm glad you think so," he said softly, his voice filled with sincerity. "You know, that video... it changed things for me. Not just because it led to us talking, but because it made me reflect on a lot of things."

"Who would've thought," YN said with a smile, "When I recorded that video, I never thought you would ever see it, let alone have an impact on you and let alone lead us to talking and me being here."

"Everything happens for a reason, right?"

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by maxverstappen1, danielricciardo and 301,257 others

ynreadsbooks best experience ever. thank you, thank you, THANK YOU 🥺💙

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username1 OMFGGGG

username2 no one deserved this more than her for real

username3 SHE MET MAX TOO?? DESERVED

redbullracing Come back soon! 😉

username4 red bull finally inviting people who actually love the sport

username5 GIRL WE NEED A VLOGGGG

username6 omg how did this happen spiiiill

↳ ynreadsbooks let's say i got invited by the world champion

↳ username1 WTF

↳ username2 so MAX invited her not redbull help he really did become a fan after that video

danielricciardo Hope to see you around soon, love ! 👀

↳ username3 how do i sign up for this

username7 THAT PIC OF MAX IS SO BOYFRIEND CODED

maxversteppen1 Thank you so much for coming and making this day special ☺️

↳ username1 OMG MAX

↳ username2 i'd be screaming if i was her

liked by charles_leclerc, ynreadsbooks and 1,028,479 others

maxverstappen1 Enjoyed every moment in Zandvoort with this amazing atmosphere and the best company 🧡

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username1 KIIING

username2 how can a man be so babygirl

username3 all smiles even tho he finished p2

danielricciardo 🦁🦁

landonorris Simply lovely

↳ username1 menace

username4 bro who got you smiling like that

ynreadsbooks ❤️

↳ username2 biggest max girlie

↳ username3 WE NEED THAT VLOG

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When it came time for YN to leave the Netherlands, Max insisted on driving her to the airport himself. The car ride was filled with comfortable silence and soft conversation, both of them trying to stretch out their remaining time together.

Despite their short time together, Max found himself completely smitten, captivated by YN's intelligence, humor, and the way her eyes lit up when she talked about books or reacted to the thrill of the race.

He didn't want to admit it to himself, but he was head over heels for her.

As they stood in the departure terminal, Max felt an overwhelming urge to kiss her. He hesitated, his heart racing, but ultimately settled for a long, warm hug, breathing in her scent and committing it to memory. As he watched her walk through security, he already found himself missing her presence.

Now, a week later, Max was in Monza for the Italian Grand Prix. The day had been busy with media commitments and team meetings. Finally back in the quiet of his motorhome, Max flopped onto the couch, feeling drained but content. Without thinking, he reached for his phone and hit the FaceTime button next to YN's name.

Her smiling face appeared on the screen, and Max felt an immediate surge of warmth.

"Hey, you," she said, her voice soft and welcoming even through the phone's speakers.

"Hey," Max replied, unable to keep the grin off his face. "How's your day been?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Editing videos, reading, missing the excitement of the paddock," YN teased. "How about you? Surviving the media circus?"

"Barely," Max groaned dramatically, "I swear, if I have to answer one more question about RedBull and their big mess, I might go mad."

YN laughed, the sound making Max's heart skip a beat. "Poor Max. Whatever shall we do to take your mind off your beloved team?"

"Well," Max said, shifting to get more comfortable, "I've been reading that new sci-fi book you recommended. 'The Martian-like Odyssey to Titan,' or whatever it's called."

"'Project Hail Mary,'" she corrected, "And? What do you think so far?"

"It's incredible!" Max's eyes lit up, "I mean, the science is fascinating, and the way the main character problem-solves is just... I don't know, it reminds me a bit of what we do in racing, you know? Constantly adapting, finding solutions on the fly."

"That's exactly why I thought you'd like it! The way Andy Weir writes about scientific problem-solving is so engaging."

They dove into an animated discussion about the book, Max marveling at how easily conversation flowed between them, how YN's passion for books was infectious. As they talked, a thought that had been brewing in Max's mind for days suddenly surfaced.

"YN," Max said, his voice softer than before. "There's actually something I've been wanting to ask you."

"Oh? What is it, Max?" she tilted her head, curiosity evident in her expression.

Max took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like he was about to qualify for a crucial race. "Well, I was wondering... have you ever been to Monaco?"

"No, actually, I haven't," YN's eyebrows raised in surprise, "It's always been on my travel wish list, though. Why do you ask?"

Max felt his heart rate pick up. He'd rehearsed this moment in his head countless times over the past few days, but now that it was here, he found himself fumbling for words.

"Well, you see, I have a two-week break coming up before the Baku GP, and I was thinking... maybe... if you're free, of course, and if you'd like to... you could come visit me in Monaco?"

The words tumbled out faster than he intended, and Max felt a blush creeping up his neck. He watched YN's face carefully, trying to gauge her reaction. His mind raced with possibilities - what if she said no? What if this was too forward?

YN's eyes widened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. "Oh, Max, that's... wow. That's really sweet of you to offer."

Max, sensing a hint of hesitation, quickly added, "You could stay at my place. I have plenty of room, and it would be great to have you around. Plus I have two adorable cats that I'm sure you'd love."

YN's expression softened, a mix of excitement and uncertainty in her eyes. "That sounds amazing, Max. But… are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose on your personal space or your time off."

Truth was, Max wanted to spent every free moment he had with her, but he wasn't sure how to let her know without sounding too forward or like a creep, so he just pressed on.

"You wouldn't be imposing at all, I promise. I really want us to spend more time together, away from the craziness of the race weekends. And I'd love to show you around Monaco."

He watched as YN bit her lip, considering his offer. The silence stretched for a moment, and Max found himself holding his breath.

"If you're not comfortable staying at my place," he added quickly, "I could book you a hotel room, or there are some great Airbnbs with amazing views of the harbor. Whatever makes you feel most at ease. I just… I really want to see you again."

As he spoke, Max realized just how true his words were. The thought of having YN in his space, sharing meals, exploring the city together - it filled him with a warmth he couldn't quite describe. It was more than just attraction; there was a comfort in her presence that he craved.

YN smiled, a warm look in her eyes. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do. Look, I know it might seem like a big ask, but I just... I can't stop thinking about how much fun we have together. And Monaco is beautiful this time of year. We could go for drives along the coast, have dinner at some amazing restaurants, or just relax by the pool if you prefer. No pressure, just... us. And well, the cats."

Max held his breath, waiting for her response. The thought of having YN in Monaco, of being able to spend uninterrupted time with her away from the pressures of the race weekend, made his heart soar. He imagined showing her his favorite spots in the city, maybe taking her out on his boat, or just lounging by the pool and talking for hours.

"Alright, Verstappen, you've convinced me. But I have one condition."

"Name it." Max grinned, relief and excitement washing over him.

"If I'm staying at your place, you have to let me cook my infamous waffles for breakfast. They're a secret family recipe, and I guarantee they'll be the best you've ever tasted."

"Deal," Max's smile widened, a burst of joy exploding in his chest. "But I warn you, I take my waffles very seriously. They better live up to the hype."

"Oh, they will. And I can't wait to meet the cats."

As they continued to chat and make plans for YN's visit, Max felt a warmth spreading through his chest. The prospect of having YN in his home, of waking up and knowing she was just in the next room, of being able to spend lazy mornings together over homemade waffles - it all seemed almost too good to be true.

He found himself imagining what it would be like to have her there. Would she curl up on his couch with a book? Would they watch the sunset from his terrace? Would he finally get the courage to kiss her?

The thought made his heart race. He remembered the moment at the airport when he had wanted so badly to kiss her goodbye. This time, he promised himself, he wouldn't let the opportunity pass by.

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The day of YN's arrival in Monaco had finally come, and Max felt like a giddy teenager preparing for his first date.

In the days leading up to YN's visit, Max had found himself unusually preoccupied with preparations. He wanted everything to be perfect for YN's stay. He'd bought new sheets for the guest bedroom, making sure they were the softest he could find. He'd stocked the fridge with an array of foods, unsure of her preferences but making sure to have options. He'd even gone so far as to buy a small collection of books he thought she might enjoy, arranging them carefully on the nightstand in her room.

The morning of her arrival, Max woke up early, his stomach a knot of excitement and nerves. He double-checked everything one last time - fresh towels in the bathroom, extra toiletries in case she forgot anything, a vase of fresh flowers on the kitchen counter to brighten up the space. He felt almost silly with how much effort he was putting in, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted everything to be perfect for the girl he was smitten with.

As the time to leave for the airport approached, Max found himself pacing, checking his watch every few minutes. He'd planned the route to the airport meticulously, factoring in potential traffic to make sure he'd be there in plenty of time. Just as he was about to grab his keys and head out, the doorbell rang.

Confused, Max paused. He wasn't expecting anyone - he'd made sure to clear his schedule completely for YN's visit. Frowning slightly, he opened the door to find Lando standing there, a wide grin on his face.

"Lando? What are you doing here?" Max asked, glancing at his watch.

"What, can't a mate drop by for a visit?" Lando replied, trying to peer past Max into the apartment. "Thought we could hang out, maybe play some FIFA."

Max shifted awkwardly, blocking the doorway. "Lando, mate, I'm actually just about to head out. I can't hang out right now."

"Oh, come on," Lando's grin faltered slightly, "Just for a bit? We haven't had a proper catch-up in ages."

"I'm sorry, I really can't," Max insisted, glancing at his watch nervously. "I have to pick up a friend from the airport."

Lando's eyes narrowed suspiciously, a mischievous glint appearing. "A friend, huh? Is it that your book dream girl? You're flying her out over here?"

Max felt his face heat up, a blush creeping up his neck. He tried to deny it, but his reaction gave him away.

"It is! Oh man, this is brilliant," Lando's eyes widened in delight, "Max Verstappen, blushing like a schoolboy over a girl."

"Shut up," Max grumbled, but there was no real annoyance in his voice. He couldn't help but smile.

"So, YN is finally gracing Monaco with her presence," Lando teased. "No wonder you've been so distracted lately. When do I get to hang out with her?"

"You don't," Max rolled his eyes, "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go."

"Alright, alright," Lando stepped aside, still grinning. "But I want details later, yeah? And tell YN I said hi."

Max waved him off, hurrying to his car. Despite Lando's teasing, he couldn't wipe the smile off his face. The excitement was bubbling up inside him again as he drove to the airport.

As he parked and made his way to the arrivals area, Max felt his nerves almost making him want to throw up. He found himself fidgeting, alternating between pacing and sitting, his eyes glued to the arrivals board.

Finally, he saw that YN's flight had landed. His heart rate picked up as he watched the doors, scanning the crowd for her familiar face. And then, suddenly, there she was.

YN emerged from the arrivals gate, looking a bit tired from the journey but still radiant. Her eyes scanned the crowd, and when they landed on Max, her face lit up with a brilliant smile.

Max felt his breath catch in his throat. He raised his hand in a small wave, a grin spreading across his face as he walked towards her.

"Hey, Max," she said as she reached him, her voice warm and slightly breathless.

"Hey," he replied, suddenly feeling shy. "How was your flight?"

Without thinking, he pulled her into a hug. As he wrapped his arms around her, breathing in the scent of her hair, he felt a sense of rightness wash over him. It was as if all the pieces were falling into place.

"It was good, just long," she hugged him back tightly. "I'm so glad to be here though."

As they pulled apart, Max found himself reluctant to let go completely. He kept one hand on her back as he reached for her suitcase with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."

"Always the gentleman," YN teased, but her smile was soft and appreciative.

As they walked towards the exit, Max found himself stealing glances at her, still hardly believing she was really here. "So, um, I thought we could grab some lunch if you're hungry? Or if you're tired, we can head straight to my place so you can rest."

YN considered for a moment. "Lunch sounds great, actually. I'm starving, and I'm too excited to sleep just yet. I want to see Monaco."

Max chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through his chest at her enthusiasm. "Lunch it is then. I know just the place – it has a great view of the harbor."

As they made their way to Max's car, chatting easily about YN's flight and Max's plans for her visit, Max felt a sense of contentment he hadn't experienced in a long time. The nervousness from earlier had melted away, replaced by pure happiness.

Loading YN's suitcase into the trunk, Max caught her eye and smiled. "I'm really glad you're here, YN."

She returned his smile, her eyes sparkling. "Me too, Max. Me too."

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ynreadsbooks roomates for the week 🥺

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username1 AWEEE

username2 those are cute kittens

username3 those look like max verstappen's cats

username4 JIMMY AND SASSY VERSTAPPEN??

↳ username1 how CRAZY would it be

danielricciardo Don't hesitate to shout if he's much trouble

↳ username2 HOLD ON??

↳ ynreadsbooks he's just fine don't worry 😅

↳ username3 IS SHE REALLY WITH MAX??

↳ maxverstappen1 I'm not trouble...

↳ username1 OMFGGG

↳ username4 THIS PLOT TWIST

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Three days had passed since YN's arrival in Monaco, and Max couldn't remember a time when he'd been happier.

True to her word, YN had cooked her infamous waffles for breakfast on the second morning of her stay. As Max had taken his first bite, his eyes had widened in surprise and delight. The waffles were light and crispy on the outside, yet fluffy on the inside, with a perfect balance of sweetness and a hint of vanilla. He'd declared them the best he'd ever tasted, earning a proud smile from her.

The days that followed had been filled with laughter, conversation, and exploration. They'd spent hours by Max's pool, talking about everything and nothing. YN would often bring a book, reading aloud passages that she found particularly interesting or amusing, while Max listened, content to hear her voice and watch the way her eyes lit up when she spoke about something she loved.

They'd explored Monaco together, with Max showing YN his favorite spots and discovering new ones together. He'd taken her to the Monte Carlo Casino, where they'd marveled at the architecture and people-watched. They'd strolled through the streets of Monaco-Ville, the old town, where YN had been enchanted by the colorful buildings. They'd even spent an afternoon at the Oceanographic Museum, where YN's enthusiasm for learning had been infectious, and Max had found himself just as excited as she was about the marine life exhibits.

Throughout it all, Max felt himself falling deeper for her. It wasn't just her beauty or her intelligence that captivated him, but the way she saw the world. Her curiosity, her kindness, her ability to find joy in the smallest things - it all made Max see his surroundings through new eyes. He found himself noticing details he'd never paid attention to before, appreciating moments he might have otherwise overlooked.

What struck Max most was how easy and right it all felt. There was no pressure, no awkwardness. Being with YN was as natural as breathing. They could talk for hours without running out of things to say, but they were also comfortable in silence, simply enjoying each other's presence.

As they returned from another long day of exploring the city, both Max and YN retreated to their respective rooms to change into more comfortable clothing. Max opted for a soft t-shirt and sweatpants, relishing the feeling of being relaxed and at ease in his own home.

When he emerged from his room, he found YN already settled on his couch, her legs tucked under her, a book in her hands and one of his cats curling beside her. She was wearing one the t-shirt she picked the night she arrived when she realized she forgot to pack pajamas. It was too big for her frame but Max felt like melting knowing she was wearing his shirt.

The sight made Max's heart skip a beat. There was something so intimate and domestic about the scene - YN looking completely at home in his space, in his clothes, absorbed in a book as if she'd always been there.

Max couldn't help but smile, a warmth spreading through his chest. He found himself wanting this view in his life every day - coming home to find YN there, comfortable and content. The thought both thrilled and terrified him. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, never wanted to intertwine his life so completely with another person's.

YN looked up from her book, catching Max's gaze. Her lips curved into a soft smile. "Hey. Want to join me?"

Without hesitation, Max crossed the room. Instead of sitting next to her, he surprised both of them by lying down on the couch and resting his head in her lap. He looked up at her, his eyes vulnerable. "Would you read to me?"

YN's expression softened, her eyes twinkling with affection. "Of course," she said, her free hand moving to gently run her fingers through his hair.

Max closed his eyes, reveling in the sensation. He felt her shift slightly, getting comfortable, and then her voice filled the air, soft and melodious as she began to read.

Max's lips curved into a smile. "Emma," he murmured. "I remember you mentioning it was one of your favorites."

YN paused her reading, looking down at him with surprise and pleasure. "You remembered that?"

"Of course," Max opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. "I remember everything you tell me."

A huge grin appeared in YN's face, and she bent down to press a soft kiss to Max's forehead. The gesture was so natural, so tender, that it made Max's heart flutter.

As she continued to read, her fingers still combing through his hair, Max found himself only half-listening to the words. Instead, he was acutely aware of every point of contact between them - the warmth of her lap under his head, the gentle touch of her fingers, the soft cadence of her voice washing over him.

In that moment, Max realized with startling clarity that this was what he wanted for the rest of his life. Not just the glamour of racing or the thrill of victory, but this - quiet moments of intimacy, the comfort of being with someone who understood him, who made him want to be better.

He reached up, gently taking YN's free hand in his own, intertwining their fingers. She paused in her reading, looking down at him with a question in her eyes.

"YN," Max said softly, his voice filled with emotion. "I'm really glad you're here."

She squeezed his hand, her smile radiant. "So am I, Max. So am I."

As she resumed reading, her voice mixing with the soft sound of the Mediterranean breeze outside, Max closed his eyes again, a sense of peace settling over him. Whatever the future held, he knew that this moment, this feeling, was something he'd cherish forever.

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ynreadsbooks monaco you're the dream 🤍

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username1 GIRL

username2 THIS ESCALATED QUICKLY

username3 how do you go from max randomly commenting one of your videos to this

username4 girl we can tell that's max dw 😭😭

username5 YOU OWE US A TWO HOUR STORYTIME VIDEO

username6 anything you want to tell us best friend?

username7 she just had a book and a dream fr

landonorris Has he bored you yet?

↳ username1 IM DYING

↳ username2 she really masterminded her way into the f1 circle

↳ ynreadsbooks he's nice, makes good smoothies 😉

↳ maxverstappen1 Good to know that ❤️

↳ landonorris I'm disgusted

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As the final day of YN's stay in Monaco dawned, Max found himself feeling so many bittersweet emotions. The past week had been nothing short of magical, and the thought of it coming to an end left a hollow feeling in his chest. She hadn't even left yet, and already he missed her.

For their final day, Max had decided to take YN out on his yacht. He wanted their last hours together to be special, just the two of them away from the bustling streets of Monaco. As they prepared for the day, packing a picnic and gathering sunscreen and towels, Max couldn't help but reflect on the past week.

Daniel and Lando had teased him mercilessly about his sudden disappearance from their usual hangouts. They'd made jokes about Max being "whipped" and how he'd fallen hard for his "YouTube dream girl." But Max didn't care. He was too happy, too caught up in the bubble of joy that surrounded him and YN.

As they boarded the yacht, the Mediterranean stretching out before them in shades of turquoise, Max felt a pang in his chest. This perfect week was coming to an end, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face reality again.

Once they were out on the open water. YN leaned over the railing, a look of wonder on her face.

"This is incredible, Max," she said, turning to him with a dazzling smile. "I can't believe I'm here, experiencing all of this."

Max moved to stand beside her, their shoulders brushing. "I'm going to miss you," he said softly, "This week has been… I don't even have words for it."

"I'm going to miss you too, Max. So much. But you know I have to go back home. I have videos to make for my channel, work stuff to catch up on…"

Max nodded, understanding but not liking it. "Maybe you could make a video about 'A Week with an F1 Driver'? I'm sure your subscribers would love that."

YN laughed, playfully shoving his shoulder. "Oh yes, I'm sure that would go over well. 'Day 3: Watched Max eat his bodyweight in pasta. Day 5: Learned that F1 drivers are actually big babies when they lose at Mario Kart.'"

"I am not a baby!" Max gasped in mock offense. "I'm just… competitive."

"Uh-huh, sure," she teased, her eyes twinkling. "Is that why you pouted for an hour after I beat you?"

"I did not pout," Max protested, but he was grinning.

"You know, it's still surreal to me that a random video I published got us here. If someone had told me a year ago that I'd be spending a week in Monaco with Max Verstappen, I would have laughed in their face."

Max reached out, caressing her cheek softly. "I'm glad you made that video," he said softly. "I'm glad I stumbled across it. I can't imagine not knowing you now."

As they stood together on the boat, the gentle rocking of the waves mirroring the tumultuous emotions within them, Max found his gaze drawn to YN's lips. They were slightly parted, soft and inviting. His heart raced as he lifted his eyes to meet hers, a silent question in his gaze.

YN's eyes, warm and full of affection, met his. A small, knowing smile played at the corners of her mouth, and in that moment, it was all the permission Max needed.

With a gentle tug, he pulled her closer, one hand coming to rest on the small of her back while the other cupped her cheek. Time seemed to slow as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the space between them. And then, finally, their lips met.

The kiss was tender at first, a soft exploration. But as YN's arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair, it deepened into something more passionate. Max poured all of his pent-up emotions into the kiss - his joy, his longing, his hope for what they could be.

When they finally parted, YN's eyes were sparkling. "You know," she said, a playful tone to her voice, "I've been waiting for you to do that all week."

Max couldn't help but laugh, a mixture of relief and happiness bubbling up inside him. "Really? All week, huh?"

"Mmhmm," she nodded, her smile widening. "I was starting to think I'd have to make the first move myself."

"Well," Max said, his voice low and teasing, "allow me to make up for lost time."

With that, he pulled her in for another kiss. This one was different from the first - more confident, more passionate. His hands roamed her back, pulling her flush against him as her fingers tangled in his hair. The world around them faded away until there was nothing but the two of them, the taste of salt on their lips, and the warmth of the setting sun on their skin.

When they broke apart this time, both were slightly dazed. Max rested his forehead against YN's, unwilling to put any distance between them.

"I really like you," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. "More than I've ever liked anyone before. This week with you… it's been incredible. I don't want it to end."

YN's hand came up to cup his cheek, her thumb gently stroking his skin. "I really like you too, Max," she replied, her voice equally soft. "These past few days have been like a dream."

Max pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes. "I know you have to go back, but… I want to make this work. Us, I mean. If that's something you want too."

"I do want that. Very much. It might not be easy with our schedules and the distance, but I think you're worth it."

"We'll figure it out," he said, determination clear in his voice. "I'll come visit you when I can, and you can come to some of my races. We'll make time for video calls, and I'll text you so much you'll get sick of me."

YN laughed, the sound like music to Max's ears. "I don't think I could ever get sick of you," she said, her eyes twinkling. "But I'm holding you to that promise about the races. I expect VIP treatment, Mr. Verstappen."

Max grinned, pulling her close again. "For you? Always," he murmured, before capturing her lips in another kiss.

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The month following YN's stay in Monaco had been blissful happiness for both YN and Max. Their parting at the airport had been bittersweet, filled with lingering kisses and tight embraces. They had spent a good hour cuddling in Max's car in the airport parking lot, neither wanting to let go.

"I'm going to miss you so much," YN had whispered, her face buried in the crook of Max's neck.

Max had tightened his arms around her, breathing in her scent. "I'll miss you too. But we'll see each other soon, I promise."

When they finally managed to separate, their goodbye kiss had been passionate and filled with promise. As Max watched her disappear into the airport, he already felt a piece of his heart leaving with her.

In the weeks that followed, they took every opportunity to be together. Max would fly to YN's home during his breaks between races, often arriving exhausted but immediately revitalized by her presence.

Their reunions were always intense, filled with desperate kisses and roaming hands as they made up for lost time. But it was the quiet moments that Max treasured most - waking up with YN in his arms, her sleepy smile the first thing he saw; cooking breakfast together, stealing kisses between flipping pancakes; or simply sitting in comfortable silence, each lost in their own tasks but finding comfort in the other's presence.

Now, as they walked hand in hand through the paddock in Austin for the USA Grand Prix, Max felt a sense of pride and joy unlike anything he'd experienced before. Having YN by his side at a race weekend, this time as more than just a friend, felt right in a way he couldn't fully express.

"This is incredible, Max," YN breathed, squeezing his hand. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it."

Max grinned, his heart swelling with affection. He loved seeing the paddock through her eyes, rediscovering the magic that he sometimes took for granted.

"Wait until you see the track," he said, pulling her closer. "And the sound when all the cars start up… there's nothing like it."

They paused for a moment, watching as a group of mechanics wheeled a set of tires past them. Max took the opportunity to really look at his girl. She was radiant in the sunlight, her hair catching the light and her eyes sparkling with excitement. He couldn't resist leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek.

YN turned to him, a playful smile on her lips. "What was that for?"

"Do I need a reason to kiss my girl?" Max replied, his voice low and teasing.

She laughed, the sound music to his ears. "I suppose not. But maybe save some for later? We are in public, after all."

"You're killing me," Max groaned dramatically. "How am I supposed to focus on racing when you look like that?"

"Oh, I'm sure you'll manage," YN teased, patting his chest. "After all, I hear you're quite good at this driving thing."

Their playful banter was interrupted by a familiar voice calling out. "Oi, Verstappen! Finally decided to grace us with your presence?"

Max turned to see Daniel approaching, his trademark grin in place. Lando was close behind, an equally mischievous look on his face.

"Hey guys," Max greeted, unconsciously pulling YN closer. "You remember YN, right?"

"Ah yes," Daniel's grin widened. "Nice to see you again, love."

"It's great to see you too, Daniel," she smiled warmly. "And you, Lando."

Lando's eyes darted between Max and YN, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "So, Max, finally managed to seal the deal, huh?"

Max felt his cheeks heat up, but before he could respond, YN jumped in.

"Oh, he did more than that," she said, her tone light but with a hint of something that made Max's pulse quicken. "He's been quite… impressive."

Daniel let out a low whistle while Lando burst into laughter. Max couldn't help but join in, marveling at how effortlessly YN fit into his world.

As they chatted, Max couldn't keep his hands off YN. He found himself constantly touching her - a hand on the small of her back, playing with her fingers, rubbing her arm softly. Each touch was like a spark, reminding him of their passionate reunions over the past month.

He thought back to their last meeting, just a week ago. He had flown to her place straight after he was done with some meetings in Monaco, exhausted but desperate to see her. The moment he stepped through her door, all fatigue had vanished. They had barely made it to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in their wake. The memory of her skin against his, the taste of her lips, the sound of her gasps and moans… it was enough to make him want to whisk her away to his motorhome right now.

Max was pulled from his thoughts by the approach of another familiar face. Charles Leclerc was walking towards them, his trademark charming smile in place.

"Max! Good to see you, man," Charles said, clapping Max on the shoulder before turning his attention to YN. "And who might this lovely lady be?"

Without hesitation, the words tumbled from Max's lips: "This is YN, my girlfriend."

He felt the girl stiffen slightly beside him, and for a moment, panic flared in his chest. Had he overstepped? They hadn't explicitly discussed labels yet. But when he glanced at YN, she was smiling warmly at Charles, her hand still firmly in Max's.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Charles," YN said, shaking his hand.

Charles raised an eyebrow at Max, a hint of surprise in his expression. "The pleasure is all mine. I hope you're enjoying your time in the paddock."

After exchanging a few more pleasantries, they parted ways. Max led YN towards his driver's room. Once inside the relative privacy of the small space, YN turned to him, a playful glint in her eye.

"Girlfriend, huh?" she said, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something Max couldn't quite identify.

Max felt a flutter of nervousness in his stomach. "I… yeah. I mean, if that's okay? I know we haven't really talked about it, but…"

YN stepped closer, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "It's more than okay, Max. I was just surprised. We've been in this beautiful bubble, and hearing you say it out loud… it made it feel real in a way it hasn't before."

Max let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His hands found their way to YN's waist, pulling her closer. "It is real," he said softly. "I've never felt this way about anyone before. Feels like you're everything."

Her eyes softened, her hand coming up to cup his cheek. "You're everything to me too, Max. I love you."

The words hung in the air between them for a moment, both realizing it was the first time either had said it. Then Max surged forward, capturing YN's lips in a kiss that was equal parts tender and passionate.

When they broke apart. Max rested his forehead against YN's, his eyes closed as he savored the moment.

"I love you too," he whispered. "God, YN, I love you so much."

YN's answering smile was radiant and she pulled him in for another kiss.

"So," he said, his voice husky, "ready to watch your boyfriend win a race?"

YN laughed, the sound filling the small space and Max's heart. "Always," she replied. "My misunderstood hero with a heart of gold."

[eclipixels]

Afterglow

Character: Yoichi Isagi, Meguru Bachira, Hyoma Chigiri, Rin Itoshi, Seishiro Nagi, Reo Mikage, Sae Itoshi, Michael Kaiser

Content: Blue Lock boys after pound town (tiktok trend)

A/N: A request from my one of my fav moots @captainshindo <3

Warnings: Mentions of sex

     Yoichi Isagi

     You’re sitting across from Isagi in a quiet corner of a late-night restaurant, the hum of low conversations and clinking cutlery filling the space around you. The air is thick with the scent of grilled meat and spices, but all you can focus on is him—slouched in his seat, eyelids heavy, hair still slightly damp from the sweat of what you’d done barely an hour ago.

     He looks exhausted.

     The kind of exhaustion that settles in your bones after giving everything—after pushing, pulling, and losing yourself completely in someone else. His navy-blue hoodie hangs loosely on his frame, collar stretched just enough to reveal the faintest trace of teeth marks near his collarbone, evidence of the way your lips had claimed him. He probably hasn’t noticed, too busy fighting the drowsiness that keeps dragging his head downward, only for him to snap back up again when his chin nearly meets his chest.

     “You look like you’re about to pass out,” you murmur, stirring your drink with a straw, amusement curling at your lips.

     He blinks at you, dazed, as if only now remembering where he is.

     “I’m fine,” he says, though the hoarseness in his voice betrays him. He shifts in his seat, one hand lazily rubbing at his face before reaching for the glass of water in front of him. His fingers fumble slightly, like even the effort of picking it up is too much.

     You bite back a grin. “You sure? You look like you had the life drained out of you.”

     At that, a slow, lopsided smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I kinda did,” he admits, voice dipping into something softer, something just for you. He leans back, stretching his legs under the table until his foot nudges against yours. “Not that I’m complaining.”

     Your face heats up at his words, but you roll your eyes to cover it. “Eat something before you actually collapse.”

     He groans but picks up his fork, obedient for once. You watch as he takes a bite, chewing slowly, his gaze flickering to you in between. There’s a quiet intimacy in this shared space, the remnants of passion still lingering between you, woven into the way his shoulders relax and the way his foot stays pressed lightly against yours.

     Yeah, he’s tired. But he’s here, with you. And there’s something about that that makes your chest feel warm, like the afterglow hasn’t quite faded yet.

     The waiter approaches, setting down a plate of food in front of you both. Isagi lazily thanks him before turning his attention back to you. You notice the way his fingers grip the fork with a little more steadiness now, the small bites he takes as he refuels his drained body. The sight makes you bite back a smirk, he really had no energy left to spare after earlier.

     “You’re staring,” he says between bites, eyes flicking up to yours.

     “So?” you challenge, resting your chin on your hand.

     He swallows, setting his fork down just long enough to rub a hand over his face again. “So, it’s distracting.”

     You raise an eyebrow, stifling a laugh. “Distracting from what? Chewing?”

     “Yes,” he mutters, the confession dragging a laugh out of you.

     “Just admit I wore you out,” you tease, nudging his foot beneath the table.

     He exhales a breath that’s almost a laugh, shaking his head. “You already know you did, love.”

     The admission hangs in the air between you, making your stomach flip. He doesn’t shy away from it, doesn’t try to cover it up with some cocky remark. He’s just… honest. Open. Your heart does something stupid in your chest, and you quickly focus on your food to keep from letting it show too much.

     “God, what was I even thinking of letting you ride? You nearly killed me,” he sighed dramatically.

     “Oh, but you enjoyed it,” you teased, a playful smile dancing on your lips.

     He raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Hm, well… I might just let you do it again.”

     “Oh?” you smirked, leaning in a little closer, intrigued by his sudden change of heart.

     “Yeah,” he nodded, “but only after my soul finds its way back into my body,” he joked, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

     You catch him stifling a yawn behind his hand, and before you can stop yourself, you let out a quiet chuckle. Then he lets out another yawn, barely covering it with his hand. “I think I’m gonna just pass out here. Wake me up when it’s sunset, yeah?”

     You snort, flicking a stray napkin at him. “Not happening. I’m not carrying your heavy ass home.”

     “You could try,” he mumbles sleepily, already slouching further into his seat.

     You shake your head, watching as his head starts to dip again. “Fine, but if you snore, I’m filming it.”

     Meguru Bachira

     The restaurant is dimly lit, buzzing with soft chatter and the occasional clatter of dishes. You sit across from Bachira, who is currently melting into the booth like a man who’s just ran a marathon. His cheek is squished against the cushioned backrest, golden eyes barely open as he stares at the menu, though judging by the way his pupils aren’t even tracking the words, you highly doubt he’s actually reading it.

     He lets out a long, dramatic sigh and slouches even further, which you thought was physically impossible until now. “M’too tired to read. You pick.” His voice is thick with exhaustion, slow and slurred like he’s seconds from passing out on the table.

     You scoff, flipping through the laminated pages. “You’re the one who insisted on coming here.”

     “Didn’t think you’d drain my stamina that much before we got here.” he mumbles, stretching his legs under the table until his foot nudges yours.

     You roll your eyes, pretending not to feel the warmth creeping up your neck. “Quit being dramatic, you’re acting like you just did a whole workout.”

     “I did,” he insists, lifting his head just enough to look at you before flopping back down. “A very, very intense one.”

     “You sound proud.”

     He grins, not even denying it. “Well, yeah.” Then, he waves his hand. “Give me your hand.”

     You arch an eyebrow, but give in, letting him lazily play with your fingers. His thumb brushes absentmindedly over your knuckles, his touch featherlight, but there’s a sort of intimacy to it that makes your stomach do an embarrassing little flip.

     “You’re ridiculous,” you murmur.

     He pouts. “You love it.”

     You do. But you’re not about to give him that satisfaction out loud, so you just shake your head instead.

     The waiter comes by, eyeing Bachira with slight concern, probably wondering if they need to call emergency services for the half-conscious man draped over the table like he’s just fought for his life. Bachira somehow musters enough energy to order something simple, though you’re pretty sure he just pointed at a random item on the menu. The moment the waiter leaves, he groans and drops his forehead against the back of your hand, exhaling loudly.

     “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

     “Mmm,” he hums, muffled against your skin. “No promises.”

     You sigh, but your other hand moves on its own, fingers combing through his damp hair, still messy from earlier. He exhales again, this time with a content little sound that makes you freeze because oh no, that was cute.

     “You’re so spoiled,” you mutter.

     He cracks an eye open, smirking. “By you? Yeah.”

     You smack his forehead lightly, and he laughs, though it quickly turns into a yawn.

     It doesn’t take long before the food arrives, and you thank the waiter while Bachira blinks at his plate like he’s not sure what it is or how it got there. He picks up his fork, twirls it between his fingers, then—

     —immediately drops it with a clatter, staring at his own hand in betrayal.

     “Honey,” he says gravely. “I can’t hold things.”

     You stare at him. “What.”

     “My arms are dead. My fingers? Jelly.” He lifts his hand and wiggles his fingers dramatically. “Look at this. I have no grip strength left.”

     “Oh my god.” You stare in disbelief.

     “This is your fault.” He insists, and your mind wanders back to how he worked you with his hands for what felt like hours before you got here. You resist the urge to bury your face in your hands at the thought. You broke your man. All for an orgasm. They were great orgasms but still.

     “Do you want me to feed you?” You offer, feeling slightly guilty.

     He gasps. “Would you?”

     You were joking, but now that you see the way his eyes are lighting up, you realize you’ve made a mistake.

     Before you can retract your words, he’s already leaning forward, mouth slightly open, waiting.

     “…I regret everything.”

     “C’mon,” he sing-songs, grinning like an idiot. “Say ‘ahhh’ for me first so I don’t feel weird about it.”

     You grab a fry off your plate and shove it into his mouth to shut him up. He hums happily, chewing like a satisfied child.

     “This is amazing,” he sighs, slumping even further against the booth. “I should let you ruin my stamina more often.”

     You nearly choke on your own food at what he said. You grab a napkin and dramatically press it against your forehead like a distressed Victorian widow. “I can’t do this.”

     “Yes, you can.” He nudges your knee with his foot again. “You love taking care of me.”

     “Debatable.”

     “You’re still feeding me.”

     Ugh, he’s right.

     He grins triumphantly, but it’s quickly interrupted by another yawn. His eyes are drooping again, and you can already tell he’s not going to last much longer.

     “Meguru, if you fall asleep in your food, I will take pictures.”

     He waves a lazy hand. “That’s fine, just make sure you get my good angles.”

     You stare at him in disbelief before shaking your head, picking up another fry to pop into his mouth before he actually does pass out. Yeah. He’s definitely not making it through this meal awake. You place a chaste kiss on his cheek as he snores.

     And honestly? You don’t mind.

     Hyoma Chigiri

     You’re sitting across from Chigiri in a quiet corner of a late-night restaurant, the air rich with the scent of sizzling meat and freshly baked bread. The dim lighting casts a soft glow over the table, reflecting off his crimson hair, which is slightly disheveled—strands sticking to his damp skin, the aftermath of everything you’d put him through just an hour ago.

     He looks done.

     Not just tired—wrecked. Like he’s been through a battle and barely made it out alive. His normally graceful posture is completely gone; he’s slumped in his chair, arms sprawled across the table like he physically can’t hold himself up anymore. His long legs stretch out beneath the table, one foot lazily nudging yours as if he can’t even muster the energy for a proper kick.

     “You good over there?” you ask, taking a slow sip of your drink, watching him with thinly veiled amusement.

     He exhales, blinking at you like you’ve just pulled him out of a deep trance. “I think you ruined me,” he mutters, voice hoarse, thick with exhaustion.

     You smirk. “You’re acting like I made you run sprints for three hours straight.”

     Chigiri groans, dragging a hand down his face. “That would’ve been easier.”

     You chuckle, setting your glass down with a quiet clink. "Oh? Are you saying I’m worse than your training regimen?"

     Chigiri gives you a deadpan look, but there’s the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his lips. "I’m saying I might need a recovery period before I can walk properly again."

     You hum in mock consideration, reaching for a fry from the basket between you. "There’s a reason why you stretch before doing stuff. Maybe you should’ve done that"

     His ears flush pink, and he exhales sharply, shaking his head. A smirk falls on his lips as he sends you a look. A look that got you two here in the first place.

     “Is that why you’re doing alright? Because I stretched you out so good?”

     Now it’s your turn to be flustered. “H-Hyoma!”

     Well, you can’t deny it. You stammer as he lazily steals one of your fries, though it takes considerable effort, his hand moving slower than usual. You watch as he chews, blinking like he’s on the verge of passing out right then and there.

     The restaurant hums around you, the low murmur of conversations blending with the occasional clatter of plates from the kitchen. Outside, the neon lights of the city flicker against the glass windows, casting a soft glow over Chigiri’s already exhausted face.

     He stares at his drink for a long moment before frowning. He groans again, tilting his head back against the seat. "I’m not sure I have it in me to get up."

     “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before bending me over.” You shrugged, a sly grin on your face as you sipped on your drip.

     "I hate you."

     "That’s not what you were saying earlier.” You tease, “Should I jog your memory again?”

     "Again?" he nearly shouted. "I don't think I can handle that for a while. Give me three to five business days."

     “Yeah right, I give it less than twenty-four hours before you’re begging me to let you do me.”

     His lips part like he wants to argue, but all he does is sigh, shoulders sinking further into his seat. He doesn't need to say it—you both know the truth. Instead, he rubs his thumb over your hand, lazy and affectionate, before stealing another fry.

     Rin Itoshi

     You sit across from Rin at the dimly lit restaurant. Your legs feel weak, a pleasant ache lingering in your thighs, but it's nothing compared to the exhaustion practically radiating off Rin.

     His teal eyes are half-lidded, and his usually sharp expression is softened by fatigue. He leans against his hand, fingers buried in his dark hair, as he stares at the menu like it’s some unsolvable puzzle. Every now and then, his gaze flickers toward you, as if blaming you for his current state.

     “What?” You blink at him stupidly.

     Rin exhales through his nose, not dignifying you with a response. Instead, he lets his head rest against the back of the booth, eyes closing for a moment. The rise and fall of his chest is steady, controlled, but you can tell that he’s drained. You did that. Hehe. Wait, oh my god, you did that to him. The thought makes warmth creep up your spine.

     “Maybe you should’ve paced yourself,” you tease, flipping through your own menu. “Not my fault you can’t handle a few rounds.”

     His eyes snap open, irritation flickering across his face, but there’s no real malice behind it. Just a grudging kind of admiration, hidden beneath layers of stubbornness. “Shut up,” he mutters, voice rough, as if he’s still recovering.

     You bite back a laugh. It’s rare to see him like this—unguarded, spent, completely at your mercy in a way that isn’t physical but still intoxicating.

     The waiter arrives, and Rin straightens, but there’s a sluggishness to his movements. You order for yourself, then glance at him expectantly. He sighs before muttering something about just getting whatever you’re having.

     “Too tired to decide?” you hum, resting your chin on your palm.

     Rin glares, but it lacks its usual bite. “Too tired to deal with you,” he corrects, rubbing a hand down his face.

     You grin, satisfied, and reach for your glass of water. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

     And from the way Rin looks at you, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, you know that’s exactly what it was.

     You glance over at him, your fingers tapping against your own glass. “So,” you start, breaking the quiet, “how was that game of yours today? You actually manage to score this time?”

     His eyes narrow slightly, but the smile on his lips is knowing. “Of course. Not that you’d understand the level of skill it requires.”

     You arch a brow, leaning forward a little. “Excuse me? I could totally play circles around you.”

     “Sure, you’d be great at running interference. ‘Oh no, I can’t block, I’m too cute, please don’t hurt me!’” he mocks you.

     Your eyes narrow, “You’re lucky I’m too tired to slap you.”

     Rin winces dramatically, then leans back with a smirk. “I don’t think you could handle me one-on-one. You’ve already proven you’re not great with stamina.”

     “Oh? You’re one to talk. Don’t make me remind you how well I can handle my stamina against yours.”

     Rin coughs, his face flushing slightly, but he recovers quickly. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

     “I’m insufferable? Is that why you were trench deep in me a few hours ago?” You smirk, taking another sip of your water.

     He scowls, but there’s a certain softness behind it. “That’s enough conversation, shut up. I’m exhausted.”

     “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before deciding to go for as long as you did.”

     Rin’s expression darkens with what could almost be called a glare, but it’s too tired to be truly threatening. “Don’t even start. Do you think you have more endurance than I do?”

     “Mhm, I would prove it to you again but,” You lean in a little closer, smirking. “I don’t think you can handle another round of me just yet.”

     “You talk a lot for someone who’s too tired to even sit up straight.”

     “Well, maybe I just enjoy teasing you.” You lean back.

     The waiter comes back, placing your food in front of you. You immediately dig in, savoring the taste. Rin follows suit, though he’s still slower than usual. You catch him glancing at your plate from the corner of your eye, a barely concealed hunger in his gaze.

     “Are you still hungry?”

     He looks up, and this time, his glare is sharper. “I’m not that weak.”

     You smile and slide your plate closer to him, just out of reach. “Sure you’re not.”

     Rin narrows his eyes at you, then at the plate. It’s clear he wants it, but his pride’s getting in the way. The tension is palpable as he debates internally, and you can’t help but laugh softly. “Just take it,” you say, amusement coloring your voice.

     He glances at you, his lips twitching into a grin. “Fine, I’ll take it, but only because I’m too tired to argue.”

     “Ah, see? You do know when to give in,” you say triumphantly, handing it over.

     “Don’t make me remind you how easily I can make you give in.” He threatens, but you hope it's a promise.

     Seishiro Nagi

     It’s a quiet evening at a small, intimate restaurant nestled between two towering buildings. The dim light casts a soft glow over the wooden tables and delicate plates of food. The quiet hum of conversations fills the air, but the two of you are wrapped in a peaceful bubble of exhaustion. You can still feel the lingering heat from earlier, the way his skin pressed against yours, the feeling of his hands tracing patterns along your body.

     Seishiro Nagi sits across from you, his disheveled hair falling into his eyes as he rubs at them lazily. His eyes flicker to you briefly, but they don’t seem to fully focus. There’s a soft, tired smile playing on his lips, the kind that lets you know he's content, but at the same time, it's clear he’s almost struggling to stay awake. You can’t help but chuckle softly at his state.

     "Hey, Seishiro..." you say, leaning across the table just enough to catch his attention. His eyelids flutter, and he blinks a couple of times, as if trying to summon the energy to keep them open.

     "Yeah?" His voice is hoarse, low, and barely audible. It’s clear that he’s fighting sleep, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

     “Are you okay?” You ask.

     “Mhm,” he replies, his voice raspy. "Just never had someone wear me out quite like you."

     Your heart skips a beat at his words. The casual tone in which he speaks holds a sincerity that’s hard to ignore. The two of you had just come from your apartment, tangled up in each other in ways that left you both breathless and sore, and now, here you are, in a cozy little restaurant, trying to gather yourselves.

     "Oh, um. You’re not falling asleep, are you?"

     He shakes his head slowly, but you can see the effort it takes to do even that. His eyelids slide shut for a brief moment, and you can practically hear the exhaustion in his sigh.

     "I'm fine," he mumbles. "Just... really sleepy..." His voice trails off as his head lulls slightly to the side, before he catches himself, blinking rapidly to stay alert. You watch him for a few seconds, amused, as he fights the pull of sleep.

     "You sure we should’ve come out to eat?" you ask. "I can’t help but feel like you’re about to face-plant into your food."

     "Maybe..." he murmurs, his eyes half-lidded. "But the food here’s good… 'sides, I want to be here with you."

     Your stomach fills with butterflies at that, and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. Despite his exhaustion, he’s always thinking of you. He makes sure you’re okay, that you’re happy, even when his own energy is completely drained.

     “Okay, but next time, we’re definitely staying in,” you tease, leaning back in your chair. “You look like you could fall asleep any second.”

     He smiles lazily, not bothering to fight it. His head drops forward for a brief moment before he jerks back up. "Nah... I’m fine..." But even as he says it, you can hear the faint slurring in his words.

     You decide to let him off the hook. The waitress comes by with your food, and Nagi lifts his head slightly as she sets a steaming bowl of ramen in front of him. His eyes widen momentarily at the scent, but they immediately begin to droop again as he lets out another long yawn.

     "Ramen," he mutters to himself, poking the noodles half-heartedly with his chopsticks. “S'good, I’m sure. Just... I’m gonna... just eat a bit."

     You watch as he takes a few bites, each one slower than the last. His head sways a little as if he’s on the verge of tipping over, and you can’t help but feel a sense of endearment well up inside you. There’s something almost too cute about how he’s always so completely and unapologetically tired.

     "Seishiro," you say softly, reaching across the table to gently touch his arm. "C’mon, let’s just go home. You look like you need a nap more than food right now."

     He stirs a little at the mention of sleep, finally looking up at you with that same, sleepy smile. "No... I want to... eat it myself..." His voice barely rises above a whisper. But after a few more bites, his resolve crumbles.

     “Alright, alright," you say, moving your hand to cup his face. His cheek feels warm under your fingers, the soft skin giving way to the faintest stubble. "You should nap after though. You’ve earned it."

     You offer him a gentle smile, one that conveys everything you’re feeling. The tenderness, the affection, the adoration. He closes his eyes at that, his shoulders sinking further into the chair, his body going slack with exhaustion. A few seconds later, he’s practically dozing, his chopsticks still loosely clutched in his hand, hanging precariously near his bowl.

     It’s not long before you’re the one gently guiding his head to rest on your shoulder. He lets out a soft, content sigh, his body softening into you like a piece of clay, finally free from the constant pull of the world. You shift your arm around him, letting him lean into you as you pick at your food, savoring the flavors but most of your attention on the sleepy, warm figure next to you.

     "How do you always manage to make everything feel so peaceful?" you murmur to him, though he’s half-asleep and doesn’t respond. You don’t need him to. His quiet presence is enough.

     Reo Mikage

     The quiet hum of the restaurant surrounds you as you sit across from him, your heart still racing from the moments shared just hours ago. The dimly lit space feels cozy, and you can't help but grin at how relaxed Reo looks, his usual sharp demeanor softened by the weariness of the afternoon. Normally, he’s composed of confidence, like a guy who could tell you the meaning of life while simultaneously solving a Rubik's cube. But now? Now, he looks like someone who just tried to run a marathon, got distracted by an ice cream truck, and then took a nap halfway through.

     His posture is slouched, his shoulders are practically begging for a pillow, and his eyes are half-lidded with a satisfied haze that matches your own. There's no trace of his usual high-strung self. Instead, there’s a vulnerability in the way he lounges in his chair, as if the very concept of sitting upright is an effort.

     He runs a hand through his hair with slow deliberation. You smile, watching him. It's kind of adorable how tired he looks. You’ve always seen him as the guy who has everything under control, but right now? Right now, he’s more like a human noodle.

     The waiter places two glasses of water in front of you, his smile polite but with just a hint of curiosity, like they're trying to figure out if the two of you are on a first date or if something more... intimate... just went down. You can’t blame them. Reo looks like he might collapse into a puddle any second, and you’re still glowing like you’ve just won an Olympic medal in... well, let’s say “passionate hugging.”

     "Are you alright?" you ask softly, leaning forward just enough for him to hear you. His gaze flickers to meet yours, and a low chuckle rumbles from his chest.

     "Can’t believe you’re the one who’s asking me that," he murmurs, his voice rough in the way people sound when they’ve just done something that requires a lot of energy. "I’ve never been so tired in my life."

     You can’t help it. The laugh that escapes you is soft, affectionate, and a little too amused.

     "I don’t mind," you reply, your tone teasing. "I kind of like seeing you like this."

     He raises an eyebrow at that, lips curving into a slow smile, the glint in his eyes now a little more playful. He leans back in his chair like he’s got a question to ask, but it takes him an unusually long time to find the energy to do so.

     "I don’t know if I should be flattered or worried that you enjoy this version of me," he mutters, his hand dragging over his jaw like he’s thinking of adding a full-body stretch to the mix but ultimately decides against it.

     "You’re cute when you're tired," you say before your brain can catch up. The words slip out like they’re your new favorite outfit. Reo blinks at you for a moment, clearly processing the compliment like someone who’s just been told they’ve won the lottery. And honestly, with that tired smile spreading across his face, he kind of has.

     "Is that so?" His voice takes on a slightly deeper, amused tone, as he leans forward just enough that you can feel his presence press down on you. But not enough to touch. He’s definitely holding back, probably saving up that last bit of energy to make it through dinner without literally falling asleep mid-bite.

     "Yeah."

     "I’m not good at this," he suddenly says, his voice so quiet that it makes you lean in a little.

     You blink. "Not good at what?"

     "Being tired," he admits, his voice almost sheepish. "I’m always on the go, always thinking, always—" He stops, then laughs, like he’s just realized how absurd the whole thing sounds. "But right now, I don’t even have the energy to make a joke or flirt with you. I’m just... done."

     The confession hits you like a slap to the face. This is the Reo Mikage who can talk his way out of almost anything and charm the socks off anyone, yet here he is, admitting that he’s exhausted beyond cognition all because of you.

     You let out a laugh, not unkindly. "That’s actually kind of adorable, you know?"

     Reo sighs, his hand reaching up to rub his temples like he’s holding onto his last ounce of dignity. "I never thought I’d get to the point where I’m adorable when I’m barely functioning. This is new."

     "Okay, maybe next time we can take it slower." You reach across the table and place your hand over his. It’s a small gesture, but there’s something comforting about it. Reo’s gaze softens.

     "I’ll take you up on that," he murmurs, his voice laced with a new kind of tenderness. You were already thinking of next time? The thought made him ache between his legs.

     Reo is doing his best to keep his eyes open, but honestly, you can tell he’s fighting a losing battle. It’s like watching a cat try to stay awake, but eventually, it just gives in to the nap.

     "You’re going to pass out in a restaurant, Reo," you tease him softly, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

     "I trust you’ll make sure I don’t embarrass myself."

     You smile fondly. "No promises."

     Reo doesn’t respond. His eyes have long since fluttered shut, and his head starts to tilt back. For now, the world can wait.

     Sae Itoshi

     It was a quiet evening, the soft hum of chatter from other diners filling the air, but you barely noticed it. Your mind was still swimming from the rush of what had happened only hours ago, the lingering weight of the experience heavy between you and Sae.

     The two of you had just finished a rather intense bout of passion in the privacy of your bedroom, and while the fire had simmered down, it had left behind a raw, comfortable silence that felt as thick as the air around you now. You sat across from each other at a small table by the window, Sae's face relaxed into something unfamiliar, softer perhaps, but still radiating that effortless cool. Yet, there was an unmistakable tiredness in his demeanor now, a contrast to the usual energy that typically buzzed off him.

     Sae had always been the type to dominate any room, but now, with his legs stretched out beneath the table, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of his glass, there was an undeniable exhaustion in his posture. His usual confidence seemed to have slipped away, replaced with a rare vulnerability. You studied him for a moment, his sharp features softened from the wear of the day, the slight crease between his brows as if he was deep in thought or maybe just too tired to think at all.

     You smirked slightly, leaning forward against the table, meeting his eyes. "You alright?" you asked, trying to keep your voice casual. You knew him well enough to know when something wasn’t quite right. His body language wasn’t the usual effortless grace; it was more like someone who had just run a marathon, but at the same time, was reluctant to admit it.

     He turned his gaze towards you, blinking slowly as if your voice pulled him out of some trance. His eyes, usually sharp and intense, had softened into a haze of exhaustion, though there was still a playful glint in them.

     "Yeah," he muttered, his voice low and almost drawn out, "Just a little tired."

     "Oh? Is it from what we did earlier?" The teasing tone was unmistakable, but you couldn't help it. It had been wild. Sae had been insatiable earlier, his hands never still, his mouth hot against your skin, and his energy was something else entirely. He fucked you so deep and good into that matress you thought you we’re melting into it. But now, he was the one who seemed to need a rest.

     "Don't remind me," he groaned, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. His usual air of confidence had given way to something much more human, and that made him all the more fascinating. It was almost like he didn’t quite know how to handle it.

     The waiter arrived at the table, placing your drinks down with a soft clink of glass. Sae barely acknowledged the server, his eyes still closed, his fingers drumming lazily on the edge of his empty plate. You gave the waiter a polite smile before they left, focusing back on Sae.

     "You know, for someone who's so used to pushing limits," you said, leaning in just a little, "you sure look like you're ready to collapse."

     He opened one eye, "I could’ve kept going if I wanted to."

     You tilted your head, studying him as he let out a sigh, the way his broad shoulders sagged as if carrying an invisible weight. "You sure? You seem pretty out of it."

     "I don’t do ‘out of it’," he replied lazily, rubbing his forehead with the back of his hand. It was the kind of response you would have expected from him, but it lacked the bite it usually had.

     You leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, unable to hide your amusement. "Yeah, sure."

     "You think I'm lying?" He raised an eyebrow, his gaze flickering to yours with a hint of challenge, though the weariness behind it was impossible to ignore.

     You shrugged. "Yeah. You look like you’re about to pass out right on the spot.”

     "Yeah, well..." Sae trailed off, looking at you as if he were trying to decipher something. He reached out across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against yours. "Guess you wore me out. But I can promise you, I could’ve kept going."

     "If you say so, Itoshi."

     "Don’t get too cocky now. You’re not the only one who can wear someone out. Should I remind you of what happened on your birthday?" There was still a playfulness there, but it wasn’t quite the same as before.

     “S-shut up…” You mutter curtly. Even remembering what happened on your birthday with Sae made your legs ache.

     But as you glanced up at him again, you noticed that his eyes were now closed. A little snore escaped his lips, and you couldn’t help but snicker. Sae Itoshi, the unstoppable force, the man who never showed weakness, he was human after all. He could get tired. He could let himself rest. Even if it was slumping over in his chair at some random restaurant.

     "Well, I guess I really did wear you out," you whispered, resisting the urge to laugh out loud.

     Sae’s eyes fluttered open just enough to send you a sleepy glare. "I’m awake, don’t get cocky," he muttered, but the sleepy tone betrayed him.

     “Yes, sir." You teased, taking a sip of your water as you analyzed his features. Oh, how much you adored him.

     Michael Kaiser

     You lean back in your chair, trying not to giggle too loudly as you glance over at Michael, who’s sitting across from you, looking like he’s about to pass out at any given moment. His hair is disheveled, his shirt slightly untucked, and he’s giving you the most exaggerated, tired expression.

     “Are you okay?” you ask, leaning across the table with a soft smile. You trace the rim of your water glass with your fingertips, watching him as he lazily looks up at you.

     He blinks a few times, as though the question takes him by surprise. Then, as if processing your words, he lets out a deep sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

     “Yeah… I’m good,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, though you’re not sure if it’s from the aftereffects of your time together or just exhaustion. His gaze drifts to the menu, but it’s clear that he’s not really seeing it.

     “Did our earlier activities tire you out?” you muse, tapping your chin.

     “How could it not? I had you on that bed for hours.” He shook his head in disbelief at how you expected him to not be exhausted. “Only reason you’re fine is because I let you be pillow princess.”

     “Hey, I didn’t tell you to be so rough though, that was done in your own self indulgence.” You narrowed your eyes at him. How dare he try to blame you?

     Michael looks up, clearly attempting to muster some strength for a comeback, but all he manages is a weak smile. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/n,” he mutters under his breath.

     “Are you saying you don’t have it in you for another around?” you ask with a teasing tilt of your head. He stares at you like he’s about to say something, but then his shoulders droop again as if the thought of moving is a monumental task.

     “Round two?” he repeats incredulously. “You’ve already broken me. What do you want from me, a medal?”

     You chuckle, leaning back in your seat as you give him a playful smirk. “Maybe,” you say before continuing “but, I think you deserve an award for stamina”

     Michael scrunches his nose, clearly starting to get embarrassed, but trying to hide it.

     “I don’t even know if I remember the last few minutes, Micha, you just kept going. Are you human?” You laugh, taking another sip of your water.

     "I came here to eat, not to get all worked up again," he grumbled.

     You flashed him a mischievous grin and winked. "Well, maybe you should've been clearer about what you wanted. I did offer you plenty to consume earlier."

     "Yeah, and you drained all the energy with it," he shot back, barely holding himself together. His breath came in shallow gasps. "Careful, darling. I can have you teary-eyed and screaming again. Don’t talk your way into something you won't be able to handle."

     The thought made you ache between your legs, a burning desire coursing through your body. You had to stop yourself from thinking about it too much, or else you might accidentally kill Kaiser by asking for another round. As much as you wanted it, you knew it would be too much for him in his state.

     "Really? You look like you're about to pass out," you said, raising an eyebrow as you studied his flushed face.

     "Might," he muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion, but there was still a faint glimmer of a smirk on his lips.

     "You know, this is all your fault, right?" you teased, your tone light, but there was a definite edge of playful accusation in your voice.

     "What did you say?" His eyes snapped open at your words, narrowing in your direction as if ready to challenge you.

     "You didn’t have to be so rough," you shrugged nonchalantly, though the memory of what had just transpired made your pulse quicken. "You did this to yourself."

     "As if you'd have accepted anything less from me," he scoffed, his voice hoarse but laced with pride. "Keeping you satisfied is the real workout. The things I do, the way I wreck myself just to make sure you’re pleased..." His words trailed off, and you could feel the smugness in his tone even as he struggled to stay awake.

     "Oh please," you teased, leaning closer, your fingers lightly tracing the edge of his jaw. "You think I don’t know how high you get from making me see stars every time you make me come undone?"

     A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, but he was already starting to drift. "Hm. I guess we both have our own reasons," he rasped, exhaustion overtaking him as his head lolled to one side, his eyes fluttering closed. You couldn’t help but laugh at how quickly he had given in, how the mighty had fallen. His pride might have been unshakable in the moment, but you had a way of bringing him to his knees. You snapped a quick picture, wanting to capture this rare sight of him defeated and completely fucked past exhaustion.

     "Guess we do," you said softly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you admired the man who had given you so much yet couldn’t resist teasing you back.

[incognit0slut]

Champagne Kisses

A night involving champagne gives you the perfect excuse to end up naked after weeks of harmless flirting. Spencer thinks one night isn’t enough.

category: smut, fluff word count: around 8k content: softdom!spencer, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v (but no creampie he’s testing his pull-out game), alcohol consumption, food play (more like drink play), and i wanna say spit kink but they’re using champagne instead so does that count? a/n: merry 2025 please tell me you remember me or else i might actually cry

You’re doing it again.

You’ve been clawing at his face for the past hour, stealing fleeting glances and looking away just as quickly, because every time you do, you find the same thing.

Brown eyes. Chocolate, marbled in hazel with tiny golden speckles. Pinning you in place. Dismantling you layer by layer. And somewhere in the quiet heat behind them, in the barely-there twitch of his jaw, you’re pretty sure he’s already mapping out the fastest way to get you out of your clothes.

It’s nerve-racking. Smart Spencer you can handle, awkward Spencer you can charm. But flirtatious Spencer? Flirtatious Spencer is dangerous.

Even more so when you’re squashed between Penelope and Luke at the overcrowded booth of O'Keefe's, who are mid-argument over something you can’t even muster the energy to care. Not when long legs stretch in front of you, and strips of neon lights slice across the table in a glow that crosses his form, curving around handsome features that make him look far too inviting.

Because that’s what your mind keeps drifting to. Taking him back to your place, where the only thing glowing would be the dim light of your bedroom.

Or maybe the pale light from the hallway.

Perhaps the soft flicker of the lamp in your living room.

Either way, your mind is already drawing images of him doing whatever it is he’s picturing in his own head. The location doesn’t matter.

“Don’t you agree?”

Your gaze fall over him once more before you force yourself to look away, catching Penelope staring at you expectantly. “Agree to what?”

“That margaritas are objectively the most fun drink and clearly better than boring beer.”

This is the argument they’ve been debating for the last five minutes?

Luke scoffs from your left. He doesn’t look angry though, his expression is more amused than irritated, lips formed in a cheeky smirk. “I can tolerate margaritas if we’re on a beach. But beers are solid all year round, pop a cap and you're good to go."

“You’re such a guy."

“I'm telling you, you don't need fancy ingredients or a blender. No little umbrellas."

“Literally proving my point. Beer has no personality.”

“Are you saying I have no personality?”

Bright pink-framed glasses shift as Penelope tips her head. “If the shoe fits.”

You’re at the point where you’re no longer surprised by their arguments. Loud and pointless, is how you'd describe them. You suspect Luke does it to get a reaction, and normally you’d add fuel to the fire, because Penelope is a pretty fire-cracker when her nostrils flare in absolute indignation. But your attention is elsewhere tonight.

Knees brushing yours under the table. A small smile curled at the corner of his lips. Deep set of eyes dragging over your face, your neck, the spot between your collarbone and shoulder where the pulse of your heartbeat seems to echo louder each second.

You slide with your back against the chair, thighs clamping shut. 

You feel him imprinted on you, heated gaze traveling beneath your skin. You wonder if he realizes what he’s doing, if he’s even aware of the effect all the time his eyes fall on you. Since the moment he walked in the room, since he took that seat directly across from you, and if you’re being completely honest, that glint in his eyes has been there probably for weeks now. The when of it all is a bit fuzzy.

Tonight feels adamantly different though, and you feel like you might just need a little extra something to quiet the nervous hum beneath your ribs.

But you’re not entirely sure whether it’s nerves or something far more indulgent that has your mind secretly leading you to a very unholy place. A place where you wonder if the rough, scruffy drag of his jaw feels the same below his navel.

You’re a hundred percent certain that it does.

“You know what’s a better drink?” your voice cracks, desperately needing that extra little something. “Champagne.”

Penelope’s head whips toward you. “Champagne? Here?”

You glance around the bar and raise a hand, trying to flag down the bartender.

The wood-paneled walls are covered with vintage beer advertisements, and the sticky floor is dotted with peanut shells from the complimentary bowls on every table. It’s the kind of place where the closest thing to champagne is probably prosecco poured into a plastic flute for a wedding after-party.

“What’s wrong with champagne? It’s a classic drink, great for celebration.” You order a bottle and four tall glasses before fixing her with a look. “It’s the New Year.”

She snorts. “We’re already halfway through January.”

“Penelope, we had to work on Christmas and New Year’s. We finally have this night to breathe, let me have this.”

There’s a beat of silence before she sighs dramatically. “Fine. But it still feels weird drinking champagne in a bar where the most sophisticated cocktail is a rum and coke.”

“Which is exactly why we’re elevating the night,” you reply, watching as the bartender sets the bottle down with (thank god) proper crystal flutes. You pour the first glass, the golden bubbles racing upward like tiny fireworks as you pass it to her.

Luke accepts the next glass without the same hesitation, but when you offer one to Spencer, the curly-haired man shakes his head.

“Right. I forgot you don’t really drink alcohol.”

The faintest smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t have anything against alcohol, just not in large amounts.” His gaze shifts to the bottle on the table. “I also happen not to like champagne.”

Penelope looks mildly offended. “Why not?”

“Because the carbonation overpowers the flavor. It’s hard to enjoy a drink when it’s constantly popping on your tongue.” You stifle a laugh before you can stop yourself. He looks at you. “What?”

“I think you’re overthinking it,” you reply with a grin. “Here, maybe this will change your mind.”

You pour him a glass and nudge it toward him. He simply looks from the glass to you.

“Come on,” you coax. “We’re celebrating the New Year.”

“Seventeen days late."

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes.

"Do not ruin the fun. We’re still celebrating, and you can’t toast with water. That’s practically begging for bad luck.”

He exhales sharply, lips twitching in what might be defeat or mild amusement, before reaching across the table. Everyone raises their glasses. The instant the bubbles hit his tongue, his nose scrunches in subtle distaste, and the sound of your laughter flies through the small space.

“It’s not that bad,” you insist.

“I still don’t understand the appeal.”

Champagne isn’t exactly your first choice either. You’ve always been more of a wine person. A good wine. A rich Burgundy that makes you close your eyes on the first sip to taste the faint of autumn in a glass. But champagne feels right for the occasion.

This taste blooms on your tongue, crisp and bright with hints of green apple and citrus and that faint yeasty richness at back of your throat. They dance across your palate, leaving a lingering sweetness through your veins that doesn’t soothe your nerves so much as ignite something beneath them, something warmer, deeper, curling into your bloodstream.

It makes you very bold.

Bold enough to hold his gaze without flinching. Bold enough to let your tongue flick across your lips. Bold enough to let your foot glide slowly up the length of his long, long leg.

You’ll have him taste his own medicine.

You, too, can play with fire.

“Maybe you’re drinking it wrong,” you hum, feeling him tense for the briefest, tiniest moment before he relaxes. “There’s another way to make champagne better.”

He grips the stem of his glass. “Something tells me you have a suggestion.”

“I do.”

He tilts his head. The din of conversation around you slowly fades into a muffled hum, the clinking of glasses and Penelope’s laughter barely registering as you notice the curve of his smile, the question lingering in his eyes.

Will you show me?

And that’s how you find yourself naked between his thighs two hours later.

It started innocently enough—or at least that’s the lie you fed yourself when you watched Penelope and Luke stumble their way to the dance floor, giggling as they poured yet another round of sparkling wine. But the champagne didn’t keep your attention for long. A few more stolen glances later, you found your hand wrapping around his arm, the other clutching a half-full bottle of champagne like some reckless lifeline.

It is reckless. Even you can’t deny that. You’ve always been cautious when it comes to bringing a man home. But this isn’t just anyone. This is Spencer. Someone who already knows too many pieces of you, someone who doesn’t need to be deciphered or explained.

And maybe that’s why you couldn’t stop yourself from dragging him out of the bar.

The ride in the stuffy cab felt like an eternity and a blink at the same time that the moment your apartment door clicked shut behind you, his mouth was already on yours. You barely had time to process how surprisingly good he tasted before your clothes started to disappear.

It’s a dizzying rush of hands and heat, and you’re now standing over him, knees brushing his as he sinks into your couch.

Yes, your couch. The soft, slate-blue one you’ve spent countless evenings curled up on, legs tucked under a blanket, flipping through books or half-watching shows you never finish. But now it cradles a completely different weight—the heavy heat of him radiating with tension-laced curiosity and a barely contained lust that seems to bleed right into the fabric.

“I can’t believe I’m kissing you,” he mutters dazedly, trailing his lips along your jaw with a hand resting on your naked back.

“I can’t believe you can unhook my bra that fast.”

He catches the sheer black fabric now hanging haphazardly over your lamp where he’d tossed it aside moments ago. “It wasn’t that hard.”

“Should I be concerned about how much practice you’ve had?”

“Not really. I’m a fast learner.”

That, you believe. But you’re not entirely sure if it’s his innate skill or the way your body seems to respond to him so effortlessly that leaves your lungs feeling like they’ve forgotten how to work. Breathing is no longer instinctive now. It’s a function you have to remind yourself to do as his tongue dances along the curve of your breast, and by the time he takes the achingly hard tip into his mouth, your chest tightens.

You suck in a desperate need of oxygen while he sucks the last thread of composure from you.

“Sweet.”

“Huh?”

“You—” He pulls back just enough to let his teeth graze the delicate skin before soothing it with a slow drag of his tongue, “taste sweet.”

Your hand slides to the back of his neck with a sigh. “You’re exaggerating.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bodies don’t taste like anything, it’s skin.”

Spencer shakes his head as he cups the weight of your other breast with the same care you’ve come to expect from him. Taut nipple rolls under his thumb. “How do you explain this then?”

You don’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your body speaks first as you arch into his touch, chasing the warmth of his hands before you can form any thoughts.

“How do you explain,” he continues, his lips trailing down the slope of your stomach, “why I can’t get enough of how sweet you taste?”

Your mind finally catches up, and the words settle over you like honey itself.

“You think so?”

“It’s not a thought, it’s a fact.” He presses a kiss to the soft skin just below your navel. “I don’t know how you can taste better than this.”

Your laugh is breathless, barely steady enough to be called one. “You’re laying it on thick now.”

“I’m just being honest.”

It’s cute how he says it with such conviction, like it’s the simplest truth in the world and not a line that’s turning your legs to liquid. Your knees threaten to buckle as you step away, reaching for the half-empty champagne bottle perched on the coffee table. The glass feels cool against your overheated skin as you twist the cork free.

“What are you doing?”

“Considering your words.” You hold up the bottle, the champagne fizzing invitingly at its neck. “What do you say we make this even sweeter?”

His eyes light up with interest. “Is this where you show me the right way to drink champagne?”

You nod and sink back between his thighs. “I know you’re not big on sharing food, but I think you’re gonna like this.”

“You do realize I’ll share anything with you.”

Your lips curl into a soft smile. You’ve already learned that kissing Spencer feels deliciously messy. It’s sloppy in the way passion tends to be when control is the last thing on either of your minds, with tongues and teeth colliding in an unpolished rhythm that’s as raw as it is consuming. Adding champagne to the equation doesn’t feel like much of a stretch.

You step forward at the same time his hands fall to your hips. “There’s a trick to drinking champagne.”

“I’m listening.”

The bottle’s rim grazes your lips as you take in his appearance. His shirt is wrinkled, hanging just a little more loosely around his chest with two buttons undone. He’s the very definition of disheveled that’s entirely your doing. He looks absolutely irresistible.

“You need to linger on the taste,” you start, your voice dipping into something softer as your eyes meet his again. “Be patient. Let it sit and overwhelm your senses before you swallow.”

“You mean marinate it in my mouth?”

A giggle burst out of you. “Exactly. The longer you let it linger, the more it softens, and the sweeter it gets.”

You tilt the bottle to your lips. The sweetness starts to bloom on your tongue, subtle at first, but then richer, fuller against the roof of your mouth. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes when you pull him closer by the nape of his neck, the exact moment he realizes what you’re about to do.

Your lips meld seamlessly with his as the Champagne slips from your mouth.

His lashes flutter briefly. There’s a soft flush spreading across his pale cheeks, and you feel the faint hum of pleasure, vibrating against the delicate curve of his skin as a liquid thread drips down your chin.

And then you’re kissing him. Or he’s kissing you. It’s hard to tell who moved first, but it doesn’t matter. His lips part further, and you swear you can taste every nuance of the champagne in a way you've never experienced before. Sharp citrus, a whisper of honeyed sweetness, and beneath it all, something clean and cool that reminds you of first snowfalls.

His lips are swollen and wet and perfectly shiny when you finally pull back.

“What do you think?”

“I think we should drink champagne every day.”

Your hand drifts to the side of his neck with a smile, thumb brushing lightly against his pulse. “Even when we’re working?”

“Especially when we’re working,” he counters, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, tasting what’s left of you. His gaze flickers to the bottle in your hand. “Can I try it?”

You pass it to him, your eyes fixed on the way he tilts it to his mouth. You’re sure the bubbles in your system aren’t the reason your pulse races as he sets the bottle aside and rises to his feet. You’re also sure that no amount of champagne is responsible for the way your lips part eagerly when his hands cradle your cheeks.

There it is again—that sweetness. It hits you the moment his mouth captures yours, but it fully overwhelms you when he tilts his head and gently coaxes the champagne from his lips to yours.

You’re not surprised at how quickly he picks this up. It’s common knowledge that he’s a very diligent person, but it’s still a bit astonishing how he’s taken to playing with a drink he supposedly doesn’t even like. This is nothing like solving cases or flexing his impossibly sharp brain, nor the crosswords you’re used to seeing him hunched over at his desk at lunch.

This requires a different kind of finesse that involves his lips and tongue rather than a pen and paper.

It also seems like he might be enjoying this even more. He leans back just enough to let his tongue sweep across the seam of your lips, collecting the last trace of sweetness clinging to you.

A thumb swipes over the wet trail under chin. “I could get used to this.”

“Champagne or me?”

“Both.”

Satisfied with his answer, your fingers trail down to undo the last few buttons of his shirt. “Do you wanna try something else?”

He quirks an eyebrow as you push down the fabric down his shoulders. You don’t say anything all the while you start to unbuckle his belt, peeling every layer of his clothing until you’ve stripped him completely bare—and would you look at that? The faint trail of hair down his belly matches the scruff shadowing his jaw.

There’s a brief pause as your eyes travel down his body, lingering on his surprisingly impressive size, and a comment sits at the edge of your tongue. You decide to let your actions speak for you.

Your delicate fingers wrap around his delicious thickness. You swipe the first signs of precum glistening over his tip with your thumb, and a low sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

He sounds like he’s in pain, and you shake your head with a playful smile curling at your lips. “Sit back on the couch.”

Spencer sinks into the cushion.

“This might get a little messy.”

His brow furrows slightly, and for a moment, he looks genuinely intrigued. What he doesn’t expect is the way you slowly pour the remaining liquid down your chest. His mouth parts in surprise, and then his gaze follows every single drop like it’s gravity itself pulling him in.

You’re mesmerizing. Always have been, actually. There is no doubt in Spencer’s mind that you’re the most beautiful person he’s ever met in his life. Your mind is brilliant. Your heart is kind. But watching the champagne mix with the sheen of sweat on your skin, you’re something else entirely. You look lethal. A different kind of captivating.

He’s already pulling you by the waist, and you’re a mass of giggles as you twist out of his grip to set the bottle safely aside. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Can you blame me?”

Honestly, you can’t. If the roles were reversed, you’d probably look at him the same way.

When his hands finally find your hips again, there’s no point in pretending you don’t want to be caught. You bend your knees and shift on the couch. He helps you swing your thigh over his own and deposits you in his lap.

Desperate is a good enough word to depict for him because as soon as you're close enough, he’s tasting you all over again. His tongue drags slow over the curve of your shoulder, across the hollow of your throat, and down to the soft swell of your breasts. Goosebumps ripple across your skin with every pass, every flick of his tongue, his touch leaving a trail of heat that you swear you can feel seeping into your bones.

You don’t even realize when you start to move until you feel the slow, unintentional rock of your hips into him. His cock fits snugly between your folds that you start grinding as the words fall from your lips without much thought, “What do you think of sex without a condom?”

His pupils dilated, lips parting, but no sound comes out right away.

"Spence?"

His gaze flickers to where your wet bodies are pressed together. Damp moisture from his tip smeared erotically between puffy lips, clear liquid coating his hard length.

“I think… it’s very intimate."

“Too intimate?”

"No." His fingers trail along your skin before his thumb settles just under your breast, in the delicate curve where your rib meets, and finally looks at you. "Is that what you want?"

You're bobbing your head up and down.

“Then I'd really, really like that.”

You shift your weight on your knees. “So you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

“I trust you too,” you say, your voice dipping low as your fingers wrap around his cock, guiding him to your entrance. “Can I request something, though?"

"Anything."

You pause just long enough for your words to land. “I don’t want you to come inside me.”

He exhales a soft laugh. “That can be arranged.”

His answer makes your lips twitch, but as you start to sink down, your body seems to have other ideas. There’s a resistance you didn’t expect, a sudden tautness that refuses to give.

Your eyes widen in surprise.

Oh my.

“What’s wrong?”

When you first wrapped your hand around him and took in the full reality of his size, you’d been impressed. Now you wonder if maybe you underestimated just how much he has to offer.

You bite the insides of your cheeks and try again.

“It’s been a while,” you confess quietly. You can’t even recall the last time you were this intimate with someone that the hesitation feels foreign, like a hiccup in a moment you’ve been eagerly anticipating.

And you are eager. Maybe a little too much. It feels almost ironic, considering how much you’ve thought about this, how your imagination has filled in the blanks a hundred times over. Now that it’s real, your body seems to be having second thoughts your mind absolutely isn’t entertaining.

You shift your hips, determination flaring as you take a slow breath. Left, right, up, down. But then a sharp sting shoots through you. Your face quickly twists into a grimace.

"Hey,” he calls gently, thumbs brushing gentle circles against your hip. “We can stop. You don’t have to push yourself.”

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? You want him to push past whatever invisible barrier your body is putting up. The idea of stopping now feels more unbearable than the sting itself.

Your lips press into a stubborn frown. “No,” you say firmly. “We are not stopping.”

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm. I think my body's just being weird. I'm sorry."

His brows knits together almost immediately. “I should be the one apologizing.”

Frustration suddenly wells up in your chest, and this time your teeth sinks into your lip, unsure whether it’s the tension in the muscles between your legs or the ache of wanting him that feels stronger.

And you want him. So fucking bad.

“You need to relax,” he soothes, running his hands up your waist, past your ribs, across your back.

“I am relaxed,” you huff.

“I don’t think you’re relaxed enough.”

Before you can respond, he carefully lifts you from his lap and settles you back onto the couch. The cushions dips under your weight, and you barely have time to process the change before he gracefully drops to the floor.

“Should we move to your bed?”

He grips one of your ankles, his thumb brushing along the soft curve of your bone before he leans down, pressing warm lips to the skin above it.

“After this,” you reply, glancing at the sticky champagne trail still glistening faintly on your skin. “Don’t want my sheets getting sticky.”

There’s a flicker of amusement on his handsome face. “After this?”

“Did you think we’d be stopping after one round?”

His laughter vibrates against your calf. “How many times are we talking then?”

“Until I can’t feel my legs.”

The smile he gives you is slow and warm. It curves one corner of his mouth first, almost shy, before spreading fully, lighting up his face in a way that steals the breath right from your lungs.

“You’d let me have my way with you all night?”

“I’d probably let you have me anytime you want.”

His grin is almost blinding that you can’t help but give him a pleased smile of your own.

“Let’s focus on tonight first.” He moves to your other the leg. Delicate bone and tendon brushes against his lips. “I need to get you ready for me. Would you let me do that?"

Words fail you as his mouth moves closer, and the heat of his breath against your skin makes your entire body tense in anticipation. He presses another open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

"You're still tense."

Kiss. Kiss.

“Really need you to relax.”

You try, but then again, it's impossible when his lips are so close, yet still not where you need them the most.

His name slips in a desperate whisper.

"Hm?"

"Stop teasing."

His lips quirk in response, but he doesn't argue.

He dips his head and finally— finally! —drags his tongue along your achingly wet folds. Your eyes almost roll to the back of your head.

"Better?"

The question is entirely rhetorical.

You don’t bother answering. Words seem sparse when his actions are spelling out everything you need to know in bold, underlined strokes. His touch is distinctly different from the playful, champagne-dampened kisses he had gifted your skin.

Now he’s utterly focused. He’s researching, and it appears his diligence isn’t confined to his academic when the same focus he applies to his studies is translated so flawlessly into reading your body like a favorite book. One he’s intent on memorizing every line of, delighting in every pause and whisper between the chapters of your sighs.

It’s this thought that tickles the back of your mind when he slips a finger in. He’s always been about comprehensive understanding, and well, you’re all about empirical evidence. Right now is proof of a hypothesis you’re too pleased to confirm that Spencer Reid might just be a genius in more ways than one.

Especially in how his steady thrust of his finger syncs perfectly with the hot, wet pull of his mouth, scratching such a carnal itch that it resonates deep in your brain. You sigh in pleasure when he adds another finger, and he lifts his head then, lips shiny and pink from his ministration.

"Do you think you can take a third?"

Your heart gives a few extra thuds in your chest cavity. “Please, please.”

Look at you, reducing yourself into begging, but really, how could you resist? Who could withstand the intensity of his gaze, the way his voice dips low like velvet wrapping around your senses?

Your head tips back against the couch, a soft whimper lashing out as he adds that third finger. The stretch is almost overwhelming but oh so good.

"Does it hurt?"

You let out a loud exhale. "No."

"Tell me if it hurts."

"Feels good." Your legs fall apart even further. "Don't stop."

He smiles, and then he's doing things to your body that have you questioning how you're even still breathing. The wet, sticky slosh of your arousal fills the room, a sound so explicit it should mortify you. But then three knuckles press deeper, stroking against that rougher patch of nerves and all rational thought dissolves.

A sound you didn't even know you could make escapes your throat. You're gasping, moaning, a little bit squealing as his free hand slides up your plush thigh before finding your puffy clit. And dear god, you’re choking on the breath that lodges in your throat. You're so close it's almost unbearable. A hand shoots out, and you’re gripping his forearm with a desperation you can't even pretend to hide.

You need him inside you.

“I'm ready," you gasp harshly, your lips parting in quick, desperate puffs. "I'm ready. I’m ready.”

He has the audacity to shake his head.

"I'll decide when you're ready."

Your breath stutters even more.

Why does that sound so hot? Why does that simple, infuriatingly calm statement make your thighs clench, your pulse race, and a fresh wave of heat roll through your body?

Before you know it, he’s coaxing your orgasm from you with just the right pressure, and every movement feels like it’s designed to bring you right to the edge. You’re not surprised by how wet you are, you’ve been dripping for what feels like hours. But what does surprise you is just how much your body can take. The intensity that doesn’t wane, that keeps pushing you higher, drawing out gasp after gasp until hot syrup gushes out of you in long, sticky droplets that pool on his fingers, down to the couch.

It’s endless, relentless, and you can’t even tell where one orgasm ends and the next begins. Your hand claw at his wrist.

“Spencer,” you whine, your voice breaking on the syllables. “Sensitive.”

He stops immediately, his fingers still inside you, his other hand slipping from your clit to rest on your thigh. “Too much?”

“A little,” you smile breathlessly. “C’mere.”

He crawls towards you as you lay on your back, relaxing your thighs.

His eyes trail over you, scanning your sweat-slicked skin, lingering on your perky breasts, moving down to where your legs are fallen apart, waiting for him. The sight is so overwhelmingly enticing that he finds himself wrapping a hand around his cock, muttering a low praise under his breath, “I don’t think I’ve told you how beautiful you are.”

Your eyes flick downward, and a spark of confidence—or maybe pure desperation—pushes your reply out without hesitation.

“Tell me again while you fuck me.”

You’re so blunt and shameless that a part of you might have blushed if you weren’t so far gone. Spencer doesn’t seem fazed, though. If anything, his eyes flash with a knowing sparkle that only deepens as he presses his bulbous head right at the shy of your entrance.

“I think I’m going to enjoy telling you,” he muses.

And Spencer is one to keep his promises.

He thinks you’re devastatingly pretty when he’s sinking into you. There’s a dazed look in your glossy eyes, and the sweetest sound coming from your lips as he stretches you in a way that leaves no part of you untouched.

He sings praises under his breath when the heavy weight of him finally settles deep inside your body. He patiently waits as your walls flutter around him, all the while his lips brushes the delicate curve of your collarbone, between low, broken whispers of how perfect you are.

Although perfection might not even capture the essence of what he sees in you at this moment. You’re a breathtaking array of contradictions. Powerful and vulnerable, fierce yet tender. You’re nothing short of divine as he gives another smooth, long thrust that pulls a sound from your lips that he knows will echo in his mind long after.

The heat of you surrounds him completely, and he swears he feels every pulse of your body welcoming him deeper. You’re slathering his entire cock with your slippery slick, and the dampness imprinting against his pelvis only seems to spur him on. He moves in steady, languid strokes, and your toes curl at the sensation burning in your belly.

He’s hitting you so good your ankles find themselves running down his back.

“Spence,” your voice is raspy and wet. “Fuck me harder.”

His quiet groan harmonizes with the rhythm of your heart. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t—”

You stop, and he looks through the mist of bliss you've shrouded him in. Your face twists, eyes going wide, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. He panics for a moment.

“You’re in pain,” he decides, reading the way your brows knit together, the way your breath stutters in your chest. It seems the most logical conclusion—until he realizes how wrong he is.

Because you’re writhing under his weight when he pushes in deeper, and your mouth trembles, not with discomfort, but with something devastatingly good.

“Oh,” he exhales. His smile is uncharacteristically smug. “It’s not pain, is it?”

You shake your head.

“You want it rough.”

It’s more of a statement than it is a question, but you’re nodding vigorously.

His restraint snaps like a frayed thread.

The next thrust is sharper, it pounds into you with enough force to shift your body slightly back against the cushions. Your lips mouth around another shaky breath he drinks dry with a wet kiss.

Still. Not. Enough.

“Harder,” you slur against his tongue.

What’s a hot-blooded man to do when asked so sweetly? He answers in the only way he can.

A hand curls around the back of your knee to pull you open just enough for him to drive deeper. The angle makes you feel impossibly full, how the folds of your vulva hugs around his shaft greedily, letting him claim all the space you didn’t even know existed. You can even feel the wet drag of his cock against your swollen clit with each hard thrust, a sensation so piercing it rips a gasp from your throat and a plethora of groans wailing from the couch.

“Like this?”

The relentless thwack-thwack-thwack of skins colliding is making you delirious.

“Yes,” you cry out. “Fuck—Yes. Yes.”

Your vision blurs as you blink, and—god, you think you might actually cry. And honestly, with how full you feel, with how every nerve is sparking to life under his loud rhythm, it wouldn’t even surprise you.

Your lashes feel wet as you squeeze your eyes shut, but you force them back open, unwilling to miss the way he looks above you. Jaw tight, sweat beading at his temples, eyes locked on you like nothing else exists.

Nothing probably does, not when he moves with a rhythm that feels both gentle and crude, like he’s savoring every second so sweetly while simultaneously chasing the most carnal kind of pleasure known to mankind.

Pleasure that has you melting, pleasure that has your body fully acclimating to his size. And now you’re teetering on the edge of another intense orgasm that begins its ascent from the tips of your toes and fingertips, spiraling a tingling rush up through your legs and arms, gathering force at the pit of your stomach, and exploding into the point where you’re intimately connected.

It happens all at once.

You’re trembling.

You’re shattering.

You’re pathetically whining.

Euphoria floods every inch of your body until you’re drowning in it. A liquid fire in your veins. Your cunt clenches around him, so tight you swear you feel every ridge and vein of his cock as keeps pressing you into the couch. Again and again and again, until you’re nothing but an incoherent mess, your words blabbered in a breathless rush of pleasure-induced nonsense.

One heartbeat stretches into two, then the muscles in his arms flexes as his pace falters. He’s shaking now, his pelvis moving in hurried, shallow thrusts as though he’s chasing something he can’t quite reach before the heat of him presses into you one last time.

He abruptly pulls out, his cock visibly pulsing in his hand and strokes himself with a stuttering groan as thick, pearly ropes splutters across your stomach. His fingers dig deeper into the back of your thigh while he continues to paint your skin in messy streaks, and you watch in fascination the moment his head tilts back in pure, unfiltered pleasure.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him quite this beautiful.

His brows pinches in concentration for a few more seconds before his gaze slowly meets yours again, and a faint, blissful pink colors his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly, looking a little out of breath. Devastatingly handsome and sweaty. Flustered in the best way.

You brush the damp hair sticking to his skin with a small, satisfied smile. “Are you kidding? That was extremely hot.”

His laughter fills every corner in the room. Then his hand drift down a comforting path down your thigh as he leans to capture the giggle tumbling from your lips with his own. It’s then you realize that kissing Spencer isn’t just enjoyable, it’s downright addictive.

You’re beginning to think he’s just as addicted to you too, because when he pulls away, it’s reluctant, his lips leaving yours with a faint, wet sound that lingers as sweetly as the kiss itself.

“Will you really let me have my way with you all night?” he asks gently, and you can’t help but wonder why he even feels the need to ask.

“Was I not obvious enough?”

You feel his smile before you see it. “Bedroom now?”

To tangle your naked limbs with his again sounds pretty close to heaven. Absolute, indulgent heaven, except for the distinct stickiness of champagne, sweat, and a cocktail of other body fluids clinging to your skin. The thought of sinking into cool clean sheets in this state makes your nose scrunch.

“We need to make a stop to the bathroom first,” you say, running a hand up his arm to squeeze his bicep. “Have you ever tried shower sex?”

“Can’t say that I have,” he admits truthfully.

You make a sound of disapproval.

“We definitely need to change that.”

-

Spencer realizes a lot of things can change in one night.

He also discovers how much he’s capable of learning in such a short period of time. Granted, he’s always been a quick study, but this is different. The hours between midnight and sunrise completely upend his understanding of things he’d only ever read about—sex, intimacy, the intricacies of how touch can feel as much like a language as words.

But beyond the newfound knowledge (and let’s face it, an entirely new appreciation for his muscles), there’s something else. Something that surprises him even more.

He likes waking up with another warm body beside him. More than likes it. There’s a strange kind of peace in the way your leg drapes over his, your hair a tousled mess against the pillow. Peace that makes him wonder if this, too, is something he could get used to.

Even if you’re hogging the blanket. He can feel the cool air on his back while you’re wrapped in most of the covers, leaving him to soak up whatever body heat he can steal by staying pressed against you. Not that he’s complaining. He’d happily stay like this for hours, but the sun is already creeping higher through your window, and your phone has been vibrating nonstop ever since he opened his eyes.

The sheets rustle as he shifts closer, mouth puffing warmly on your cheek with a breath of your name folding into your skin. You blink through heavy eyelids, and Spencer thinks you look adorable all wrapped up like a cocoon in the tangled linens.

“Hey," you croak, then clear your throat. “Morning.”

The soft rasp of your voice is even as endearing as the sight of you.

“I think we’ve already passed morning,” he says, slipping a hand under the covers, finding the goosebumps prickling on your upper arm.

“We slept in?”

“My guess is it’s almost noon.” There’s another buzz vibrating from the bedside table that stops him from pressing you against his chest. “Someone keeps calling you.”

He wonders if you can sense the slight annoyance in his voice. He wonders if he even has the right to be annoyed. It's Saturday. You clearly have plans—or at least someone thinks you do based on how persistent they've been.

If you catch the flicker of irritation in his voice, you don’t acknowledge it. You stretch lazily for your phone instead, and his attention is momentarily snagged by the way the sheet slips down your shoulder, revealing the constellation of freckles and moles he’s spent the entire night memorizing with his lips.

"Nobody’s calling.” Your thumb scrolls through the notifications. "Penelope just doesn't understand the concept of personal space when she texts."

Spencer feels the tightness in his shoulders ease, though he doesn't miss the way your eyes narrow into sleepy slits at the screen.

"Oh."

That one syllable is enough to set his mind buzzing.

"What?"

"Um."

It’s the subtle crack in your voice that hooks him. He’s never been good at sitting with unanswered questions, especially not when your expression shifts just enough to make him wonder what could possibly warrant that little noise.

He finally curls an arm around your waist, and the faint trace of your scent fills his lungs as he gently draws you back against his chest. A relentless stream of messages glares up at him over your shoulder.

Penelope [Sent 23:37]: Where are you?? Penelope [Sent 23:45]: Is reid with you? Penelope [Sent 00:05]: Did you leave? WITH HIM?? Penelope [Sent 00:17]: You did, didn't you? Penelope [Sent 00:33]: You can’t just vanish like this, you know I have questions!!!

Spencer barely registers the way his hand drifts down to rest against your stomach. He pulls you in unconsciously as his eyes scan over the flood of texts that started piling up this morning.

Penelope [Sent 09:19]: Good morning. Penelope [Sent 09:25]: Answer me. Penelope [Sent 10:24]: Seriously, are you alive? Penelope [Sent 10:39]: YOU OWE ME DETAILS. Penelope [Sent 10:48]: Last chance. Calling you in ten.

"I think she's onto us."

It’s not so much a matter of thought as it is a fact. Your words are less a theory and more a confirmation of reality, as undeniable as the relentless stream of texts lighting up your phone.

"What should I tell her?"

Spencer leans in closer. The soft scent of your shampoo drifts up, clean and faintly sweet, wrapping itself around him in a way that makes his chest ache, though he’s not sure why. He’s inhaling everything—your warmth, the curve of your shoulder brushing his chest, the way your voice carries an edge of hesitation that feels so out of place for someone like you.

And that’s what truly catches him off guard. Not the fact that Penelope is practically banging on a metaphorical door with her texts, but that you’re hesitating. You, who rarely second-guess yourself, now unsure about sharing the details of last night with one of closest people in your life.

Or maybe the surprise lies closer to home. How easily the words form in his own mind, bypassing the overthinking that usually rules him.

He has ten minutes to think before Penelope supposedly calls, but he doesn’t need ten minutes, or even ten seconds, because the answer is already there, so obvious it practically tumbles out of him.

"The truth," he hums against the crown of your hair. "You should tell her the truth."

You’re quiet for a while.

“Are you sure?"

For someone who invited him into your home, who let him press you into the couch cushions, spread you out on the cool tiles of the bathroom, and pull every sound he wanted from you on the soft give of your mattress—on your back, your front, even sideways—you seem awfully uncertain now. Very out of character.

So what’s changed this morning? Is it the stale morning breath he’s sure he hasn’t fixed yet? The mess of his curls sticking up in every direction from a night spent pressed into your pillows?

Or is it something much deeper that he hasn’t quite put his finger on?

The thought clings to him as his thumb brushes your stomach. "I’m sure," he says. "Are you?"

You hesitate for a beat too long, and that tiny pause lands heavy on his chest.

"This is going to change everything," you finally say, sounding somewhat like a warning.

He frowns. "Didn’t you want it to?"

"I did. I do." You pull in a breath that shakes on the way out. "Maybe we should discuss this before we say anything to anyone."

Your phone slips quietly onto the bed as you twist in his arms. Face to face.

"Do you like me?"

What kind of question is that?

"Did I seem not to like you last night?"

"No, Spencer, I need to hear it. Do you like me?"

He studies the delicate fold between your brows. He watches the quiver on your parted lips. And your eyes—watery and glossy and wide. Soft lashes framing the quiet expanse of irises that shimmer like glass.

He knows what you need. Spencer has spent most of his entire life reading people, pulling truths out of their silences and decoding what they can’t (or won’t) say. And even though he hates applying that skill to you, he knows this isn’t just about reassurance. You’re not only questioning what happened between you last night. You’re questioning what comes next.

The time glares from your phone over your shoulder: six minutes. That’s all he has to convince you that his feelings go far beyond fleeting lust or the heady haze of alcohol. Six minutes before Penelope inevitably interrupts.

But he’s not the greatest with words, is he?

Sure, he’s read more books than most people will touch in a lifetime. He can recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart and dissect layers of meaning in Dostoevsky’s prose like it’s second nature. But his own feelings don’t come wrapped in poetic declarations. That’s not who he is.

What he can do, though, is tell you the truth.

“You know how you told me I could have you anytime I want?”

A strand of hair brushes against your cheek as you nod.

“You’ve already had me from the very beginning.”

Your gaze softens, then you sigh sweetly, and he knows without a doubt that the truth is exactly what you need. “Before all the sex?”

“Before we even kissed.”

The distance between you slowly becomes nonexistent. You slot your knee between his thighs, a lick of smile curling at the corner of your lips.

“So… when I ran my foot up your leg?”

His lopsided smile is no different from yours. “No.”

“Last week when I wore your cardigan because the AC got too cold?”

“You looked really pretty in it, but no.”

“Last month?”

“Even before that.”

You click your tongue. “Give me a clue. A hint.”

But you don’t need clues. Clues are for puzzles, for cases that demand solving. This has never been a mystery. He’s known it for longer than he cares to admit, and he wonders if you’re asking because you genuinely don’t see it or because you just want to hear him say it.

Either way, he’ll happily say the truth as plainly as it exists in his mind.

“From the moment you joined the team.” You pause for just a heartbeat, and he reaches out to brush away the stray of hair slipping down into your eyes. “You probably didn't notice, but I couldn't stop staring at you.”

“You’re lying,” you accuse softly.

“I’m a terrible liar.”

He watches as you mull over his words. He knows you’re trying to decide whether to believe him, though he doesn’t think it’s really a question of if. You already know he’s telling the truth.

Your voice is awfully quiet that he has to perk his ears for it.

“What took you so long then?”

Because while he’s a terrible liar, he’s always been painfully good at keeping his heart to himself. Years of compartmentalizing, of burying emotions under layers of logic and detachment, have made it almost second nature. And maybe that’s why it took him so long.

That, and bad timing.

Countless abductions.

A never-ending chase after unsubs.

Death of a team mate.

And prison.

God, prison.

He wonders if these are valid reasons or just excuses. Had there ever been a perfect moment? Or had he let his fears and the chaotic nature of his job push his personal happiness to the sidelines too often?

The words knot in his throat, and in the end, all he can muster is an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

For waiting so long.

For not saying this sooner.

For only finding the courage to make a move under the guise of flirtation and champagne.

He’s selfish. He is. Because he's reaching for you based on his time, his terms, waiting until he was ready to fit you neatly into his schedule. But you simply shake your head. Because that's what you are, isn't it?

You’re selfless, and so profoundly lovely that you offered yourself to him last night without reservation. And now you’re even more radiant, wrapped in the soft light of vulnerability, tinged with doubt, yet always so giving. Pulling him closer to your chest with a hand on his back. Fingers splay across his skin, nails dragging idly along his spine.

“Don’t be,” you reply, feeling his body expand and deflate under your palm when he breathes. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

See? Selfless. The least he can do now is give you back the words you need to hear, the assurance you deserve to hear. Your foreheads press together, and he reverently lays his hand on your cheek, spreading lean fingers into your hair.

“If you must know, I do like you.”

But the word feels so inadequate for what he’s finally trying to tell you. Like doesn't even scratch the surface of how much space you take up in his mind.

"I more than like you,” he decides to add.

It doesn’t take long before you kiss him. Soft petals bloom warmly against his mouth, puffing humid breath he tastes on his tongue. A blissful moan he swallows greedily, lets it settle deep in his chest, his bones, his veins, filling every corner of him with the sweetest weight of you.

A flutter of lashes skims against his cheekbone when you tilt your head, pulling back by the barest inch. “You’ve made a huge mistake, by the way.”

The pad of his fingers presses gently on your scalp. “Why?”

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

His thumb moves against your hairline as he takes in your words. For a moment, all he can do is absorb them, replay them, savor them. Then his eyes soften, the corners crinkling with genuine delight, and he lets out a soft huff of laughter that melts right into the narrow space between you.

He scoots impossibly closer, hoping your skin will somehow mold with his. Because after all the surprisingly creative positions he discovered with you last night, it’s the only conclusion he can come to: you fit into him. Perfectly. Soft curves finding their place against the lines of his frame, every piece of you adhering like glue to his skin.

Chest to chest, nose to nose, and lips so maddeningly close to yours that he can still taste the warmth of your breath, sweet and intoxicating in its nearness. It’s enough to drive him a little insane, though he’d argue he’s always been slightly off-center where you’re concerned.

His fingers twitch, ready to close that infinitesimal gap when the sharp buzz of your phone suddenly slices through the moment.

Six minutes.

That’s all the time the universe has granted him, and it’s woefully too short.

"Might need to block her number," you mutter under your breath as you shift slightly to reach for your phone. He watches the way your fingers fly over the screen rapidly before placing the device back on the side table.

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth." Then you drop on him like a dead weight, limbs tangling in the most inconvenient ways until your head is tucked in the crook of his neck. "Also sent her an eggplant and water emoji.”

A crease forms between his brows. “What does that mean?”

You fail to keep in your laughter. “You don’t want to know.”

He’s fairly certain he does want to know. In fact, he’s starting to realize he wants to know everything about you now that you’ve given him the chance. Beyond the pull of bodies and the way they slot together so seamlessly, beyond the electricity of skin against skin.

Though he can’t deny his curiosity at one precise moment, the way you’d slightly gasped when his fingers accidentally brush around the base of your throat. He wouldn’t mind knowing what that meant for you, and, surprisingly, what that even implied for himself.

But as intriguing as that is, it’s not what lingers the most. It’s the subtleties he wants to unravel, the pieces of you he hadn’t even realized he’d been aching to explore.

Your wit, your thoughts, your mind—that lovely, intricate thing he’s admired for so long. Full of nuances and depths he hadn’t even realized he’d only been skimming the surface of. He’s sure there’s something far greater than even his endless mind could have imagined that ties to the beautiful shape of you.

And you’re so beautiful. He’s known that for years, but mere hours ago, he learned it in an entirely new language. Even when he understands seven different ways the world chooses to communicate and speaks four fluently, yours is his favorite.

Yours doesn’t need words or perfect pronunciation. It’s instinctive and warm, written in every sigh, every glance, every unspoken verse that linger in the subtle shift of your body. In every nuance of your taste.

God, your taste.

He knows you’re right, skin can’t be sweet. The dichotomy isn’t lost in him. Yet it doesn’t matter, because not even the crisp, effervescent bite of champagne compares to the warmth of you. Not even sugar, and he basically lives on sugar. In chocolate-sprinkled donuts that he grabs on the way to work, in the endless cups of coffee that fuel his day.

You’re something else entirely, beyond comprehension.

And if one night was enough to saccharine his senses with you, he can only imagine what forever could do.

[ireverie]

see a cheerleader, breed a cheerleader

pairing ↠ """nerd!"""jake x (f) reader

genre .. warnings ↠ smut, noncon, dubcon, oral (m receiving), male face sitting, face fucking, unprotected sex, blackmail, choking, hitting, virgin!reader

summary ↠ ever since forever, you have always gotten your way with people by whatever means necessary. a wink and a smile is all it takes to make a boy drop to your feet and worship you. no one told you to think that jake sim would be any different. as it turns out, actions do have consequences.

wc ↠ 14.9k

a/n ↠ jeno version of this fic posted on my nct blog revehae. yea, mine. i am her she is me. THERE WILL BE NO SEQUEL. feedback is appreciated!

don’t like it, don’t read.

▸ short, sweet, sometimes sticky

it was supposed to be like everybody else.

short, sweet, maybe sticky if you considered that one time you’d shaken that sunoo boy’s sweat-coated hands and watched the pale of his face burn the same fierce rose as the lens he saw you through. 

you’d laughed lightheartedly to spare him the embarrassment, telling him that everybody got a little sweaty every now and then, especially you. after all, cheerleading was more than skipping around and twirling. and at those words, you’d watched his eyes haze with the image of you damp with sweat, drenched head to toe.

hook, line, and sinker.

far too easy, exactly how you liked them. smart, easy, and utterly unable to resist you.

no one told you to expect something different from jake sim. and why would you? he knew all the right answers, had some of the best marks, and practically lived in the library. he perfectly fit the bill of your standard victim.

which was why you had no qualms about approaching him in the library while he was typing away at his laptop, occasionally sipping from some kind of coffee.

as if he could sense he was in imminent danger and needed to evacuate immediately, jake turned around before you could even make it completely to the table and saw you advancing on him with a pretty, practiced smile. “hi,” you greeted, waving at him. falling, your hands gripped the rear of the chair beside him. ��is someone sitting here?”

jake raised a brow at you, but shook his head. “no, no one’s sitting there.”

“perfect,” you replied, pulling out the chair and taking a seat. you turned so that you were facing him. “jake, right?”

jake nodded slowly, wondering where this was going. he got plenty girls, sure, but none ever approached him in the library. “that’s me,” he said, curious. “do i know you?”

“well, probably not,” you replied, giggling as if something was funny. “but, you know… i’m a cheerleader.”

jake hummed. “are you now?”

you bobbed your head expectantly. “yeah, and i’ve heard about how smart you are. i’m impressed, to be honest. i mean, every time i’m in the library, i see you sitting here. i could never spend so much time here. you must have a lot of resolve to do something like that.”

“you think so?” jake asked, pretending to be flattered just to see where you were leading him. 

“i do. like, really do,” you replied, brushing your fingers against his forearm. “i just have so many other,” better, “things to do, you know. with cheer, i’m either practicing or resting so that i’ll have energy for practice. it’s really hard on me, you know?”

jake stifled a chuckle and glanced back at his laptop screen. “you poor thing.”

your brows stitched. he wasn’t paying nearly enough attention to you. it was almost like he was uninterested. “and that’s why i was wondering if you could help me. i mean, you’re such a genius. you could probably do it in half the time it would take me,” you continued, lowering your hand onto his denim-clad thigh, and becoming surprised by how sturdy it felt.

jake spared a fleeting glance at your hand on his left thigh before his eyes flitted to your face, watching you wink at him and throw him a smile. “let me get this straight,” he started, slowly caressing the back of your hand with his thumb as it sat on his thigh. “you want me to… do your work for you?”

“hey, your hard work wouldn’t go unrewarded,” you insisted, ignoring the unexpected motions of his thumb. “you’d have my attention. i mean, like i said, i don’t have a lot of time to give away. but i’m willing to spend some of it on you.”

jake snickered, unable to help himself anymore. “are you this patronizing to everyone you meet?” he asked.

your eyes flickered. “p-patronizing?”

jake smiled, patting your hand before setting it on your own thigh. “sorry, was that a big word for you? you know, when you think you’re too good for something, but you don’t want to say it, so you play sweet and act like you’re helping me, when really, it’s the other way around.”

switching on a dime, you narrowed your eyes at him. for such a pretty boy, he had quite the attitude. “i know what patronizing means. and right now, i think you’re the one being patronizing.”

“am i?” jake asked, feigning obliviousness. “how’s it taste, cheerleader? doesn’t feel good, does it?”

your face was set in a scowl. sometimes it hurt you to play nice with people, and now was one of those times. “are you gonna help me or not?” you snapped.

“there it is,” jake sang, chuckling to himself. he put his hand on your thigh now, squeezing the flesh gently. for now. “there’s the real you.”

you swallowed, glaring over at him with a hint of defiance despite the disgusting, foreign feeling rotting in your chest. it had never gone like this before. every situation predating this one had been somewhat predictable, to the point where you’d come to expect certain reactions. this was not that.

“i’ll help you,” jake said after a pause.

you forced a smile. “great, so…”

jake interjected, “on one condition.”

smile faltering, you trailed off, processing his words. now he was making some kind of deal with you? who in the hell did this man think he was?

“on one condition?” you echoed, as if you’d somehow misheard him. your brows scrunched in suspicion. “what condition?”

jake grinned, the look on his face sly as hell and a stark contrast from the disgruntled glower on yours. “give me something in return,” was all he said, the tightening hold on your thigh giving away more than his words had.

you gawked, as if you were offended, and quickly swat at his hand. “i’m not having sex with you, you pervert!”

“sure, you’re not,” jake answered with a chuckle, eyes twinkling with amusement. everything about you was alluring to him for mostly all the reasons unintended. “but you said i’d have your attention. i guess you think it’s not often a poor, busy nerd like myself gets anyone’s attention, yeah? but nerds get tired too, don’t they? they need to de-stress…”

“that’s not my problem,” you spat. 

“you getting an F isn’t my problem, either,” jake retorted, shrugging his shoulders. “so what it’s gonna be, cheerleader?”

something about this situation isn’t right to you. maybe it’s the lack of power you currently wielded over him, despite the fact that you had gotten used to having your way with academically competent boys like himself. if he weren’t taller than you and stronger than you, you’d resort to other, more familiar methods.

but jake had changed the entire trajectory of this interaction for the worse, and now you had to determine whether or not it was beneath you to let him treat you as if you were some kind of object. you sulkily mulled it over, arms folded, trying to think of a way to maintain some semblance of power. “fine,” you finally replied, relenting. “but i’m not doing anything that requires me taking my clothes off.”

“you never seen a good porno, cheerleader?” jake asked, a stupid, taunting smile blemishing his lips. “that cute little uniform of yours is the whole appeal to some people.”

“my name is…,” you huffed irritably, tired of being referred to by your title. 

“frankly, cheerleader, i don’t care what your name is,” jake told you with brutal honesty. “you’re the one that introduced yourself as a cheerleader, like that’s your whole personality or something. thinking it would make me fold. you can’t be stupid and demanding.”

you gaped, affronted by the sheer audacity of him to even utter those words to you, like you were some dumb bimbo. “i’m not stupid! i’m just too busy.”

“right. too busy,” jake echoed, obviously none too convinced. “sorry for assuming.”

with a roll of your eyes, you stood up from the table chair, feeling utterly disrespected. “yeah, you should be,” you said, despite knowing his apology was completely inauthentic. “where’s your phone?”

jake arched a brow and glanced over to his phone, sitting face down against the table on the other side of him. before he could even respond, you reached over him to grab it and pointed it at his face, unlocking it as if you’d done it a million times before.

then, you started typing away, all the while jake watched you with an amused expression on his face. he had to admit, you were surely something. and though he found you entertaining, he couldn’t shake the thought that you desperately needed someone to put you in your place.

“reach me here,” you said after a moment, handing him his phone back. the screen was on his messages, a fresh contact with you.  “pleasure doing business with you.”

with that, you walked away. 

jake shook his head, scoffing. who the hell did you think you were?

over the next few days or so, you met with jake to better construct exactly what your expectations were pertaining to your work. or at least, those were the words he’d used. most of those limited encounters had ended with his hands sealing around your breasts.

you let it slide, deciding that a little over-the-clothes stuff was relatively harmless. after all, this was the busiest you’d been all year long, and you were far too exhausted when you got home to be burdened with stupid assignments and pesky discussion posts. the next two months, if not the next two weeks, were going to kill you if you didn’t have someone to carry at least half the workload on your behalf.

it was okay. jake’s inability to keep his hands to himself was fine. it wasn’t like anybody was going to know, or that this arrangement would last long enough for them to find out. you would get to keep your dignity and your grades, without saving one at the expense of the other.

short, sweet, and sticky, remember? maybe the latter was simply manifesting in the way jake’s hands were stuck to you. not that anything about him was sweet.

more like sacrifice.

▸ gilded age

“guess who just made the list of this week’s top ten trending sluts,” jennie said as she walked up beside you and roseanne.

roseanne perked up that, though she couldn’t help but mischievously quip, “you?”

jennie narrowed her eyes. “hoe, as if,” she spat. “i know how to keep my legs closed.”

you snickered. “god, what happened now?”

“a sex tape got leaked. hyeri, and apparently sunghoon.”

your nose scrunched, as if disgusted. “always knew she was a slut. i mean, you should have been there to see the way she acted around the jocks in high school. her eyes were practically screaming, ‘pick me, choose me, fuck me,’” you mocked.

roseanne burst into giggles, downing the rest of what was left in her red cup. “i don’t think that’s how that goes,” she chimed. “but sunghoon? is she crazy? i hope they didn’t do it raw. i heard rumors that he’s got the clap.” 

“he sure clapped something, alright,” jennie retorted, much to your amusement. “it was definitely raw. hope it was worth the itch. you guys wanna see?”

“absolutely not,” you said, shaking your head vigorously. “i bet her parents would love to see it, though. on second thought, send me it.”

roseanne gawked. “are you serious?”

you bobbed your head, grinning deviously. “yeah. you guys have no idea what that bitch was like in high school. i tried teaching her a lesson, but she just never learned. it’s like the bitch is addicted to pain or something.”

jennie shook her head, pretending to disapprove, though she was intrigued to see how far you would your obvious loathing. “just sent it.”

your phone vibrated in your hand a few seconds later. you opened your instagram burner account, scrolling through your main’s following to find hyeri’s mother’s page, and dropped the video in her inbox. your sly giggle alerted your friends to your success and you dropped your phone in your pocket, satisfied.

“oh, you’re sick,” jennie insulted playfully, nudging your arm. “i wonder if she’ll say anything.”

you shrugged your shoulders, feigning nonchalance as if you weren’t excited to see how her mother would respond. “don’t know, but i’m more curious about if she’ll talk to hyeri about it. i’d love to be a fly on the myung’s wall when that happens.”

roseanne tapped your shoulder. “hey, don’t look now, but that jake guy is staring you.”

your head whirled around, spotting jake in his own corner of the party, indeed watching your every move as if he wanted to consume you and was waiting for the perfect moment to attack. which, if he was, would not be surprising. 

roseanne sighed in annoyance. “i literally just said don’t look now.”

you turned back to face them, shaking your head. “don’t worry about that creep,” you replied, brushing it off. “he’s just begging to get in my pants. didn’t even know he went to parties.”

for whatever reason, jennie laughed. something about what you said tickled her, apparently. “um, yeah. that’s jake for you, alright. he’s either partying with his friends or grinding in the library, no in between. perfectly balanced lifestyle, i have to admit it.”

your brows furrowed. that was news to you. and probably an important piece of information that you’d conveniently missed when narrowing down your targets. maybe you should have asked around about him more. you just didn’t think that someone who studied as hard as he did could also be the life of the party.

what was he doing here, anyway? shouldn’t he have been off doing your homework? useless fucking nerdy-not.

“do you guys know each other or something?” roseanne pressed, noticing the strange tension in the air despite the fact that you and jake were feet apart. which was honestly admirable. “do you think you could get him to put me on with jungwon?”

jennie’s laughter rang out again, only this time, it was much louder, and much more mocking. “please. jungwon isn’t gonna touch any of us after how she broke his heart. you’d have better luck with jaehyun,” she sneered.

roseanne glared, a snarl on her face. “fuck jaehyun.”

“yeah, i bet you want to. i bet you’re still dreaming of that big, thick, meaty dick you wouldn’t shut up about, like, two months ago.”

“a lot can change in two months.”

“oh, it sure can,” jennie replied, humming. “it sure can.”

▸ takes two to tango

jake: come over

you: no

jake: that wasn’t a request 

you: no where in our agreement does it say you get to boss me around

jake: not even for an A?

you: that’s what your grabby hands are for

jake: i don’t have to do this, you know. i can let you be a grown up and fiend for yourself like the rest of us

you: i’m otw, chill. jesus

the knock of your fist against jake’s door was incessant, more than likely enough to exasperate his neighbors, given that it was particularly late at night and a good number of them had to have been sleeping.

jake threw the door open with a scowl, obviously irritated. “you are so fucking annoying,” he hissed, dragging you inside and shutting the door behind you. 

“ow!” you cried out, snatching your arm away. “stop that, i’m sore.”

jake shook his head, his discontent frown disappearing in favor of an entertained, idiotic smile. “sore, huh? from doing what?”

you rolled your eyes. “if it isn’t obvious, i’m a cheerleader,” you reminded, gesturing down to your uniform. “meaning, i cheer.”

ignoring your snarky attitude, jake glanced you up in down, taking in the sight of you in that tight, short cheer uniform that clung to you rather snugly. sweat still beaded at your damp legs and likely gathered between your breasts and down your back, as jake was imagining. “yeah, you cheer. you won’t let me forget,” he said, amused.

“well, i’m busy,” you said, crossing your arms.

busy, my fucking ass, jake thought to himself. “yeah, you won’t let me forget that, either. and yet, i saw you giggling with your friends at a party two weeks ago, looking completely fine. your poor, exhausted legs seemed to be working perfectly.”

“what, so i can’t have hobbies now?”

“sure, you can,” jake replied, shrugging his shoulders. “i just have to ask, do you ever do anything productive with your time?”

“of course, i do,” you hissed, before quickly deflecting, “but we both know that’s not why you made me come all the way over here. so, what do you want?”

“your attention,” jake said without missing a beat. his hands plopped against your bare shoulders and began wandering down your arms, rubbing them back and forth. “i’m in desperate need of a cheerleader’s sweet, precious attention.”

the disgruntled grimace on your face was the most effort you made to express your discomfort, not that he was looking there anyway. to him, at the moment, the sight of your body was much more appetizing. you watched with a repugnant burn simmering in your gaze as his eyes met your long, slender legs.

without warning, jake grabbed you by your waist and hoisted you into the air, making you cry out in surprise. arms dangling around his neck, you held on for dear life, not an inch of your body feeling safe in his arms. you had been hauled further away from the ground by your cheermates, but this was different; no one wanted to fail, meaning no one would drop you. you had no reason to assume that jake would handle you delicately.

but his burly arms, however, were not lost on you. though you hadn’t yet seen them in full power, your interactions mostly taking form of him forcing your back flush against the chiseled muscle of his chest as he kneaded yours, you could only imagine what the hands that groped you were capable of. 

in a matter of seconds, you landed on your back against his sheets, another shrill screech escaping your throat. “jake, what the hell?” you exclaimed. 

“i’m not getting on my knees for you,” jake said, the slyest of smiles tugging at his lips. “not unless it’s to fuck you. and you’re just too good to give it up, aren’t you?”

for him, definitely. and you would have said so, but your lips parted in a gasp, surprised and startled. something wet pushed along your sore legs, which were abruptly yanked to pillars far above your head so that they’d be more conveniently within reach of jake’s tongue as he licked long, hot lines at them.

your eyes were rooted on him, fixed in a shape unlike their natural narrowed, black blaze and it would instead be more apt likening them to the fear and fret of a deer in crossed paths. wide, waiting, almost innocent. too used to circumstance to understand its fabric and too unfamiliar to chance to understand its fate.

unsatisfied, jake bent your knee and pushed your leg further as he stood over the edge of his bed, and, in turn, over you, a grip on your ankles that you could feel in your bones. “jake, that hurts,” you whined. 

jake didn’t understand why you were bitching. “but you’re a cheerleader,” he echoed. “aren’t you flexible?”

you writhed uncomfortably as he continued shamelessly, tongue even daring to twist against the bone underneath the bend of your knee, a sensation that itched more than you expected. his lips sealed around your skin, sucking and nibbling.

needless to say, it was unlike anything you had experienced before. “stop, that’s weird!”

“stop complaining,” jake groaned, pushing your leg even harder. “it’s like all you ever do is complain about how hard your life is.”

your eyes stung now not only with loathing, but the threat of hot tears. it was stupid; it sounded dramatic, but you felt it was warranted when he was the one actively making your life harder. “you’re a fucking weirdo,” you snapped. 

jake heard it. the slight tremble in your voice despite the courage you’d been feigning. that was the sole reason he even bothered to look up at your face, the tears in them stealing his attention away in a heartbeat. he didn’t know whether to be amused or annoyed, or maybe even both. “god, now you’re crying,” he pointed out. “i haven’t even done anything to you. do you need me to give you a reason to cry?”

you shook your head. all you needed was to go home and recharge. you were beginning to doubt whether or not he was worth the trouble he carried with him in exchange for a grade that would keep your parents off your back, especially if he was going to make pulling stunts like this a regular habit. 

the last thing you expected jake to do was tug the bottom of your top past the shadow of your breasts, slackening the taut grip on your ankles in favor of your wrists as if he knew you would dare resist him, and burying his face between your chest. you exhaled shakily, mortified by the hot, wet feel of his tongue licking a stripe between your breasts, gathering leftover sweat on its tip.

and you did thrash. but you were getting a taste of that power now; a power that wasn’t your own, a power that you couldn’t reap. a power that grabbed you with its calloused fist with a might so strong you couldn’t move. and it was for the first time that you felt utterly weak. there had to be a word for something as unfathomable as that, but it was so foreign to you that you couldn’t think of it.

to make matters worse, jake was taking his time, sucking bruises onto the skin of your chest in between his licking, as if he wanted to ensure there was no spot left untouched, no drop of sweat left behind. your face strained with discomfort, wanting more than anything to get away from him and this awful feeling rotting inside of your heart.

maybe your cries for mercy were heard, because no sooner had you hoped for an end than it came. “you can go now,” jake said, pulling away. he pulled your shirt back down and smoothed out any wrinkles, which was almost kind of him.

even though you were more than eager to be rid of him, you lay there, dumbfounded. it was one thing to be violated, and it was another to be dismissed, but to happen in rapid succession of each other quickly bred some ugly emotion that was only festering.

jake had expected you to scurry out of his bed, and out of his apartment, so the fact that you were still there bemused him. “what, do you want more?” he teased. 

you shook your head, sitting up a little too quickly. your head started to feel lightheaded. you barked, “that isn’t what i agreed to!”

jake had the audacity to laugh. like you had told a joke of some kind. “isn’t it? your clothes are still technically on. that was what you agreed to. remember?”

you dropped to your feet, pushing past him. “you’re disgusting,” was all you said, making a beeline for the door.

“takes two to tango, baby,” jake called after you, simpering.

you didn’t look back. you couldn’t. there was an unpleasant stir in your gut - not as easily distinguishable as the loathing - unlike anything you had ever felt and you desperately wanted it to go away, to rid of yourself of anything that even remotely resembled jake sim.

 ▸ chess, not checkers

deep, low grunts smacked against the walls and bounced back with almost the same amount of vigor of jake’s quick, unrelenting hips, the sound nearly as hard and heavy as he was. the only thing rivaling the tightness of the hole he was using was the wince of his closed eyes and the grip of his strong hands.

jake didn’t want to see. it would be too blatantly obvious that she wasn’t you, and that it wasn’t your blemished hips he was holding. though she sounded nothing like you. he knew that you would have been so much whinier, and despite finding them painfully obnoxious, he found himself longing to hear all your worthless, melodramatic complaints.

instead, he heard soft moans mingling with his own labored sounds as his hips moved with a mind of their own, imagining it was you underneath him where you truly belonged.

the image stained the back of his eyelids, burned behind them every time he closed his eyes; the shortness of your pleated skirt scrunched around your hips, weak legs on his broad shoulders with nicks and bruises scattered here and there, arms swinging aimlessly.

and if he got tired of hearing you, he could simply press his palm squarely against your mouth, muting the sound of your incessant fussing. if he really wanted to put you in your place, he could clasp his hands around your throat and clamp down onto your windpipe till all that escaped you was a pitiful, featherlight squeak.

jake could tell no one had ever properly put you in your place before, no one had ever stood up to you and reminded you of your level. you were in desperate need of a humbling and didn’t even know it yourself. no one better than jake for the role, he figured. a little cheerleader parading around in a uniform to feel different from everybody else she met didn’t scare him whatsoever.

the only thing saving you was essentially the fact that you were undeniably pretty and not necessarily to blame for the school’s superficial culture, which elevated girls like you in terms of status despite it having no real meaning or manifestations outside of campus, and put you on top when you were within the bubble.

but outside the bubble, away from the boys who thought of you as this beautiful, unattainable poison and the girls who enabled you with a faux sense of togetherness, you had no real identity, no real power, and no real worth.

and yet, maybe jake was contributing to the problem. maybe he had inadvertently become one of the people elevating you. because choking in the heat of the moment, he uttered your name, forgetting who he was with and where he was.

hands shoved at him, hard. at least, hard enough for him to be jolted out of his reverie, finally gazing into the eyes that seethed because of him. “did you just call me that evil witch’s name?” seoa barked.

jake winced. that was a fair reaction, all things considered. he wouldn’t have wanted to have been called your name out of everyone’s, either. he rubbed his nape. “well…”

“unbelievable,” seoa replied, scoffing. she got out of the bed and hurriedly began picking her clothes up from the floor, redressing herself.

jake exhaled a breath, mostly annoyed that his orgasm had been ruined, but still feeling a hint of sympathy. “seoa, wait,” he said, touching her shoulder.

seoa recoiled, pulling away. jake had never seen anyone be so ready to put on their pants after being with him, not even with a hell of a schedule after. “never touch me again,” she spat, walking out with her shoes in tow. “fuck you.”

jake ran a hand through his hair, watching her leave, and murmured under his breath, “god dammit.”

a few days later, while they were attending a festival, jay marched over to jake, draping an arm over his shoulder, and asked, “wanna tell me why seoa blocked all of us and she’s been glaring at me and mark since she got here?”

jake snickered, shaking his head in slight disbelief. he was over it by now, he figured she would be too. “i let a certain cheerleader’s name slip while i was balls deep inside her,” he confessed. which he wasn’t necessarily proud of, considering the only reason he even knew your name was because you’d saved your own contact on his phone.

jay’s brows furrowed, glancing around as if he was trying to spot you in the crowd like a heat-seeking missle. “who?”

rolling his eyes, jake grabbed the back of jay’s head with one hand and turned it in your general direction, hoping it would help. and jake knew it had when jay’s confusion melted into disgust. 

“oh, that bitch?” he asked, nose wrinkled.

jake chuckled, releasing his friend’s head. “she’s a bitch, but she’s pretty.”

jay couldn’t argue with that fact even if he’d wanted to. “yeah, i’ll give her that. cute in the face. she’s fake as hell, though. played jungwon like a fiddle. he did six months worth of her homework because she promised they’d get together.”

that was news to jake. he knew you were cruel, having had stories from sunoo and the like, but he never knew of your history with jungwon. if it could be called that. “did they fuck?” he couldn’t help but ask.

jay shook his head, taking a sip from the bottle in his hand before he answered, “he said she always turned him down. told him she was waiting for ‘the perfect moment.’”

now that was funny as hell. jake had only known you for a few weeks and yet even he quickly pieced together that you weren’t the romantic type. “well, that’s fucked up,” he said, happily accepting yet another reason to dislike you. “but he’s dumb as fuck if he did her homework for six months without getting a crumb of pussy in return.”

jay made a face, nodding. “yeah,” he exhaled, giving the impression that he’d wanted to defend jungwon. “but man, what possessed you to say her name while fucking the seoa? i need a good excuse. you just blew my shot with her.”

jake shrugged. “don’t have one. she approached me maybe three weeks ago asking me to do her homework, and i agreed.”

jay gawked. that didn’t sound like jake. like at all. “man, what? is she paying you?”

“oh, dividends,” jake quipped.

“oh, and in what? pussy?”

“nope.”

jay looked horrified. he was so damn dramatic. “then, why the hell are you doing her bidding? that doesn’t sound like you.”

it didn’t, not immediately, but jake had his reasons. “entertainment purposes,” he replied curtly.

jay shook his head, taking another swig of his drink. certainly, he was drinking, not smoking. “you’re becoming her pawn for entertainment purposes? unbelievable, bro.”

“chess, not checkers, jay.” jake smirked, putting a hand on jay’s shoulder. “you’ll see.”

▸ things good guys do 

“you’re lucky i was already out,” jake told you when you let him into your apartment. “it’s the middle of the night for fuck’s sake. what do you want?”

“oh, please,” you spat, damn near rolling your eyes. your arms were folded. “you get to call me over at the ungodly hour, but when i do it, it’s a problem?”

jake exhaled through his nose and ran a hand through his hair, wondering why he bothered to come here when he had no obligation to do your bidding, as jay had put it. but something told him that he wouldn’t have any regrets. “yeah, it is. now, what do you want?”

you were silent for a few moments, somewhat ashamed of the request you would ultimately make. you sighed, surrendering. “i need help with calculus,” you finally said.

jake’s shoulders drooped, eyes shrinking in a contemptuous disbelief. “seriously?”

“seriously,” you repeated, sitting down on your couch as your laptop screen glared back at you from the coffee table.

jake groaned, “i seriously don’t know how you even got into this school. can’t you do anything by yourself?”

you gawked, affronted. he made you sound like some incompetent, immature dickhead. “contrary to a weirdly popular belief, i’m actually really smart,” you insisted, having the transcripts to prove it. “but my professor sucks and i need an eighty-nine on my final to keep my A. and it’s not like you can walk in and take it for me because it’s proctored.”

jake shook his head and reminded, “you know this little agreement we have doesn’t include me tutoring you, right?”

“it didn’t include you assaulting me, either,” you retorted.

“you think that was assault?” jake asked, scoffing. he dropped beside you on your couch, the proximity instinctively making you suck in a breath. “if i wasn’t a good guy, i’d show you assault.”

scooting over to ensure maximum distance between your bodies, you argued, “good guys don’t call themselves good guys.”

“good guys have self-control,” jake replied matter-of-factly, resisting a chuckle. he didn’t make a move to touch you, but he noticed how tense you looked now that he was sitting beside you. “i’ll tutor you, but we’ll have to up the terms of our agreement.”

you swallowed sharply, throat bobbing. you had a feeling you weren’t going to enjoy these new terms. “what do you want?”

“a blowjob.”

“that’s disgusting,” you spat without a second thought, features contorting with repugnance.

jake quipped, “and so is your inability to do your school work without using and depending on every intelligent boy you meet, but hey, i’m sure you can’t help that.”

you sighed, exasperated, and cradled your face in your hands. was this seriously what your life had come to? giving a boy a blowjob in exchange for a pretty transcript?

jake grinned, appreciating the sight of you in distress. it was a sign, a good sign, and he intended to bring it out of you more and more, bleeding you absolutely dry. lowering a hand onto your thigh, he urged, “come on, bruise those little knees for me. don’t you bruise ‘em for cheer?”

“that’s not the same!” you whined. 

“of course, it’s not,” jake said, squeezing your thigh as his shoulders trembled with laughter. “cheer isn’t helping you graduate with flying colors.”

you desperately wanted him to be wrong, you were begging for him to be wrong, but you both knew that if he was, he wouldn’t have been here with you at the moment. not now, not three weeks ago, not ever. so you sucked it up, slamming down your laptop lid, and grumbled, “fine.”

maybe he didn’t come here for nothing, after all. grateful he’d trusted his gut, jake stood up and clutched your arm to pull you along with him. “come on, let’s go to your room. i like my blowjobs a little messy and i’m sure you don’t want to mess up your nice carpet.”

you snatched your arm away from him, hating his insistence on touching you for every little reason whenever he possibly could, even if it was insignificant. your mouth was taut as you begrudgingly headed for your bedroom.

it was obvious that you were sour. walking behind you, jake couldn’t help but chime, “glad to see that you can at least walk by yourself!”

you bristled in annoyance, wishing you could just get rid of him, but you knew it wouldn’t be wise to discard him so quickly. at least for now, he still held some kind of value.

jake walked in behind you, looking particularly radiant, and you hated that you knew why. hell, you hated the reason itself. “get on your knees,” he commanded.

normally, you would complain about him giving you orders as if you were his lap dog or something, but you just wanted to get this over with. you were already so over this entire week. you slowly dropped to your knees, trying to ignore how demeaning it felt. 

“good girl,” jake praised at your compliance. “now, look up at me with those pretty eyes and ask me to help you with calc. ask me nicely.”

you met his eyes, noticing the expectant glimmer in his gaze that you so badly wanted to knock off. but you weren’t dumb enough to incite violence against a grown man that walked around with his bulging muscles on display for all the world to see, and you didn’t doubt that he would hit you back. “jake, please help me with calculus,” you pleaded, choosing your battles.

jake hummed, satisfied. “you sound so pretty and sweet when you ask nicely, instead of demanding things. didn’t know you were capable of that,” he told you, running his fingers through your hair. “take it out. get me hard.”

your hands moved to his sweatpants, tugging at them enough to bring them down just shy of his knees, and doing the same with his underwear. he wasn’t hard yet, but that would be an easy fix; witnessing your state of pure anguish, watching you speak and move as if you were totally dejected, always excited him.

not to mention that the sight of you on your knees for him, the more he took it in, was arousing him even more than he thought it would. he had pictured it in his mind before, you serving him, pleasuring him, existing solely for him, but nothing could compare to the sight he beheld now.

at least, nothing other than you actually doing something rather than sitting there like an idiot. he liked taking control, but he figured you would take matters into your own hands, literally, when he gave the order. “do you need me to tell you what to do or something?” he asked, huffing irritably. “put your tongue on it. tease the head.”

your face and ears burned in ways they rarely did, but you nodded wordlessly and did as told, bracing your hands on his thighs and reluctantly pressing your tongue onto his tip, looking anywhere but his eyes as the muscle swirled around.

that amused jake to no end. at least for now, he would let it slide, not feeling the need to maintain eye contact with you at the moment. if he needed to, he would simply just grab a nice, thick fistful of your hair and yank it back to jolt your head up at him. he could still see your pretty, bare face, hair arranged messily at the top of your head with a few needless strands jutting out here and there.

he liked that. of course, he would have been more than enthusiastic to have you suck him off if you’d been all dolled up, making you ruin your makeup and undo at least an hour of careful, clean work, but he also just took pleasure in seeing this natural, undone part of you. he wanted to see you for what you really were.

it didn’t take long for him to get hard. with all his thoughts revolving around you and the feel of your tongue on the head of his dick, that was a no-brainer. “good, now put it in your mouth. take as much as you can and not an inch less,” jake instructed.

widening your mouth, you accepted his stout, heavy cock into your mouth, lips forming a tight suction around the head and steadily advancing down his shaft. bit by bit, inch by nightmarishly thick inch. you had made it maybe halfway down his shaft when you quickly discovered your limit.

jake was surprisingly content, despite the fact that you definitely still had a few more inches to go. “there you go,” he said, giving your head a soft pat of approval. “suck. go slow. and don’t you dare let me feel any teeth.” 

your heart was thumping out of something you could only understand as fear, even though jake hadn’t done anything to warrant it yet. inhaling through your nose, you tried to level your breathing, taking your time to draw in his cock lest you made a mistake. the hint of warning in jake’s voice, in spite of the calmness, was clear.

jake, on the other hand, was reaching elysian heights. faint grunts of, “fuck,” escaped his pink lips, large hands at his sides reflexively tensing into tightly clenched fists in need of something to grab, hips just barely stuttering. your mouth was hot and wet, with the added benefit of your torturous tongue pressed against his size.

there was a pinch of desperacy in your actions that overcame the resistance; a desperacy not necessarily to please him, but to appease him. accidents were the last thing you could afford and eliciting his frustration was the last thing you wanted.

“lick,” jake said, chest undulating. “up and down.”

with a hum, you started drawing long, wet lines back and forth on his veiny shaft, almost as if you were tracing the bold veins with your tongue. jake’s reaction was instantaneous, deep groans the only thing you could hear other than the wet sound of your mouth on his cock, sucking and licking. 

jake’s eyes fluttered closed. “fuck. yeah, like that.”

you pressed your tongue against the underside of his dick, lingering in each spot for a moment before you continued, mostly because he seemed to like it when you did. which was your north star in an empty, dead night, because you had not a clue what the hell you were doing and you were afraid of making it obvious somehow.

if jake could tell, he didn’t make it known. he was in a world of his own, all too happily reaping the pleasure from your mouth as if it was a dream come true for him. “kiss my balls. lick it.”

you stifled the sigh you were half tempted to let loose, pulling off his cock with a wet sound and a string of saliva connecting from the sticky tip to your glossy lips. moving your head, you took a moment to steel yourself before peppering tiny, soft kisses along his balls, down to his scrotum.

it wasn’t the most dignifying thing you had ever done, it may have even been the least, but your aching, sore jaw appreciated the break from sucking. you dragged your tongue over his testicles, tasting nothing but rubbery flesh. you were too busy avoiding his eyes to notice, but his face was tensing with pleasure, lips parting in low murmurs.

compared to when you first started, jake was drastically harder now, massive, monstrous cock nearly bursting at the veins with precum leaking out from the thick tip. had your goal been to take all of him entirely, the sheer size of him would have immediately overwhelmed you.

“switch to your hand and go back to sucking me off,” jake said, firm yet quiet. it sounded like he was trying to restrain himself, barely holding it together.

at least you were a fast learner. teasing the head of his cock, you gave it a few slow, tentative licks before you began to take him into your mouth again, all the while gently fondling his balls with your fingers. jake groaned, arching into your touch. he couldn’t help himself.

you could taste the vicious amount of precum staining your tongue and you didn’t know how to describe it, other than slightly tart. the flavor blended with that of your own saliva, lingering on the roof of your mouth and the warm flesh underneath the flap of your tongue, mild as could be.

at least it wasn’t downright awful. you had heard stories before, not that you’d ever known what to make of them, or even pictured yourself being inside of them. if a month ago, someone had told you that you’d be on your knees for a man - for anyone - you would have said they were delusional.

jake’s patience had worn thin and when you least expected it, he hauled you into the air, making you cry out in surprise just as you had the first time he’d lifted you into his buff, meaty arms. he tossed you onto the bed, just shy of the headboard, and suddenly straddled your chest. you gasped out a breath.

“open up,” jake said, cock positioned right in front of your mouth.

not that he gave you the time to obey him, because he pressed himself against your slightly parted lips and forced them wider, entering your mouth on his own. your face strained, perfectly threaded brows tugging down into a discontented arch.

when you tried to pull away, jake grabbed the sides of your face and pushed you onto his shaft with trembling hands, making you take him and leaving no room for escape, not until he decided he was done with you. there was only one concern present in his mind and that was getting himself off.

tears stung your eyes, that same implacable feeling you had when he’d dragged his tongue over the expanse of your soft, shaved legs and bare, sweaty chest finding you again in the most of unwanted company. jake scoffed, spitefully tugging at your hair. “you know what’s funny? you’re such a fucking crybaby. you can’t take even half of what you give to others.”

chin flush against his scrotum and your nose not even an inch away from his bush, you almost gagged. the slurping sounds were humiliating, loud, wet squelching with every other big gulp making you want to shrink. however, jake loved it, obsessing over the idea of making a mess out of you. the sound went straight to his dick.

jake held your face in that low position, deeper than you’d ever taken him so far. “i’m really not that bad of a guy, you know,” jake said, sounding like he truly believed it. you could have scoffed, if not for obvious reasons. “you just bring it out of me. i’m really just treating you like how you treat everybody else.”

he made you sound like something straight out of hell and you couldn’t help but think it was an unfair justification for something that felt too close to punishment. he obviously thought he knew you better than he did and it made you aggravated. that, or he somehow thought he was better than you.

there was a fleeting second of relief when jake unmounted your chest and let you breathe, only to be crushed again when he dragged you by your wrists to the edge of your mattress, leaving you in the deep end. your eyes struggled to grasp with the flipped image of him nearing you, cock back down your throat before you could even blink.

though his hips thankfully had been moving at a calmer, steady pace before, despite forcing himself deeper than you could handle, he began to thrust more urgently into your mouth with the new change, embedding himself even further into your throat than you knew was possible. 

you cried harder, hating every second of it. the salty, bitter tang of your tears mingled with the tainted taste of spit and sharp bite of precum that had come to stain your chin and cupid’s bow. the vigor of his movements was overwhelming, overpowering.

“that’s it, cheerleader. cry harder,” jake taunted, tracing his thumb over your face to swipe at the trail of tears. all the while his hips were moving faster, harder.

it felt like such a mockery, him doing that. a feigned act of sympathy while perpetuating the torment that was reducing you to tears as a selfish means of achieving pleasure of his own. 

then, his hands wandered down to your breasts, slipping inside your night shirt and mauling your chest. running his hands in a circle, his thumb brushed the erect, colored nipples and he clasped his hands around your chest, squeezing your breasts. “fuck, i’m close,” he grunted, grip tightening, pace hastening, force increasing. 

with how close he was, your nose was squarely against his the flesh of his balls, effectively cutting off your exhale. your heart thudded, racing and pounding. tensing with panic, your hands frantically moved, striking at his navel and thighs. even your legs were in alarm, unstill towards the other end of the bed. 

jake groaned, smacking your cheek. another slap followed the sizzle, straight against your chest. “calm the fuck down,” he hissed, raising his arm in preparation to hit you again. “i’ll let you breathe as soon as i come, so you better not get in the way, if you know what’s good for you.”

even if you wanted to, you couldn’t stay calm. your body physically couldn’t handle it, responding the only way it knew how, trying to protect you. somebody had to. you closed your eyes, face warm with tears and panic, and you tried to brace your hands on the sheets, anything to comfort and stabilize yourself.

it got to a point where jake couldn’t hold back anymore and he climaxed with a prolonged, guttural groan, hips still brutally smacking into your mouth as he painted your tongue and the back of your throat with his cum. he went as far as to grab your head again, forcing himself onto you as deep as he could go, and demanding, “swallow it.”

like hell you would. you pushed him away, coughing and choking as soon as you did, drops of cum pooling from your mouth and some of it flying here and there in the midst of your coughing fit.

irritated, jake pressed his tongue against the roof his mouth. “you’re so fucking useless,” he groaned, grabbing his phone from the pocket of his sweatpants and quickly turning on the camera. “look at you. sitting here choking on my cum. you want it again, don’t you?”

you sat up, nearly tumbling over the edge of your bed from the intense convulsing, and turned to face the other way as you hunched over, tightly clasping your sheets. “fuck off, you got what you wanted!” you rasped.

jake laughed. you sounded so gravelly. “you’re right. i did,” he replied, putting back on his pants and pocketing his phone. “so, tutoring. i’ll see you tomorrow. nighty night, cheerleader.”

he gave you a pat on the head and turned, heading straight for the door.

▸ hard feelings

something about today was different than usual. 

when you woke up, you had felt a shift in the air, but you’d chalked it up to being nervous about the final you had in three hours.

but when you finally went to go take it, however, you quickly realized that the unsettling feeling you had was not simply pre-exam jitters. it was something much more sinister than that. with the status you held on campus, you were used to being watched and gawked at, but this was different.

it felt like everybody and their mother was looking at you.

you were confused. you had been the subject of this much attention before, but only once; it was a couple years back when someone had spread a dirty, foul rumor about you. there was a social media page for your school called top ten, mostly used to shame women for their sexual exploits, but some men made their way on it too. that was how you heard about sunghoon’s clap rumor.

long story short, a rumor about you had originated there and it had taken you weeks to clear your name. but by that time, there was already another slut of the week. you were lucky to have your situation not only be false and debunked, but word of mouth. only the most unlucky of people, like hyeri, got images or videos of themselves posted.

and you were a community favorite. you would understand if you were new, but you had built a reputation around here. why would anybody believe floating rumors about you now?

but the abundance of stares didn’t end there. even in the cafe, you had caught someone watching you a little too hard to be a casual leer of admiration. and you were determined to find out why.

fortunately, you were able to find jennie and roseanne walking and talking in the courtyard, and you called out their names to stop them.

jennie turned first, and you watched her smile drop in real time. she glanced around, frantic, as if she was worried about someone watching her too.

roseanne smiled thinly, halfheartedly lifting her hand to wave. “hey,” she greeted quietly, matching jennie’s nerves.

they knew something you didn’t and it was glaringly obvious. “what’s going on?” you asked. “everyone’s looking at me and i know i’m not going crazy yet.”

jennie and roseanne glanced between each other, as if they both had bad news but neither of them wanted to be the one to tell you. after a few seconds, jennie groaned and said, “you might want to check top ten.”

your brows furrowed. you, on top ten? again? god, people could be so infuriating. “ugh, what rumor did they spread about me this time?”

jennie winced, which only made you more anxious. “it’s not just a rumor,” she whispered. “…it’s a video.”

“video?” you echoed in disbelief. that didn’t make sense. you hadn’t been with anyone except… except jake. you tensed with anger.

roseanne opened her phone to show you the video that had been posted. it was an anonymous submission that claimed to be a recording of you. unfortunately, it was you, bits of your chest exposed from jake reaching into your shirt and drops of cum landing there as you fought for breath. your face wasn’t visible, but there were some other distinguishing signs, like your hair and skin and sheets.

your heart thudded and your shoulders went cold, but your eyes were scalding. you were well aware that jake didn’t like you, you didn’t exactly love him either, but you never thought he would stoop low enough to hurt you like this.

“i’m sorry,” roseanne apologized, dropping her phone in her purse when you were done. the video was only a few seconds long, but the damage was forever. “but don’t worry. it’s not like it’s top three worthy. everyone will move on next week.”

jennie nodded in agreement and briefly patted your back. “yeah. we’ll hang out again when this all blows over, i promise.”

then, they walked away. leaving you reeling with ache and betrayal. your friends didn’t want to be seen with you anymore. you were an embarrassment.

you swallowed the bitter feeling scorching up your throat and tapped your pockets for your phone, knowing there was one person you needed to see. 

you: you and i need to talk. right now.

jake: about what?

you: don’t play dumb, i know you sent that video in!

jake: maybe u should have swallowed

you: you know what, i don’t need you. i never have. and i don’t want your help anymore. just leave me alone

jake: [one attachment]

jake: you sure about that? because i’m sure there’s plenty of people that would love to see the version with your face in it

you gawked, hiding your phone screen against your chest while glancing around to make sure no one could see.

adjusting your brightness, you unlocked your phone again and texted him back hurriedly.

you: why are you doing this?! i’ve never done anything to you

jake: this is bigger than just you and me

jake: now if you don’t want everyone to see that pretty face, come put those lips around me again and we can work something out

and that was how it started. though you hadn’t had the upper hand in weeks, this was the moment you completely lost it. what was once an arrangement for him to help you in exchange for your attention became a hole of misery that you couldn’t dig yourself out of.

one blowjob became two, and two became three until you started to immediately recognize what it meant when you saw his name appear on your screen, knowing what it was before he even asked. not that he ever technically asked. it was always a command, a claim to your body wherever and whenever he wanted.

if you tried to be strong, if you tried to break free of him, he always threatened to make sure that recordings of you on your knees for him went up for all the world to see and no one would ever think of you the same way again. he was more than willing to taint the pretty, perfect image of yourself that you presented to the world.

you felt stuck, trapped. isolated with nowhere to go, no way out. you tried to conjure up a way to escape this situation, but you couldn’t think of anything feasible. if you wanted to protect what was left of your social life and dignity, if you wanted to go outside without being ashamed, your only option was to be compliant.

no matter how many late nights and sore throats you had to go through.

you were in the middle of dozing off, your head leaning off to the side, when the sound of your phone ringing suddenly jolted you awake. you were tempted to ignore it until you saw the contact and begrudgingly pressed the phone to your ear. “hello?” you grumbled.

“i’ve been texting you,” jake said, sounding miffed.

you sighed, glancing over at the clock on your nightstand. “it’s literally two in the morning,” you complained. “i just got home from cheer practice and i’m trying to study for my last final. i haven’t even showered yet.”

“aw, poor thing,” jake crooned, pretending to care. “come over.”

you heartless, selfish bastard, you snapped in your head. of course, you were in no place to say that out loud, so you settled for a calm, “okay,” and hung up.

stifling a yawn, you grabbed your keys and lazily stepped into a nearby pair of shoes, stretching your arms above your head before willing yourself to get up from your desk chair. then, you accidentally scraped your leg against the bottom drawer of your desk, which you’d accidentally left open. 

“ow!” you cried out, bending down a little. “god, why does this world hate me? what did i do wrong?”

it was a wonder you managed to make it to jake’s apartment without getting into a wreck, although at this point, you wouldn’t care if you had as long as it killed you. or put you into an indefinite coma.

on the other hand, jake seemed strangely enthusiastic to see you and looked full of life and energy. “there you are, cheerleader,” he said, pulling you in to hug you from behind. he led you over to his couch, much like he always did. 

you covered your mouth with your elbow as you yawned. “can we get this over with? i’m sleepy.”

jake chuckled. “i don’t want you to suck me off. not right now.”

your brows furrowed, wondering if you had heard him right. if not for that, then why were the hell were you here?

“i’m sad,” jake said, not even attempting to keep the smug smile off his face. “i need you to cheer me up.”

you blinked at him like he was stupid. “cheer… you up?”

jake nodded his head, glancing you over with a grin. you looked like hell. partly because you were so obviously exhausted, but he knew he’d been having an effect on you too. “yeah, cheer me up. you’re a cheerleader,” he reminded, sounding proud of himself. “i want you to do your routine for me.”

you gawked in disbelief and whined, “i’m not even in my uniform.”

“so?” jake asked. “those bones might be tired, but they still work. matter of fact, take everything off.”

you were quick to exclaim, “what the hell? jake, can i please just do it later? everything hurts.”

“take everything off,” jake repeated, his voice more stern this time. “and move your ass.”

defeated, you reluctantly began to peel off your clothes, ignoring the way jake shamelessly ogled you for the sake of your own comfort and tugging your shirt from above your head. you couldn’t even look at him as you abashedly stepped out of your shorts and panties.

what was even more mortifying was having to perform every stupid little routine for him with your entire body on display and your chest bouncing with every motion. putting on the sweet, forced smile and calling out the chants you’d memorized, all the while ignoring how your bones ached.

when you were done, he made you sit in his lap so he could touch you as he pleased, paying no mind to the way you squirmed uncomfortably.

you cried enough tears to occupy a sixth ocean the next day. you weren’t exactly sure why. you just remembered miraculously waking up in your bed, sitting up and staring into empty space, and the water crashing down after a few minutes. it took you even longer to notice you were sobbing.

after a couple of meaningless hours, you got the random urge to call your mom, yearning to hear her voice. “mommy?” you said when she picked up.

“she calls,” your mother chirped, pleasantly surprised. “hi, baby. i was starting to wonder if you’d forgotten about little ole’ me. you know, you never come see me anymore.”

you forced yourself to laugh, trying to strip your voice of the agony so that she wouldn’t notice. “i know. i’m sorry,” you apologized quietly. “i’ll come see you soon.”

“you better,” your mother snapped playfully, no real malice in her voice. “now, what’d you call me for? and don’t say just to check up on me, because that’s a damn lie.”

“i miss you,” you confessed. 

“a lie don’t care who tell it.”

“ma,” you groaned, knowing she was just messing around. “i swear i do.”

“mm-hm,” your mother hummed. you could already picture her in your head, eyeing you with suspicion, arms folded over her chest. “let me guess why you really called. you’re having boy trouble.”

your eyes flickered in surprise. how did she know? you doubted it was exactly what she was thinking, but she was close enough. “yeah, something like that.”

there was no doubt that your mother sounded excited. you had always seem thoroughly uninterested in boys and dating, and while she was thankful when you were a teenager, it was a little worrying now. “it’s about time,” she said, clasping her hands together. “tell me all about it.”

you sighed, wondering how you could tell her about jake without making her fret. she had gotten all pumped, you didn’t want to tear her down and ruin everything. “well, there’s this guy i met almost two months ago. at first, i didn’t feel anything for him. he was just another boy, you know. someone i could keep around for a good time, not a long one.”

your mother hummed again. you could hear metal pans clacking against her counter and assumed she was cooking. she always did that. 

taking a deep breath, you continued, “but everything changed. he’s different from every other guy i’ve dealt with. he doesn’t just do what i say because i say so. and as the weeks passed, he’s started listening to me less and less than he already was.”

your mother chuckled. “and you didn’t like that, huh? got your mother’s stubborn heart and indomitable spirit.”

in truth, you didn’t think you had half of your mother’s strength, but you would never tell her that. as far as she knew, everything was going perfectly in the life you’d created here on campus. and it probably was the last time you’d spoken to her. “yeah,” you replied, wishing that were true. “i don’t like it. he makes me feel something i’ve never felt before.”

“he makes you feel powerless,” your mother told you. “he’s got you feeling weak because he’s the first man you’ve ever met willing to stand up to you. trust me, i was surprised the first time too. that’s how you got here.”

“ma,” you groaned with a wince.

she laughed. the sound made you happy, something you hadn’t been so certain you were capable of feeling anymore. “i’m just keeping it real.”

you thought about her words. she may have been way off in her perception of what this relationship between you and jake really was, but she wasn’t wrong about how he made you feel. weak, powerless. suddenly, this consuming feeling you’d been having for weeks finally had a name, and yet that made it even harder to come to terms with.

because you didn’t want to be powerless. you wanted to be in charge, in control. you hated when things didn’t go your way, and more importantly, you hated when there was nothing you could do about it. it was supposed to be you wielding power over people’s head, not being crushed beneath the weight of tyranny.

and it was then you fully realized the scope of your feelings; you absolutely hated jake sim.

  ▸ cheerleader? breed her! 

standing there in a skimpy dress, face done and your feet clamped in heels that made you four inches taller, you didn’t feel like yourself.

you thought that you would. in truth, you hadn’t feel like yourself in months. today marked a little over two months since you made the mistake of beginning that agreement with jake and you regretted it more than anything. he had completely ruined you, your life, and everything that made you feel whole.

there were pieces of yourself that you would never get back, thanks to him. it was true that everyone had forgotten about the ordeal regarding the recording of you, but not without cost. it was a price you were still paying everyday; even when you weren’t on your knees or otherwise commiting demeaning acts for the sake of jake’s entertainment, you were hurting and mourning yourself.

you were starting to wonder if it was worth it. obviously, you liked being respected amongst your fellow students, but you were no longer certain if their respect was worth the price of your sanity. it was hard for you to even have basic interactions without giving away how incredibly lonely and isolated you felt, how trapped and doomed you were. helpless and powerless.

jake came up behind you, startling you. he was like a wolf and you were a little lamb masquerading as a wolf. “there you are, baby,” he said, snaking his hands around your waist. he seemed to love doing that. “did you know our anniversary was a few days ago?”

you scoffed. the two-month anniversary of the worst decision of your life to date. there was nothing you would’ve give to undo it. doing your homework yourself would have spared you so much unnecessary pain. “stop doing that,” you whined, scanning the party. “someone will see.”

jake chuckled, clearly not giving a damn. “unlike someone, i don’t really care what people think about me.”

you wished you didn’t care. there would always be a part of you that cared, that was so afraid of what people could say about her that she would do anything to tailor her image perfectly. matter of fact, it was all you had cared about in high school, and every year after that was spent maintaining the brand.

jake’s hand went from your waist to your ass, making you tense in his grasp. “you know, i think i deserve some kind of compensation for putting up with you for two months.”

you deserved that too. freedom. being unshackled from his cruel, unrelenting orders was the one thing you wanted most and the one thing he refused to give you. “don’t you have your compensation almost every day?” you asked irritably.

“that’s not nearly enough,” jake insisted, squeezing your ass.

god, how greedy could someone be? it was like he wanted to bleed you dry until there was nothing left.

“you know what i want?” jake asked huskily, leaning into your ear. “i wanna fuck you.”

your eyes widened a little. you had hoped this day would never come, even though you weren’t oblivious to the fact that jake had steadily gotten bolder in his interactions with you, the things he made you do for his satisfaction becoming entirely more erotic. 

grabbing your arm, jake started to lead you away. “come on, let’s go.”

you rooted in place, nearly stumbling. you didn’t want to go anywhere with him, especially if it meant putting up with his insatiable urges. “jake, i don’t want to,” you said, trying to push at him.

jake scoffed, wondering when you would realize that he didn’t care what you wanted and you had no way of winning. “if you want to make a scene in front of all these lovely people, be my guest,” he hissed in your ear.

panicked, you glanced around the crowd in search of someone that could save you. it was like everybody was looking at you until you actually needed them to. 

then, you locked eyes with jungwon. matter of fact, it seemed like he’d been looking at you much before you’d even glanced in his general direction. he saw you, saw the way jake was holding you roughly, saw the obvious stiffness on your face, saw the pleading look in your eyes; but ultimately, jungwon saw the image of you letting him down after bleeding him dry for half a year, and he turned away.

your shoulders slumped in defeat.

jake started dragging you toward the stairs, pushing past a bunch of drunk people dancing on each other. your heart was thumping, and your whole body was rigid with nerves as you tried to think of a way out of this even though you knew there was no option without consequences.

just your luck, the bathroom jake hauled you too was empty. he pushed you in and locked the door, pressing you against the counter. you gasped and glanced at your reflection in the mirror, hardly recognizing yourself. “jake, please,” you whispered, trying to plead with him. “please, don’t do this.”

jake didn’t seem moved by your begging, but he did, however, appear amused. “why are you acting so sensitive about this after all we’ve done together? it’s like you’ve never gotten fucked or something.”

you swallowed, not saying a word. 

the silence was very loud, very telling. jake arched a brow, a realization dawning on him. “you really have never been fucked,” he said, surprised. “damn, i should have figured that out when you were acting like you never sucked dick before.”

your face flushed with heat. it wasn’t like you were necessarily embarrassed about it, not until now. you had always taken it as something to pride yourself on, being fuckable but untouchable. “you say that like it’s a bad thing,” you replied, glancing down at the sink to avoid eye contact.

jake chuckled. it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but he had been convinced that you were completely pretending to be a goody two-shoes. to know there was at least one percent of you that was still pure amazed him. he lifted the skirt of your dress with his hand and brought it between your legs, asking, “what, you just never find anyone worthy enough for your perfect, sacred pussy?”

you gasped out when he touched you there. his fingers circled your clothed cunt, thumb digging into your inner thigh. feeling scandalized, you grumbled, “maybe i’m just not interested.”

jake shook his head, astonished by the amount of attitude you still had after all these months and determined to break it out of you. “and maybe i just don’t care if you’re interested or not.”

it went without saying that jake always made you feel like some kind of object, but this was next level. “this is dehumanizing!” you exclaimed. 

hearing you, of all people, talk about dehumanizing made for an interesting conversation. big, calloused hand pressing harder into you, he asked tauntingly, “doesn’t feel good, does it?”

your glossy, painted lips were parted, unable to breathe through your nose. your eyes burned with the threat of tears and it was becoming second nature for them to shed whenever jake was nearby. “i don’t understand,” you whimpered, trying to free yourself, but to no avail. “why are you doing this to me? what have i ever done to deserve this?”

jake could feel you struggling, trying to push him off you, but all it did was move your hips against his rapidly hardening cock. he groaned, grabbing hold of your ass and pushing you further back against him. “fuck, just like that,” he growled. “haven’t i told you this already? this is bigger than you and me.”

it wasn’t lost on you that jake obviously had heard stories about you from other people, stories of happenings you probably couldn’t deny, but it had nothing to do with him. “look, if you’re doing all this to get back at me because i hurt one of your friends or something, i’m sorry, i really am. but i can’t do this anymore, jake. i want to stop, please. please let me go on with my life.”

“what a privileged response,” jake hissed without concealing his vitriol. at the same time, he kept palming you over your panties, noticing them beginning to cling to your cunt, and tore your underwear to the side to insert a pair of fingers inside. “what about all those girls whose lives you ruined? i’m sure they wanted you to stop. and you didn’t until they were too humiliated to show their faces around here again and you had no choice.”

you swallowed the lump in your throat. he knew about the girls? “jake, i haven’t done that since freshman year,” you told him, desperately trying to reason with him.

two loud, harsh smacks echoed in the tiny, crowded space of the bathroom, followed by a gasp consequently. your pussy stung, your head jerking around to look at jake. “do you really think that matters?” he asked, grabbing your hair to turn you back around just as quickly, as if you didn’t deserve to look at him. “you think that matters when the pain you’ve done to them is permanent? they don’t forget. and they damn sure don’t forgive you.”

you tensed, hating the way your walls were gripping and gushing around his fingers. “so what? you think you’re god or something? is this you punishing me for my sins? you’re not exactly what i would call a saint, either.”

“me and you, we’re not the same,” jake remarked, a nip to his tone as if you needed the reminder of how much he disliked you. “you only pick on people that you think are below you somehow. people you think won’t fight back.”

“i know i’m not a good person,” you admitted in between gasps, thighs straining as his fingers pumped into your pussy harder, faster, reaching places you’d never touched on your own. “ i know i don’t deserve to be happy. maybe i don’t even deserve to be treated with respect, but please leave me this one thing. spare me just this once.”

jake laughed cruelly, pulling his fingers out of your drenched hole and smearing your juices all over your folds and thighs. his finger unintentionally swiped over your sensitive clit, making your legs quiver and your stomach tighten, sucking in itself.

“damn, baby. you really know how to hurt my feelings,” jake said, voice dripping with sarcasm. he withdrew his fingers, bringing them into his mouth for a taste. “you don’t want me to fuck you that bad?”

your heart was spiking with dread, thumping belligerently in your chest, your ears, and between your legs. no one had ever made you feel so vanquished.

“take my dick out,” jake said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “hurry up.”

you sighed anguishedly, turning around to undo his pants and slip his aching dick out of its confinements. for months, jake had been suppressing the urge to fuck you, wanting to wait for the moment where it would be most pivotal.

getting a hold of your throat, jake roughly yanked you flush against him the second you whirled back around to face the tiny bathroom counter, making you stand tall against his chest. his voice was almost as rough as the hands that held you. “put it in.”

you gawked, shaking your head.

his fingers tightened dangerously around your windpipe, making your damp eyes widen and your jaw slack against his whitening knuckles, maybe half a wheeze making its way out your throat before he warned, “if i have to fucking tell you again, i’m gonna crush every bone in your goddamn neck.”

with no other option, you meekly reached behind you to grasp him in your quivering hand, aimlessly steering him to your hole and sinking your teeth into your bottom lip as the tip brushed past your dripping folds. jake released a shaky breath, slapping your hand away and rutting his hips into you from behind, sheathing himself inside in one go.

he slackened his unforgiving grip on your throat, shoving you back against the counter none too gently, but you still felt like you couldn’t breathe when he entered you, a mangled whimper echoing out. your fingers desperately braced the edges of the counter for purchase as you tried to will yourself to inhale, but it was like you were choking.

jake had a death grip on your thighs, forcibly pushing them apart a little more as he coated himself with the creamy, hot wetness of your unwanted arousal. “mm, hard to believe you don’t secretly want me when you’re sucking me in like this, baby,” he said, proud.

you shook your head in denial, face flushing with a heat that spread to your ears and neck. it didn’t help that there were beads of salty, hot tears pouring down your face and reducing your vision to one big, hazy blur. you didn’t want him, not even a little bit. but you couldn’t control the way your body was responding.

the lewd, wet smack of his cock thrusting deeply into your tight cunt rang out so loudly that you wanted nothing more than to hide into oblivion and never be seen again, mortified. it made things seem so much different than they were. his long, thick cock was stretching you beyond the cusp your limits and making you gape.

“i’m so nice to you,” jake said, tipping his head back. you could see his chest rising and falling through his clothes, his body taut with pleasure and excitement. “i’ve been holding back for so long, trying not to fuck you. won’t keep me out this pussy now. i’m gonna fuck you till your legs give out. have you at practice limping.”

your knees, wobbly as they already were, began knocking into the cabinets at the bottom of the sink. you winced your eyes closed as your fingers curled around the edge of the counter roughly enough to change the color around your knuckles, hoping to think of something, anything, to take you out of the moment.

but it was too hard. you couldn’t ignore the throb of your gushing walls as they kneaded his cock, making him grunt in your ear as he leaned over your backside. you couldn’t ignore the faint sting of his nails stabbing your hips and his heavy palm slapping repeatedly against your ass. and you definitely couldn’t ignore the dirtiness staining you from head to toe.

sure, it felt good, his body rocking against yours steadily, but it didn’t feel right. many nights you had pictured what losing your virginity would be like, both the way that it was supposed to look and the way that you were more inclined to, but this was neither; it was heartless, it was punishing, and it was brutal.

jake grabbed you by your hair and forced you to look into the mirror, yanking your head up. “there it is,” he spat, words sounding painfully familiar. “there’s the real you.”

your hair was messy from him tugging it every which way, treating you like a doll to mishandle. your makeup was ruined from your sobbing, the path of your tears harsh against everything else. your eyes were red and your right lash looked like it was barely holding on, the effect of rubbing at your face.

jake watched you take in the destroyed sight of yourself, practically hearing the critical thoughts hopping in your mind. “this is what you really are. this is what you’re sucking my dick to keep hidden from the world. is it worth it, baby? or do you just like the way i taste on your tongue?”

no, it wasn’t worth it. you were beginning to understand that now. he was taking too much from you, too much of your peace and too much of your sanity. maybe it would be better to be judged and lonely but free than to be loved by people whose opinion of you could change on a dime anyway at the expense of your soul. 

your pride had been buried a long time ago, brutally murdered in her sleep. “jake, please stop. i’m uncomfortable,” you complained, tearing your eyes away from your reflection in shame.

jake smacked your ass again, making you cry out sharply. “you just love being the victim when it’s convenient for you, huh?”

“i’m sorry!” you whimpered. “i don’t know what you want me to do. what do you want? just tell me.”

jake snickered, running his hands over your hips and waist to knead the flesh. then, he brushed your hair out of your face, nibbling at the skin behind your ear before growling, “you know what i want, cheerleader? i want to assassinate all there is that you love about yourself and leave everything else untouched, so that you understand not why everybody hates you, but why nobody loves you.”

those words hit you straight in the gut. for the first time, you had no retort, no comeback. 

hips beginning to move faster, jake continued, “the boys don’t love you, they just want to fuck you. they would kill to be as deep inside you as i am. the girls sure as hell don’t love you. they either want to be you, or they resent you for beating their asses. and don’t get me started on those girls you call friends.”

“jake, stop,” you whispered, an agony vicious enough to rip through flesh tearing you straight in half. 

but jake didn’t listen. he wasn’t done, not until he made his point. “don’t think i didn’t notice how lonely you were for the whole week everybody was talking shit about you. they didn’t want to touch you with a six foot pole, did they? they don’t want to be seen with you unless it gives them a good rep.”

there was a pang in your chest. you didn’t want to admit it, but that cut deep. you had heard people say mean things about you before, it was to expected when you were an emblem of popularity on campus, but few things had reached you where it hurt.

jake stroked your messy cheek, almost with affection. “but it’s okay. because you want to know something, baby? it was hard for me to admit it to myself, but you truly fascinate me. i can’t get you out of my head sometimes. you piss me off every time without fail, but i keep coming back to you. i like you, baby. if no one else does. you grew on me.”

you weren’t sure if that was supposed to make you feel better, but it didn’t. if anything, you only felt more heartbroken and wounded not only by his words, but by your inability to counter them. it truly dawned on you, right then, just how alone you were.

jake threw his head back, grunting. his hips were moving with a mind of their own, eager to finish. “fuck, i’m gonna come.”

your eyes went wide in panic, remembering that he had gone in bareback. 

“jake, don’t…”

before you could even finish your statement, jake clamped a hand over your mouth, muffling your protests into his pale palm. “you know what guys at my school used to say about cheerleaders?” he asked, obviously not expecting a response. “‘see a cheerleader, breed a cheerleader.’ ‘cheerleader? breed her.’”

you thrashed, but it was pointless. those thick, burly biceps of jake’s were one of the first things you noticed about him and they weren’t just for display. he held you in place as he quickened his pace again, his thrusts unrelenting.

with a couple more quick yet shockingly rhythmic thrusts, jake emptied his load deep, deep inside you. he moaned, moving his hands from your mouth to your hips to keep himself steady as he reeled from the pleasure of a mind-numbing orgasm. “goddamn,” he cursed, panting for breath.

you stifled a small noise as you felt his warmth flooding into you, unsure how to feel at this point. 

to your surprise, jake started fucking you again, never once daring to pull out as if he was determined to fuck every drop of his sticky cum as deep inside you as it could reach. his stringy, thick load gathered on his dick and inside your pussy, leaking down your thighs as he kept going.

you gasped out, moans involuntarily leaving you as you were stuffed full of him over and over. you didn’t mean to, but it was impossible to control.

then, jake stuck a hand between your legs and rolled his thumb over your clit, which didn’t help. you cried out, tensing. “jake, stop! it’s sensitive.”

“that’s the point, dummy,” jake replied, stimulating your clit with his hand while simultaneously pumping himself into you from behind.

your core tightened, heat wafting over you as your chest heaved wildly. “what are you doing?” you stammered. 

jake smiled, watching in the mirror how your face tensed with a blend of confusion and ecstasy that you couldn’t rein. “you really think i’m an asshole, huh? i’m trying to make you come. relax and let me.”

you shook your head. you didn’t want to come, not for him, and most definitely not on his cock for him to feel every unintentional shudder of your pussy as it gushed and pulsed with hot, sweet release; that would be embarrassing.

that made jake chuckle. “no? you don’t wanna come for me, baby?” he asked, furrowing his brows playfully as he tilted your face back up to the mirror with a push of your jaw. “come on, let go. you keep saying i’m not a good guy, but you shoot me down when i try to be nice.”

you moaned again, against your own reason and better judgment. “please,” you rasped with half a breath.

“please, what?” jake asked, rubbing you with just a pinch more force. “do you even know?”

god, you hated him; you absolutely despised him. but damn, if it didn’t feel good to have someone touch you after you’d spent so long avoiding sex like it was something to be ashamed of.

and this? this was definitely something you were ashamed of.

and yet the most shameful moment, perhaps, was when you finally couldn’t resist the pleasure of his big, long fingers twirling around your sensitive nub and his brutal hips smacking into you with a vengeance, clamping around him as you orgasmed with a loud cry and the heat shot through every corner of your body.

“shit,” jake hissed, the feel of you finishing around him draining the cum from his balls for a second time.

your jaw slacked, overwhelmed by how you felt completely and utterly stuffed, ropes of his cum filling you to the hilt. jake thrusted into you a little more, sending a flare through your back and shoulders, until he stilled for good. you could hear him panting behind you.

after a moment or two, jake pulled out. hand between your thighs, he gathered some of his stringy release on his finger and brought it up to your lips. “open up. don’t make me say it again.”

you opened your mouth wide enough for him to insert two of his cum-coated fingers inside. then, you sucked at them and swallowed it down, knowing those would be the next words to leave his mouth. 

jake raised a brow, pleasantly surprised. he took his time to withdraw his fingers, enjoying the sensation of you licking them clean. “see, i knew you loved eating my cum.”

your face burned, but you didn’t have the energy to deny it. not after that. it felt like there was a gaping hole in your chest, a void that would never be filled. 

“you’re learning,” jake commented, humming in satisfaction. “good girl. you know, maybe one day we can get along. don’t you think?”

“yeah,” you murmured weakly. at this point, you would just go along with whatever he said. and maybe that was why he figured you could experience some peace together now.

keeping your dress bunched up, jake grabbed some tissues from his left and started to wipe at you. “let’s get you cleaned up before we leave, cheerleader. don’t want the entire student body to see you like this, right?”

you whipped your head around, eyes widening in surprise. leaving to go where? certainly you weren’t going home with him after tonight. 

“did you think i was kidding?” jake asked with a sly smile, slipping your panties backing in place and giving your shoulder a fleeting kiss. “i told you, i’m gonna fuck you till your legs give out.”

[honeyblackberries]

In the back seat (18+)

caleb x fem reader/mc smut

minors dni | inspired by diet pepsi by addison rae | cross-posted to ao3

word count: 1466

cw: simp caleb, soft dom caleb, he also likes to bite, pantie freak caleb, reader enables him, praise, oral (fem receiving), p in v, responsible car sex <333 (don't get freaky in a rental car irl), irresponsible intercourse (caleb doesn’t wrap it before he taps it), porn with feelings, porn no plot because idk how to write plot but i also can’t really write porn so maybe this is a secret third thing, no set pov.

names used: pips (pipsqueak but cuter), good girl, pretty girl, my girl

If Caleb is being honest with himself this moment is something straight out of his teenage fantasies. Driving along the coast with you in the passenger's seat, listening as you sing along to a song that’s been on repeat for the past half hour. Hair softly blowing in the wind as the late afternoon sun glows behind you like a halo.

You’re an angel he thinks, how else could you bless him with such a gift on one of his rare days off. The keys to his dream car—with the disclaimer that it was only a rental during his visit to Linkon—and that short sundress… His gaze unconsciously drifts from the road and onto you.

Maybe wet dreams are a better description for this. The way the hem of your dress rides up your thighs while you shift to find a more comfortable position, cotton panties peeking out underneath it.

Your eyes meet his and Caleb feels his pants tighten.

Today was supposed to be a well deserved break from all the demands that come with being the Farspace Fleet’s Colonel. Something relaxing. Yet he can’t help but feel inclined to the complete opposite. Back ramrod straight and hand, previously loose and confident on the wheel, now gripping it so tight that his knuckles strain.

“I'm happy you’re here,” you say sweetly and he has to stop himself from acting like a horny dog. “Is there anything you wanna do before we head home?”

“Eat you out,” he thinks dreamily.

“..What?”

Shit. Shit. How could he say that out loud!? He’s an idiot, a depraved fool—

“Well, okay.”

He almost crashes the car.

“Are you sure? We don’t have to—I mean—I didn’t mean to say it out loud,” you laugh at him and he isn’t sure whether to be mortified or turned on.

“Pull over.” He does.

Caleb doesn’t realise it but despite the less than innocent circumstances his silly reaction makes you smile. Happy at the expression that settles on his handsome face. How his eyes light up in a way you never really see anymore, giddy and unrestrained.

‘Cute,’ you want to tease, but he’s already rolling the tinted windows up. Undoing his seatbelt and moving into the back seat. Oh how could you keep him waiting when he’s just so eager? You undo your own seatbelt and amusedly follow along. Moving to get on top of him.

“Don’t hover pips,” he instructs—in that know-it-all voice he’s used since you were kids—and you don’t get the chance to consider it. Not when his hands trail under your skirt to grab your thighs and impatiently bring you down onto his face.

“Fuck you smell so good,” his nose presses right against your clothed heat. He inhales deeply. “I could get off just from smelling you, just from smelling these,” his lips part to let teeth graze the thin fabric of your panties.

“I can keep 'em when we're done, yeah?” His hot breath makes a shiver run through you in anticipation. His tongue licks down the centre where a wet patch starts to form. “I’ll cook dinner in return.”

You want to argue that he always cooks dinner. But you want what he’s currently offering more.

Your small hum of agreement is all he needs.

Safe to say, Caleb does mouth at you like a dog. Desperate, hungry, tongue heavy and slobbering. You have to push yourself against his chest to keep steady. The toned muscles there flexing as he eats like he’s been starved.

“Good girl, sittin’ so pretty for me,” his praise is barely understandable. Voice muffled and lower than a moment ago.

One of his hands leaves your thighs, his fingers moving to the fabric separating you. He teasingly pulls it back and lets go, a light snap against your skin. You flinch and he chuckles in response. He then pushes it to the side to expose you bare to him. Continuing to lick, this time with the addition of his thumb rubbing directly against your sensitive bud.

“Delicious,” he moans at the taste and sucks at your clit for more.

You’re not sure how long you last before everything crashes down all at once. Your orgasm racking your body and leaving you trembling. Dripping right into his open mouth.

The way your breath hitches and small whines you make when you cum always remind him how he could spend the rest of his life between your thighs. Forever wanting you pliant in his hold like this.

As you start to feel yourself coming down from the high, Caleb lightly bites at your tender flesh, making you yelp. He places a soft kiss in apology, even though you both know he isn’t sorry in the slightest.

In an act of revenge you start to reach for where he needs it. Fingertips barely brushing the large tent in his pants before he grabs your wrist to stop you.

“Next time pips, I’ll go crazy if I’m not inside you soon.” At that you’re suddenly flipped around, back pressed against the leather seat. Wedged in the cramped space afforded to you between the car and his large body.

Caleb looks down at you with a wide grin. The lower half of his face damp with your arousal and his own saliva.

“Let me put it in?”

Even when he’s like this the words come out as a question. He’ll only do it if you let him, only if you want it half as much as he does. His silver necklace dangles in front of you and reflected in it is your lips, curled up into an affirmative.

Caleb wastes no time. Hurriedly undoing his pants and freeing his hard leaking cock. Leaning over you with one hand beside your head as the other grasps his reddened tip and nudges you panties to the side with it. Lining himself up he sinks into you slowly.

“You’re heaven,” he yaps, already pussy drunk. "You feel like heaven, ugh—like you were made for me. Weren’t you?”

He shakes his head at his own words, as if a better explanation came to him. Then he resolutely bottoms out inside you.

“No, I was the one made for you.”

“Caleb—” you whine at the feeling of being so full. Arms moving to wrap around his torso, not sure if to hold him closer or push him away.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight off the orgasm that would have had him cumming from the way you say his name. Testingly, he pulls out slightly just to push back in. Repeating shallow thrusts to get you comfortable.

“More,” you beg.

“Of course,” he kisses you and you can taste yourself on him. “I aim to please.” His pace quickens, becoming rough. You can’t help but clench at the immediate change.

“Oh shit—loosen up pretty girl.” You try to.

Over and over you feel his cock try to make your cunt give in to him, and when he feels the grip of your walls ease up slightly he angles his hips to hit deeper.

You claw at his back, the fabric of his shirt catching under your fingers. The feeling of him too much.

“You like that huh?”

The car windows are fogging at the spike in body heat, neither of you letting up until you both get your fill. The sounds of shallow breathing and skin against skin the only thing that can be heard.

Caleb bites your lip when he kisses you in between thrusts. Like he wants to devour you in every way possible.

“I’m—close,” you bury your face into his neck, trying to ground yourself.

He nearly slips entirely out of you. Hips starting to lose their rhythm, a sign that he is too.

“I know—fuck—cum with me.”

Your release comes first, and he doesn’t last long after.

“That's my girl.”

His movements slow as he spills into you. A white ring forming around the base of him as a mix of both your cum tries to leak out. He grinds a few times to make sure it stays then collapses on top of you.

The two of you remain like that for a few minutes, relishing in the feeling of your chests pressed together as you cool down. Caleb’s cock slowly going limp inside you.

His hands move to cradle your face, gently stroking your cheeks as he kisses all over with cherishing lightness.

“I love you.”

“Love you too Caleb.”

Then he has to go and ruin the moment.

“Panties please,” he holds out his hand. Asking for a treat.

You sigh, the post-nut clarity kicking in. “I’ll give it to you after I wash it.”

“Don’t wash it.”

“...”

a/n: rip need everyone to know this was initially supposed to be a sylus fic. also what do we think do we like me actually trying to make the layout nice/not write in all lowercase??

[illyrianbitch]

Are We Still Friends? — Part Two

Pairing: Reader x Azriel

Summary: You and Azriel are struggling with the aftermath of your heated argument. Unfortunately, you both cope in very different ways.

Warnings: angst! (with a side of some friendship fluff)

Word Count: 5.2k

Part One | Series Masterlist | Part Three

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The room reeked of stale arrogance and cold stone— like it always did.

You could handle Keir alone. Azriel knew that. You did, too. But that didn’t make it easy. Az’s presence was enough to silence Keir’s snide remarks with a single look. Without him here, Keir was running his mouth like a common court gossip, his words dripping with the kind of entitlement that made your skin crawl.

He was droning on now, his voice a low hum in your ears like the buzzing of a persistent, uncatchable fly; rattling demands, complaints, thinly veiled insults. It was always like this.

You were barely listening. 

Your mind kept drifting to Az, to the conversation the night before. 

Your chest simmered with a new emotion every time you replayed it. Anger, disappointment, betrayal. You weren’t sure which stung more: his sharp tone, the way he’d dismissed you, or the bitter fact that you’d never had Azriel talk to you like that before.

Where was he now, anyway? What had Selene needed so urgently that he’d decided official court matters could wait? Somewhere far more comfortable than this gods-forsaken pit, you were sure.

“…and the resources we’re requesting are more than reasonable, given the sacrifices we’ve made to maintain this arrangement.”

Keir’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts, slick, self-satisfied, and grating. He had quite the punchable features, you observed. How had he lasted this long without a good deck to the face?

“If Rhysand truly values his court,” Keir continued, a mocking edge creeping into his tone, “and not just his little city, then perhaps he should send someone who understands the importance of negotiation.”

Your mind jumped again—to Azriel, to the way he’d looked at you like you were the one who’d crossed the line. You couldn’t figure out where you’d gone wrong. Was it the mention of Elain? That small, stillness you’d felt in him? You hadn’t intended it to be a jab, hadn’t meant to make him feel guilty. You were concerned. Your approach was good-natured. Or, at least you’d thought so. 

Keir’s voice drifted in and out of focus as you stared at him, boredom spreading through you, a dull throb in your chest. You were ready to leave. Ready to escape the suffocating air of the room. You were annoyed at yourself, too, if you were being honest. Here you were, seething, ungrounded in a way you rarely allowed yourself to be, simply because of a five-minute argument. A spat. 

Usually, during these meetings, Azriel helped you regulate your dislike for Keir. When the male’s mere existence stirred memories of his cruelty to Mor, Azriel’s presence would be a steadying hand at the small of your back, a quiet reminder to keep your temper in check.

But he wasn’t there. And your thoughts were all over the place. And Keir only wanted to talk to Azriel—why did everyone need him so suddenly?

“Your attempts at diplomacy are largely symbolic. A pretty face to soften the High Lord’s more… aggressive tactics. And, well, without the Spymaster— ”

Something snapped inside you. That diplomatic part of you, the skills you’d fought tooth and nail for, had perfected over centuries, crumbled completely.

“Shut up!”

The words hit the room like a thunderclap. The two males beside him stiffened, their hands twitching toward their weapons.

“For the love of the Mother,” you said through gritted teeth, “Shut. Up.” 

Keir’s eyes widened, his mouth hanging open for a fraction of a second before he recovered, his features twisting with irritation— with offense, with shock. “Excuse me, girl?”

You stood slowly, your chair scraping loudly against the stone floor. You knew you should grimace, should feel some pang of guilt for letting your temper get the better of you. This wasn’t what you were here to do. This wasn’t how you tended to be.

But you didn’t care.

You were tired, irritated, and in desperate need of a drink, a joint, or someone to hit in the face.

“Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” you said, gesturing sharply with your hands. “Or do you enjoy the sound of your own idiocy too much to notice how pathetic you sound?”

Keir’s eyes narrowed, his smirk returning, like he enjoyed your bite. Found a worthy opponent, even. “Careful,” he said, his voice low, threatening. “You’re out of line.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. You’d give Mor a tight hug this week, praise her once more for being able to survive seventeen years under the suffocating arrogance of a male like Keir.

“Oh, I’m just getting started,” you snapped. “You are not some untouchable ruler. You leech off the power Rhysand allows you to have. Do not forget that.”

Keir’s jaw tightened, his knuckles white where they gripped the arms of his chair. One of his soldiers shifted slightly, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword. You turned your glare on him.

“Try it,” you said coldly. “I dare you. Lay a hand on me, and you’ll find out just how thin your leash really is. Do you think Rhysand wouldn’t love an excuse to raze this pathetic little agreement to the ground? You think Morrigan wouldn’t personally take that sword and shove it somewhere creative? Trust me, they’re looking for an excuse.”

Keir inhaled sharply as he stood slowly, placing his palms on the table before him and leaning forward with a snarl. The gleam in his eyes was predatory, animalistic. “Are you threatening me?”

“Yes.” You mirrored him, placing your palms on the table and leaning forward, still holding his gaze tight.  “Would you like to see if I’m bluffing?”

Silence blanketed the room as Keir stared at you. You could see it in his eyes—the horror of recognizing that you might actually be his equal. Or worse, his superior. He was struggling with how to approach the situation, how to balance his newfound realization with the need to maintain authority in front of his males.

After a long moment, Keir shifted his gaze to his men and motioned for them to stand down. Their hands dropped, spines stiffening like statues at his sides.

You took the silence as your answer.

“That might be the smartest move you’ve ever made,” you said with an amused hum. Straightening, you brushed your hands off and smiled. “The Spymaster will be back next week to negotiate terms about resources. Pray he’s in a better mood than I am.”

A sense of satisfaction bloomed in your chest as you turned to leave. It felt good to finally tell him off—Lord knew it had been coming for centuries. You’d been biting it back at every meeting, every forced smile, every empty negotiation. It had been far more tame than you’d liked, but it was something, at least. A small victory. 

The relief washed over you for a fleeting moment before it began to slip away, replaced by that familiar unease, the stirring of anger still simmering beneath the surface.

You knew why.

Keir wasn’t the male you were truly mad at. 

At least, not in the way that made your heart ache. 

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

You’d barely gotten out of the bath and dressed when there was a soft knock at your door. You let out a deep sigh, running your hands along your face before walking into the bedroom proper, feeling the slight chill of the air against your still-damp skin.

The thought of Azriel hit you almost instantly, your body tensing at the possibility. After all, it was just the two of you living in the townhome, and it was late—no one else was expected. As much as part of you wanted to see him—to curse him out, maybe, or pull an apology from him, you weren’t sure—a bigger part of you just wanted to sit alone. To wallow in the strange self-pity that had bloomed in your stomach since the meeting with Keir.

“Go away, Azriel. I don’t want to t-”

Your gaze landed on Mor instead. She stood in the doorway, hands behind her back, a small smile on her lips.

“Good thing I’m not Azriel,” she said, stepping forward. Her familiar perfume drifted through the room. “I’m much more attractive.”

You stifled a laugh despite yourself, the corners of your mouth tugging into a reluctant smile. Mor had always been infuriatingly good at that—chipping away at your mood, no matter how sour. Tonight, she looked less mischievous than usual, wearing a simpler gown—still stunning, but more comfortable.

“What are you doing here?”

Mor’s presence instantly lightened the weight on your chest, even just slightly, but a glimmer of disappointment sparkled in your chest, threaded through your ribs and refused to leave. Part of you had hoped it was Azriel at your door. Even if you’d have sent him away with biting remarks, at least he would’ve tried. At least he would’ve been there.

“I heard through the grapevine that there was a messy meeting in the Hewn City.”

Your stomach twisted. Shit. Keir had worked much faster than you’d thought. You wondered, briefly, how long it had taken for him to go run and complain— had he waited an hour? Perhaps two?

You grimaced, offering a sheepish smile. “Oh, right. That,” you drawled. “Is Rhys mad?”

“Not at you,” she replied. “He’s mad he missed it. I am, too.”

A grin tugged at her lips, and it wasn’t long before identical ones broke across both of your faces. You looked down, scuffing the carpet with your toe. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Mor snorted. “My father got into you.”

You looked up and raised a brow. She shot you an unimpressed look, the kind that would usually mean you were inconveniencing her with your childish humor. But there was amusement in her eyes, glinting like sunlight on glass. She wanted to laugh.

“You know what I meant,” Mor grumbled, lips twitching again. “Keir tends to bring out the worst in everyone.”

You nodded at that, tucking a loose stand of hair behind your ear. “I know I tell you this all the time,” you said, “But gods am I sorry you had to grow up with him.”

Mo shrugged, waving it off with a dismissive hand. The other stayed behind her back. “Character development and all that,” she said breezily. “Anyway, I have something for you.”

“If it’s wine, I think I’ll pass.”

She shook her head and brought her hand around, revealing a small to-go box. It was unmistakable—the kind used by your favorite bakery, all the way in the Day Court. 

“Ta-da,” she sang.

Your chest warmed at the sight. Slowly, you took the offering, running your fingers along the box’s edges. When you looked back at her, she was watching you with a tender smile—the kind only Morrigan could give. It wasn’t the playful smirk or sharp grin she wore for the world. 

“What's this for?”

Mor tilted her head. “You’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. I thought you could use some comfort treats. And company.”

Your heart swelled. You’d told her and Elain little of the fight with Azriel when they’d sought you out, pacing outside your door until they decided you were ready. Elain had apologized profusely, saying she hadn’t meant to spark the argument when she suggested you talk to him. You’d assured her there was no apology needed—not from her, at least. She’d only sped up the inevitable: the realization that Azriel didn’t seem to value your opinion the way you so often valued his.

Mor wrapped an arm around your shoulders, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “I also did bring wine. It’s downstairs. We can sit, talk—and if Azriel comes home, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hear us. Or see us.”

You let Mor guide you downstairs, where she opened a bottle of wine and drew you into a conversation—a deliberate distraction about her and Emerie, about apartment hunting and her attempts at civility with Nesta. You listened as best as you could, grateful for the reprieve, and even forced yourself to savor the dessert she’d brought.

It was as good as you remembered. That was something, at least. Azriel hadn’t managed to ruin that, despite the bitter taste your argument had left behind.

Mor waited about half an hour before gently steering the conversation where she really wanted it to go: what happened with you and Az, how you were feeling.

The problem was, you couldn’t quite put your finger on why you were so upset. You told Mor the things you knew for certain: that it was unfair for Azriel to assume he knew what you were going to say, that he hadn’t given you—his best friend for centuries—a chance to speak or express your concern. That he hadn’t trusted you enough to even hear you out. Mor nodded along, agreeing that Azriel had been out of line, that it was unlike him to take someone else’s word over yours so easily.

But even as she agreed with you, it didn’t ease the pressure in your chest. It wasn’t just about him being unfair or dismissive. There was something deeper, something you hadn’t yet figured out how to say. Something else about it that bothered you so deeply. 

Maybe it was the way he’d so easily twisted your intentions, the way he’d looked at you as if you were an inconvenience, made you feel like every word you’d spoken had been some elaborate ruse. Like your concern wasn’t genuine. Like the years you’d spent knowing him, understanding him, recognizing the subtle shifts in his behavior, didn’t matter at all. You were just finding a convenient excuse to meddle, to dig your claws into his relationship, sabotage what he had so you could steal him away in the middle of the night. 

It was possible you were being a little overdramatic. And you’d definitely emphasized his words in your retelling to Mor, but it didn’t change the intent. What he’d said. What he’d believed. To imply that after everything, you couldn’t be a good friend to him. That you couldn’t care without an ulterior motive.

He hadn’t even tried to talk to you since. Not a word, not a glance. You tried to reason with yourself—it had only been a day. Maybe he needed time to cool off, to think. Maybe he was as confused as you were, unsure of how things had spiraled so fast. Maybe this silence was just him giving you space.

But a part of you didn’t think that was true. There was a possibility that his silence wasn’t for your sake—it was for his. Because he didn’t think he owed you anything.

That thought was the worst of all.  That he didn’t even care.

And you were furious, too, that Azriel had tipped you so completely off balance, that these feelings had bled into your lashing out at Keir. The memory of it was already clawing at you, leaving a faint sting of embarrassment. You knew it would follow you like a stray dog, nipping at your heels. You’d gotten emotional. You—the Night Court’s ever-diplomatic emissary—had been anything but.

You were certain you’d care more about it in a few days, when you had the energy to think clearly.

“Y/n?”

You blinked, startled out of your daze, suddenly aware of how tightly your fingers had curled around the small fork in your hand.

“Hm?”

Mor gave you a sympathetic smile. “I think you should get some rest,” she said, crouching down in front of you.

You hadn’t realized you’d ended up on the floor, leaning against the table—a habit you fell into when you were upset, like grounding yourself by sinking as close to the earth as possible. Mor extended a hand, helping you up with that steady, no-nonsense kind of care only she could offer.

She started tidying up without asking, brushing away crumbs and organizing the small mess you’d both made. Her eyes flicked to the pastry box on the table. “Are you gonna finish this? Or do you want me to toss it?”

You glanced down, confused, at the small leftover piece in the box. That was strange. You usually devoured these, barely leaving crumbs, let alone a full bite. For a moment, you thought nothing of it.

And then it clicked. It was instinct, an old habit of sorts—leaving a bite for Azriel to try.

You bit back a disappointed sigh. What had once been second nature, something you did without thinking, now felt deeply embarrassing. Sickening. Too intimate, like a little girl with a crush.

“Toss it,” you said quickly, your voice tight, sharper than intended.

Mor didn’t comment, simply folded the box closed and tossed it into the trash. Before she left, she pulled you into a hug, warm and unhurried.

“It’s okay to focus on the anger right now,” she murmured into your hair. “If nothing else makes sense, you’re entitled to it. I think you’re a few centuries overdue.”

You let out a short, dry laugh. “Yeah,” you replied, the word heavy on your tongue. “I think I have a few more remarks left in me.”

Mor grinned as she stepped back, smoothing her hands over your arms before heading for the door. “Atta girl. Make him miserable.”

You lingered on her words as you climbed the stairs.

A grudge sounded great. It sounded righteous. It sounded like something you could do—at least for now, until your feelings settled.

Lucien really was better than you. He’d endured so much, and somehow, he still found room for forgiveness, a way to let Azriel off the hook.

But you didn’t want to let this go. Not yet.

You’d given Azriel centuries of friendship, of loyalty and unwavering support, and he hadn’t even deemed you worthy of the benefit of the doubt. Maybe later, you could be like Lucien, could forgive Azriel for his shortcomings and his idiocy.

Not tonight.

You curled up in bed, willing yourself to embrace the cold, sharp edges of your anger. But, despite your best efforts, that wasn’t what stayed.

The sadness did.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel didn’t apologize. 

Not verbally, at least. It was a habit born in the aftermath of the first war, when he’d been forced to reckon with who he’d become, the things he’d done as Spymaster.

He’d learned quickly that some things were too heavy to face, too raw to acknowledge. Easier to tuck them away, seal them behind his silence. Apologies came with a price he couldn’t play. Because if he started apologizing for those things—acts born of desperation, of blind obedience to a High Lord who demanded it—he’d never stop. He’d be drowning in it for centuries.

So he didn’t. He wouldn’t. And if he refused to apologize for the horrors of his past—if the shame and pain of it were too much—then he had to be consistent. If he didn’t do it then, he couldn’t do it now. Not even for the people he loved.

Instead, he accepted the damage he caused. Accepted that he’d make mistakes. That he’d hurt people.

He stored those moments away in the ever-growing, aching place inside him that proved how unlovable he was—how destined he was to hurt the people he cared for most. How inevitable his failures were.

On the worst days, when the silence felt unbearable, he’d reach for those memories, let them remind him of who he truly was. He’d sit with them, twist them into hatred—at himself, at his failure, at the fact he couldn’t change it. He could never seem to stop.

But Azriel loved his family. He truly did. He’d die for them. He’d commit every horrible act over and over if that was what was needed to ensure their safety. So he usually found other ways to apologize.

This time, though, Azriel felt… embarrassed. Ashamed, even. Humiliated. He’d acted like a child, reckless and unthinking, had been dismissive of someone he loved.

He valued the females in his life, respected them deeply. And usually, for them, he could set aside his twisted need to avoid apologies. Instantly.

You and him had argued before—fought, even. It was bound to happen over centuries. But it had never been like this. This felt different. Everyone knew.

He wanted to apologize the night it happened. But he couldn’t. He’d gone too far. He told himself that his apology needed to be big enough to make up for it. 

All week, the memory looped in his mind, relentless and punishing. The second the accusation left his lips, regret had consumed him—an instant, choking thing. Even his shadows had recoiled, letting out a sound that might’ve been a gasp. But the worst part, the part that kept him up at night, was your face.

Your features had twisted into something he’d never seen before. Not in all the centuries you’d been by his side. Something like offense. Or maybe, Azriel thought bitterly, something worse. He’d convinced himself it was disgust. Pure, unfiltered disgust.

It bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Azriel was used to people being upset with him. It came with the territory—his silence, his sharp edges, the anger he carried like armor. He could be difficult; he knew that. Could be impulsive, cold, quick to anger. Over centuries, he’d learned to live with it, to endure the way disappointment settled in others’ eyes when he pushed too far.  But it never suffocated him like this.

He had disappointed you. You were angry, disgusted by the accusation he'd thrown your way—why had he done that?

Selene's words lingered in his mind, over and over, such meaningless, small words. They’d burrowed themselves deep, driven him borderline mad. He couldn’t figure out why.

It made him itch, made him unsettled in a way that didn’t make sense. He had assumed that itch meant the words bothered him—something about them, something he couldn't quite grasp—and that had gotten under his skin, gnawing at him.

He’d been avoiding you since that night.  It was easy, despite the fact that you were the only two in the house. After all, you had been avoiding him too.

He was being a coward. He knew it. Avoiding you when he knew damn well he needed to find you, get you alone, and apologize. Profusely. Repeat it until there was some hope of undoing the damage. But avoidance was easier. Safer.

It was what he was best at.

The thought of apologizing only for you to turn him away, for you to look at him with disgust, with anger, was more than he could stomach. And he'd convinced himself that that was the most likely scenario—and it would be valid. Completely, utterly valid.

So, he did what he did best: he retreated into himself. Into Selene.

But a few days had passed, and now the ache in Azriel’s chest was gaping. Raw. Unbearable. He couldn’t breathe.

The guilt had started before the sun rose, creeping up Azriel’s spine as he pulled away from Selene’s warm embrace. She’d stirred when he slipped out of bed, her lips parted to protest, but he hadn’t stayed to hear her argument. It wasn’t comfortable—none of it. Not the weight in his chest, not the way his shadows murmured disapproval like a broken melody on repeat.

He needed to be here—at family brunch. He wanted to be here. And for the first time in days, his shadows seemed content with a decision he’d made. Thank the gods for that.

The house was full by time he arrived. He didn’t need his shadows to tell him. He could hear their laughter from the doorway, could smell the pull of a sweet feast. Rhysand was the first to notice his presence, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he leaned back in his chair. 

“Look who decided to join after all.”

Az didn’t reply, not in the way he usually did. Instead, his gaze immediately found you, his breath stalling as he caught the subtle stiffening of your shoulders. You didn’t turn. You didn’t so much as glance back.

Mor, seated beside you, did. Her brown eyes flitted from you to him, a semi-scowl in her expression as she turned her gaze to Emerie on her left, dismissing Azriel entirely.

Another person he’d probably have to apologize to.

Az swallowed, his shadows tugging at him like restless children, desperate to curl around you, to offer something—comfort, perhaps, or a plea for forgiveness he hadn’t yet put into words. But you still didn’t move.

Clearing his throat, Azriel finally said, “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

It was Feyre who responded, casting a quick glance towards you before offering Azriel a smile. “No worries, Az. We’re glad you’re here.”

That was a lie. But the chatter began once more, anyways. 

Az moved forward, gaze flicking to the one empty chair at the table— the chair beside you. Just as he reached for it, your head snapped up, eyes meeting his for the first time in days. 

“Are you sure you want to sit there?”

Azriel froze. “What?”

You tilted your head at him, eyes narrowing in a way he hadn’t quite seen before—a look that was, if he was being honest, downright unnerving. But then, just as quickly, the emotion fell away, replaced by something sharper, crueler, and laced with exaggerated concern. “What if I’m overcome with lust and expose myself to you?”

From across the table, Cassian choked violently on his drink, Nesta muttering something under her breath as she thumped his back.

Azriel closed his eyes for a brief second, forcing a steady inhale before lowering himself into the chair anyway. He could feel his shadows retreating reluctantly, curling tighter against him, sharing his discomfort. Only when the conversation resumed once more did Az lean closer to you, dropping his voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Can we talk?”

“I don’t know, can we? Did Selene give you permission?”

Azriel clenched his jaw, willing himself to take another deep inhale. Before he could pull a response, your face shifted into something exaggerated, all false excitement and mock sweetness. “Don’t tell me I’m being considered as your third? Oh gods. Should I throw myself at you now, or—?”

“Y/n, come on,” Az murmured, his voice tight— pleading. “Please.”

For a beat, Azriel thought you were mulling it over, almost expected to see your face soften like he was used to. But it didn’t. 

 “Rhys,” you said, your voice carrying as you turned to the High Lord. “Would you like to tell Azriel what to expect during his meeting with Keir next week? He’d like to know.”

Az’s stomach twisted at the sound of his name—not Az, but Azriel. Cold. Formal. Foreign. He hated the way it sounded coming from you, devoid of the warmth or familiarity he’d always taken for granted, like he was a stranger. Had he truly made you that angry in the span of a few minutes? 

This, Az thought bitterly, was why he opted to never speak unless it was needed.

Rhys nodded, though his gaze flickered between you and Azriel with something like caution. Before Azriel could protest, or even try to get another word in, you turned to Mor, engaging her in conversation as if the exchange hadn’t happened at all.

The rest of the meal passed in a strange limbo. It wasn’t hostile—if anything, it felt painfully normal. Conversations swirled around the table. Laughter floated between bites of food— and his shadows had danced whenever the sound of yours had reached them.

Azriel was willing to admit that, with the situation aside, he’d missed this—missed his family. The time spent with Selene lately had only highlighted how much he craved the sense of home that these moments brought. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to apologize for his absence.

He’d been nervous to disrupt what he and Selene had, even if “alright” was the only word he could muster to describe it. It wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t love—but it was... something. It could develop into something. Right?

But as good as the meal could’ve been, your silence weighed on him like a stone. You ignored him completely. No more snark, no insults, not even a glance. It got to the point where he wanted a petty remark, wanted you to look at him and tell him exactly how stupid he’d been. Usually, you were vocal when you were angry. Confrontational. He’d seen it over centuries, the way your fury blazed as brightly as you. You didn’t let things stew. You didn’t let him stew.

Why were you so quiet now? Why weren’t you yelling at him, demanding answers, or throwing his mistakes back at him like daggers?

Why had you accepted him—and his stupidity—with the same quiet resignation as that night?

It was worse. It was so much worse. Your anger felt different with him. And he hated it.

When the meal ended, Azriel stayed seated, watching as the others began to leave. He watched as you leaned down to Nyx, your hand brushing the baby’s cheek with such tender care it made his chest ache. Feyre’s expression softened at the sight, and you smiled at her and Rhys, thanking them for the meal before leaving with Mor, Emerie, Cassian, and Nesta.

None of the females spared him a glance. Cassian offered him a small, apologetic smile. He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

Thank the gods Amren wasn’t here. Small blessings, Az supposed.

He sighed, clearing his plate and bringing it to the kitchen. He rinsed it, the sound of water doing nothing to drown out the weight in his chest, and when he turned to leave, Rhys was there, Nyx balanced on one arm.

“Good luck, brother,” Rhys said. Az didn’t bother asking what he meant. He already knew.

The wistful, pitying smile Rhys wore was infuriating. The amused gleam in his violet eyes was worse. Rhys looked almost... grateful, as if relieved it wasn’t his head on the chopping block.

“A fight with the one member of our family collectively loved by everyone else,” Rhys mused, shaking his head. “Phew. You’ve made an enemy of a pack of vicious, beautiful wolves.”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, but before he could respond, Rhys shifted his attention to Nyx.

“Can you say, ‘Uncle Az is screwed?’” He cooed. Nyx babbled nonsensically, waving a tiny fist, and Rhys grinned. “Yeah, he’s gonna have to grovel, huh?”

Azriel glared, his shadows bristling as he brushed past him with an unamused glare. Rhys’s laughter followed him down the hall.

Must grovel, his shadows repeated, Grovel. Apologize. Admit.

Whatever the hell that meant.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Part Three

authors note:

me trying to write reader and getting sad that shes lowkey gaslighting herself and downplaying her emotions bc she cares about az: ☹️

me writing az as someone who just accepts he hurts people and doesnt realize he can like...just apologize: 😒

me knowing this angst is gonna be so fun:🥰

anyways thank you for reading!! i've already written a lot more, so expect 2-3 more parts! <3 (i have their makeup written😏) every comment or ask yall leave gets me so inspired

but until then... how long do yall think its gonna take for them to talk? tehehe

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