#what if they have STORIES what am i supposed to DO | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aleksatia · 19 hours ago

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Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

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emeraldserenade · 2 days ago

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could you please write something about Joaquin dating bucky’s protege? It would be funny seeing Sam and Buckys reaction and Bucky being all protective over the reader :) thanks!

Dating The Protege ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Bucky is maybe a little too overprotective of you

tw: fem!reader, reader wears sports bra and a pair of athletic shorts,

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

And I am out of requests again, but I am loving them all. I hope this is what you wanted!

➽──────────────❥

Bucky took you in, it couldn't have been an easier decision. You reminded him of him, you weren't from Hydra or the Red Room, your parents were just normal scientists. Scientists that didn't have properly put up chemicals or properly locked rooms. You were just a child, one that didn't know better, but suddenly you had ingested some serum. A less potent super serum from what your parents told you, you weren't paying attention. You were a child after all, why would you pay attention?

"And this is James Buchanan Barnes," your parents had introduced you to him after your 18th birthday. You accidentally ripped the door to one of the rooms in the house clean off, you hadn’t meant to. You just were upset that you got stood up by your prom date and pulled it off.

"Hi, y/n," Bucky offered his hand to you, you knew about him. Having heard the stories and seen the news about The Winter Soldier.

"Hi, Mr. Barnes," you shook his hand, careful not to squeeze too tight.

"You can call me Bucky," he told you as your parents grabbed your bags. They had promised to send you the rest of your things to you in DC when they packed it, the plane ride from California to DC was not enough space for everything. "Are you ready?" He glanced between you and your parents.

"Yeah, I just gotta say goodbye," you told him and spun to face your parents.

"We love you, honey," your mom was the first to hug you.

"Have fun and be safe, ok, birdie?" Your dad hugged you and you nodded gently.

"I love both of you," you told them and took your bags.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Don't flirt with him," Bucky pointed at you, you raised your hands at him. You had been with him for years, he knew you enough to know Joaquín was your type.

"And if I do?" You challenged.

"Then I'll make you go back to 3am runs," Bucky raised his eyebrows at you.

"Woah, woah, woah, man, hey! Wait a minute, no need to be so harsh!" You were too busy yelling at Bucky to notice Sam and Joaquín walking in. Joaquín paused when he saw you, they had come to the gym to meet you and Bucky. Bucky was insistent that they meet you somewhere you were comfortable, and your level of comfortability was evident in how you dressed in only a sports bra and a pair of shorts.

"Harsh? It's called a punishment for a reason," Bucky laughed and you smacked his upper arm.

"Buck, are you being mean to your protege?" Sam laughed through his question, and you spun to face the two new comers. You paused when you saw Joaquín, you understood why Bucky was telling you to not flirt with him. Joaquín was exactly your type and the way his smile lit up his face.

"He's always mean to me," you recovered, knowing Bucky was already aware of your new crush.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"What part of don't flirt with him got lost in translation?" Bucky watched as you moved around your room, getting ready for your date with Joaquín.

"He flirted with me first! Was I supposed to just let the embodiment of my dream guy just go?" You looked at Bucky.

"Yes! What if you need me?" Bucky told you, you knew he meant to malice to his words. You had just grown on him and he was worried about you.

"Bucky, I promise, if I need you I'll call. If I need you and I can't call, then I will have Joaquín call. And for whatever reason, neither of us can call, then I will make sure to struggle enough that my necklace alerts you," you walked towards Bucky as you spoke.

"And if Joaquín is the reason you need me?" Bucky asked and you laughed.

"You think that Joaquín Torres, the walking definition of a golden retriever boy, will hurt me? Especially knowing that I have you waiting for me and that Sam will make his life a living hell," you raised your eyebrow at him.

"I," Bucky met your eyes and you saw him give in. "Ok, go have fun, bee," Bucky ruffled your hair and you pushed your hair back into place.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Hi," you looked at Joaquín, he was standing at the door with flowers.

"Hi," Joaquín smiled at you and you two just stared at each other for a moments before Bucky fake coughed.

"Oh, uh, you can come in while I get these a vase," you told Joaquín but Bucky stopped you at the door.

"I'll take care of these, you two have fun," Bucky ushered you out the door and you and Joaquín made your way to his car.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"If he hurts her," Bucky started his threats again but Sam cut him off.

"Shut it, man. They'll notice us," took his eyes off where you and Joaquín were walking in the park eating ice cream. You two had your arms linked together and leaning towards each other.

"I'm just saying," Bucky told Sam and you looked in their direction. Joaquín looked over to and you both just stared them down.

"You got us caught, man," Sam smacked Bucky and they both watched as you and Joaquín took off down the path away from them. Your laughter echoing back at them as if taunting them. That's when they both knew you two would be alright, even if it hurt Bucky watching you grow up just a little bit more.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres x you #mcu #cabnw #cabnw spoilers #marvel mcu

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goatgoesmbe · 1 day ago

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Thoughts on pathetic Soap..? With those big puppy eyes and that lil pout just begging 👀

Yes to pathetic Soap, because you see- I have a habit of writing everyone with no rizz, especially him

And i've seen many good fucking story where the reader being a total dom to this pathetic man, cooing at him who plead for a whiff of your sex

So.. here i am with a proporsal: they're both bottoms pathetic

...

Reader who's used to be dominated, meeting a man who's also wanted to be dominated.

but alas- you're so much of a sub you'll dom if your partner wants it

You wanted to hide your face when you told him to kneel between your legs. Laying on the bed, your back against the sheet. cheeks flushed a darker hue while your voice was anything but commanding. meek and sweet.

he nuzzled against your underwear, whining along with you. Baby blue eyes looking up to you like he was asking for a permission. And when you once again told him what to do next, it sounded like a plea instead of an order.

And when he went down on you? you praised him for being so good to you. But of course, it sounded pathetic for someone who was supposed to be in control. Telling him what a good boy he was in between your gasps and whining when his tongue rubbed that spot just right-

You didn't feel like you were doing a good job taking control in bed, but the sight of him looking more than satisfied said otherwise. It made you giddy, made you feel proud of yourself

It seemed like you were not as pathetic as you thought you were..

#mbe ask #soap x reader #call of duty #call of duty x reader #cod #soap cod #john soap mactavish #mbe's soap

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himbosandhardwear · 2 days ago

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Steddie I pre-S4 I secret relationship AU I rated M I 3.9 k I angst I S4 fix-it I time skips

This was going to be a fully fleshed out story but I lost the umpf to finish, it just felt unnecessary to commit to an entire fic, so here's the rough draft for anyone interested.

July 10th, 1985

Eddie answered the door to find Steve Harrington standing off the porch, one foot on the bottom step, looking a bit like mangled raccoon roadkill, with somehow still an immaculate head of hair.

“Whoa, man, who'd you piss off this time?”

Steve slow blinked up at him. “I don't wanna talk about it. You open for business?”

He didn't normally take house calls but they weren't in school right now - Steve never would be again, the lucky bastard - and Eddie was saving up for a new amp, so yeah, he was open for business today.

“For you, Moneybags, always.” He held the door open wide.

Steve walked in, mumbling, “Not sure Moneybags is accurate now that I'm unemployed.”

“Well, then your money is even more precious. You could've spent it all on Budweiser but you chose me.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Steve.

“Don't know any other drug dealers,” he pointed out.

Eddie scowled. “C'mon, man, give me the illusion of being special.”

Steve's lips quirked, playful, even though it must've been stretching that cut painfully. “Oh, Munson, only your steller ditch weed can save me!”

Eddie would never admit it but the fact that he played along, albeit sarcastically, made him give Steve an extra pre-roll for free.

***

Aug 16th 1985

“And I said to her, ‘You can't expect me to tell you that. It's against the bro code or something,’ not that we were ever actually bros, it's the principle, right? But then she gives me the fuckin’ wet eyes, like I'm killing her-”

Eddie wasn't really listening, he was more focused on the task at hand, but Steve was a talker and Eddie had made peace with that weeks ago, so he politely hummed and nodded as needed to keep him going.

“Shit.”

“What?” Steve stopped monologuing to ask.

“Nothin’, just didn't have as much in this bag as I thought.” He put the tray aside and got up to grab another sack. There should be enough to round out Steve's usual six joints in his dresser stash.

“Anyway,” Steve continued on, unperturbed by the interruption, “I said to her-” He continued to wax about Nancy fucking Wheeler while Eddie dug through his top drawer. Ridiculous man couldn't wait thirty seconds, no, had to follow Eddie into his room. “Like Byers has the balls to cheat on her, ya know? And what the fuck am I supposed to do about it if he did? Fly to California and… Huh.”

“What?”

He was so wrapped up in looking for the right strain, he didn't turn to look until Steve's continued silence became weird.

He should've just given Steve five joints and charged him less.

“Uhhh. I can explain?”

Steve looked up from the skinmag on Eddie's side table and laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh yeah? I'd love to hear it.”

Why did he look so happy about it? Christ, he was literally bouncing on his toes.

“You're being weirdly chill about this,” he pointed out when Steve continued to grin.

“It's just funny, I guess. I have that same one.”

Time stopped. It started back up of course but not in any way that made sense. Because Steve was giving him that look, that open faced ‘See anything you like?’ look, with the steely eyed determination of a man who knew what he was doing. He'd seen that look before, in clubs, on the street. The problem Eddie was trying to work out wasn't so much ‘Could Steve Harrington really be queer?’, it was ‘Could Steve Harrington really want to fuck around with me?’

“What the fuck does that mean?” He asked, sure he was reading this wrong.

Steve cocked his head. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”

He turned to give Steve his full attention. “You, Steve Harrington, own the August edition of Drummer magazine.”

“Yes.”

“The gay porn mag.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He watched as Steve's face turned a lovely shade of pink. “To look at pictures of naked men and jerk off,” he said calmly, despite the blush. “Also the articles are well written and informative.”

That shocked a laugh out of Eddie. He crossed his arms and leaned up against the dresser. “Uh huh. What was your favorite one?”

“That story about the military rites of passage. Something about being told what to do gets me going.”

It could've just been a good guess, Eddie supposed, but he didn't think so.

“Oh yeah, private?” He said, all bravado. “Drop and give me twenty.”

The bravado died a soldier's death as he watched Steve hit the floor, on his knees, and then begin doing actual pushups. He watched up until twelve or so - the play of muscle under that blue and white polo was really something - before stopping him with a laugh.

“Get up, you fuckin' jock. We get it, you're in great shape.”

Steve did stop but only so he could sit back on his heels, hands placed firmly on his thighs, to look up at Eddie as though awaiting further instructions.

He gulped.

***

Sept 28th 1985

Eddie had his hand down Steve's pants, sucking a sizable hickey on his neck, when Steve blurted out, “Teen Wolf is playing at the Drive-In in Shelbyville.”

He backed away slowly, swimming through a haze of horny confusion to mumble, “The fuck?”

“Um. Just sayin'.”

“‘Just sayin'?’ Why are you ‘just sayin'’ right now?” He articulated this with a heavy squeeze to Steve's dick.

“Ha!” Steve arched toward him while also wincing in embarrassment. “I just wanted to ask before I forgot.”

A drop of cold lead sank Eddie's stomach. “Ask…what?”

He blinked at Eddie in the dark. “Do you wanna go? To the movies? With me?”

Heat washed out the cold feeling and replaced it with mounting anger; Eddie slowly pulled his hand from Steve's pants. He watched Eddie back away with wide-eyed confusion, going to ask what was wrong probably, but Eddie beat him to it, unwilling to hear the concern in his voice.

“I thought you understood what this was, Harrington. We don't do dates,” he spit the word like a curse. “That's something you do with the nice girls from your daddy's country club. We get each other off in the back of my van, where no one can see it rocking. Right? That's what this is.”

Steve's whole face shut down, giving nothing away. He gave Eddie a small nod, doing his pants back up. That was probably for the best, he was too rattled to get off now anyway.

“Yeah, I think we're done for today. Come see me when you remember what it is I'm good for.”

Steve didn't respond, just kicked open Eddie's back doors and hopped out. The beemer started a second later, not peeling out angrily, not kicking up gravel and dust in its wake, just drifted off into the night.

Eddie's hand shook as he tried to light a cigarette, flame winking in and out as his fingers slipped, another thing Steve had ruined. What an asshole, he thought, still furious. What the fuck was he thinking, asking Eddie out? That they'd just go to the movies together? Like a couple of regular people? Didn't he know that's not how things worked? If you're lucky, which Eddie was, you find a mentor to teach you the rules of staying safe. If you're not lucky, you learn the hard way.

Going steady with rich, popular boys was not on the list of approved activities.

Eddie snapped his cigarette in half and chucked it out the back door. The black of the lake beyond the trees, near invisible under a waxing moon, left him feeling sick to his stomach and lonely. The nights were getting too chilly to sit with the doors open anyway. He swung them shut and shrugged his flannel back on. The memory of Steve running his warm hands over Eddie's shoulders, slipping it off as he ran them down his back, struck Eddie like a slap to the face.

He shouldn't have freaked out. He could've handled it better. It wasn't Steve's fault he didn't know the rules. He didn't have someone like Gil to warn him about how dangerous it was out there. Oh well, it was too late to take it back now. He'd apologize when Steve came around again.

***

Oct 10th 1985

“I just don't get why he won't talk to me. I tried to see him at Family Video and he ran into the back office and locked the door. Buckley just stared at me until I was sure my hair would catch fire. Like I ever did anything to her,” he grumbled.

“Ed,” Gil sighed over the phone like Eddie was being particularly stupid, “he wanted to take you out and you yelled at him.”

When he said it like that it sounded reasonable. “Yeah, except we don't do that! You taught me that! That's not safe!”

“Oh, no. Oh, Eddie,” he sighed again. It was really starting to piss him off. “I didn't mean for you to take that to heart. You can't shut out everyone who might love you-”

“Love me?!” He screeched. “Are you insane? He didn't love me!”

“I'm not saying he did, I just mean you can't expect everyone you sleep with is going to agree no strings attached forever. Eventually you're going to fall for someone, and then all the bullshit running around in secret, that shit becomes worth it. I wasn't trying to stop you from falling in love, I was just trying to teach you how to get around safely.”

Eddie sputtered. He was so confused. Where was the burly, son of a bitch, leather vest wearing, biker bear who once told Eddie where to find the best glory holes in a new town? What the fuck was the shit about falling in love? That wasn't supposed to be in the cards for him. And certainly not with Steve Harrington. That was never going to be a thing. Not in the cards, not in the casino, not in Las Vegas itself! But all of a sudden he was allowed to date if he was sure the other person was worthy? Since when?!

Gil, instead of taking pity on him, doubled down. “I think it's probably too late with this Steve fella, but Eddie, don't push away the next one who takes an interest in you. Okay? It's still rough out there, it's still dangerous, but, god, what is any of this for if we aren't allowed to be in love?”

“You asshole,” he sniffed, “where was all this lovely advice two years ago?”

“You were a kid, dumb ass. If I'd told you to run off with the first guy who gave you butterflies, you'd be dead already. I was trying to keep you safe first, cut me some slack!”

“Fine! But I still blame you for fucking me on the Harrington thing. You have no idea what you cost me. Literally and figuratively. The wallet and the ass on that man.” He wasn't going to admit to missing the man attached to the wallet and the ass. It was too fresh of a realization.

“I'm sorry, kid. Seems like you really liked him.”

“What? No I didn't.”

“That why you called me and ranted about him for a half hour straight? Because you don't like him?”

Eddie scowled at the sink. “Shut up.”

Gil sighed at him again.

***

March 29th, 1986

A car had pulled up.

His blood was rushing in his ears, nothing but the sound of the ocean in a giant seashell, like the one his mom had kept on her dresser, so he didn't hear the voice at first. It wormed its way into his understanding slowly, a male voice, low, calling his name.

He grasped the bottle tighter, waited until the voice got closer, and then sprang out from under the tarp. His senses grew sharp, focusing on the dark shape in front of him. They came together hard, fell into the wall with a jarring crash. All thoughts went into stopping the body against him from hurting him first.

Hands grasped his wrist to keep the bottle from finding its mark. Strong hands, with wide knuckles, ones that Eddie hadn't seen in six months but still, unbidden, saw in his dreams.

He finally looked up and found Steve Harrington at the end of his makeshift knife.

“It's me, Eds, it's me” he was panting. “You're safe. I promise. It's okay.” He kept repeating it until Eddie finally let go of the bottle. Let go and then buried his face into Steve's neck and wept. He couldn't stop it, it just came out of him, everything, all the terror and confusion and guilt.

“I didn't do it, I didn't hurt her, it wasn't me,” he kept repeating.

“I know. I know, Eds, I know you didn't,” Steve answered, hand still running over the back of his head. Like the last six months were just a terrible dream.

He didn't even notice Steve wasn't alone, not until Henderson clasped him around the shoulder and told him there were things living under Hawkins, things that would make a horde of Beholders turn tail and run.

And they'd been dealing with it all since ‘83?

Which meant Steve was already a hardened veteran when he was goofing off in Eddie's trailer, making tusks out of pretzel rods and calling Ewoks by the wrong name.

“Jesus Christ.” He put his head between his knees and did his best to ignore Steve's hand rubbing up and down his back. He didn't want the comfort but he took it anyway.

***

March 31st 1986

“Hey, Eddie,” Steve pulled up next to him, skipping over the slimy Devil Roots with ease, “I just wanted to say thanks for savin’ my ass back there.”

Eddie chuckled lowly, not ready to say, ‘You know what you did, you macho asshole.’ “Pretty sure Wheeler saved your ass but you're welcome.”

“You definitely helped. I mean, you didn't have to swim through a portal to hell after me but you did.”

The shame of Steve giving him even an ounce of credit crept up his throat and started to choke him. Steve had been getting drug to hell by some unknown force and still Eddie had hesitated. He was a coward.

“Man, I just didn't want to be the asshole who stayed behind.”

The silence felt damning, like he should've just kept his mouth shut.

Steve jammed his hands into his ratty sweatpants. “Right.”

Now he thought Eddie didn't care at all.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he whispered, “You know that's not the whole truth, right? I know things are weird between us but I don't want you dead.”

He had to keep his eyes on the ground as they walked but out of his periphery he could see Steve nod.

“Yeah. I get it.”

He didn't but Eddie didn't know what else to say. He hadn't let himself think about what they were to each other now. Not friends, not ex’s, not strangers. He’d tried not to think about Steve at all - except what he couldn't avoid, like Henderson’s obsession with him and things his brain forced him to remember at night - since whatever they were doing ended. Since Steve left and never came back.

He opened his mouth to soften the moment, tell Steve how Henderson would've killed him in a more creative way than Vecna if he'd let Steve die, but Steve cut him off.

“I should thank you for that too.”

Eddie chanced looking over.

“For what?”

“For ending things when you did.”

The squirm in his gut worsened. They hadn't talked about it. He didn't want to talk about it. “Oh?” He choked out.

“Yeah, I was, uh, making a bigger thing out of what we, what we were doing, than I should've. I blame Robin for enabling me, she's the one who said to just ask you out like a normal person. Sorry for making it weird and ruining it. Always trying to give my heart to people who don't want it.” He chuckled morosely. “Anyway, thanks, I guess. You probably saved me from a lot more heartache later down the line.” He slapped Eddie on the back, like they were old chums, and then he skipped up to the girls without a backwards glance.

Eddie stood there, alone, gaping at his retreating back.

***

April 1st, 1986

Eddie had always been good at compartmentalizing. When his mom got sick, he got really into Tolkien, let that be his focal point in a storm of hospital visits and missed days at school. When his dad got picked up and sent to prison, he let Wayne teach him how to play guitar, which he spent most of his waking hours on. When Steve made it clear he was done with Eddie, he packed up the little pocket of time they had, the enjoyment he'd found in Steve's company, and folded it under the recesses of his mind, told himself it was all for the best, to not think of it again, and then he threw himself into Hellfire.

So, now that he’d found himself in another untenable situation, clarity struck Eddie like lightning as he thrashed on the ground - Hey, dumbass, Steve Harrington actually liked you, wanted to date you, would've fallen for you, and you fucking blew it. Not only did you blow it, you broke his fucking heart.

It was an asinine thought to have while he was actively dying but considering the alternative was acknowledging that he was being eaten alive by demon bats, he welcomed thoughts of Steve.

Steve, who Eddie had convinced himself was just scratching an itch with someone who wouldn't tell, but who had actually been telling his best friend the whole time.

Steve, who came over for weed but stayed to hang out, sometimes for hours, well before they were fooling around.

Steve, who wasn't anything like Eddie had assumed he would be, was exactly the kinda guy Eddie would've fallen for. If he was allowed.

But he had been allowed, the whole time apparently, and was too stupid to notice.

Henderson showed up a minute later, just as the bats collapsed around him, thank god. If he'd gotten the asshole killed he was fairly certain Steve would've brought him back somehow just to kill him again.

He wasted a lot of breath apologizing to Dustin, agreeing that he was totally gonna make it. Wasted some more trying to bequeath Hellfire to him. Wasted his last breath to say, “Tell Steve I'm sorry.”

Dustin wouldn't understand what for but maybe Steve would.

Just before he lost consciousness he caught Dustin saying, “Tell him yourself,” and then something that sounded suspiciously like, “Eddie! No.”

But by then he was gone.

***

Date unknown, 1986

He was never sure if what he was experiencing was real or not. Since the pain had stopped everything had a surreal quality, mostly flashes of light, some sound trickled in, shouting and crying and tires squealing; all of it was fleeting and seemed unimportant.

The first thing that felt real was Wayne's voice. Gruff and short and so, so familiar. It brought tears to his eyes. He was pretty sure anyway, hard to tell when he couldn't open them yet.

“Get your boy, Fletch, or I'm gonna break his arm.”

“Now, Wayne, we're just doin’ our job,” Chief Powell said in a softer tone than Wayne's snarl or Callahan's offense.

“Either one of you touch a hair on his head, I'll-”

“Have Steve call his famous lawyer dad,” Robin piped up from somewhere in the room, thankfully stopping Wayne from further incriminating himself.

“He's a divorce attorney,” Steve mumbled. “But he knows people!” He rallied after what Eddie imagined was a look from Robin.

A beat went by, Eddie almost slipped away in the quiet, before Chief Powell spoke up again. “You're all gonna go to bat for this kid?”

Steve responded first. “He's a hero.”

Eddie didn't get to enjoy that for long, a nurse came in to shuffle them all out of the room so they could re-up his pain meds and then it was nighty-night again.

***

Date Unknown, 1986

The next time Eddie woke, it was dark in the room, only a bit of light coming in from under the door and from the parking lot lights outside. His eyes felt gritty, heavy with sleep, but he could make out the shape of Steve in the chair beside his bed.

He was awake, staring down at the side of Eddie's mattress.

No.

Eddie followed his gaze and found Steve staring at his hand where it laid across his own forearm, careful of the tubes they were both hooked to. As soon as he saw it, he became aware of the warmth of it, Steve's huge hand draped over his cold skin.

“Feels nice,” he tried to say but it came out more garbled mess than actual words.

It was enough to get Steve's attention though.

“Eddie!” He said with excitement, relief. “What do you need? I should get the nurse.”

Eddie forced his arm to respond, to turn over and clasp Steve where he was about to remove himself. His grasp wasn't near enough to keep Steve in place but the fact that he tried kept Steve where he was.

His voice refused to cooperate, felt like coughing up glass, but he tried to communicate that Steve should stay.

“Okay, okay, I'm here. Not going anywhere. Do you need anything? Water? Pain meds?”

Eddie could definitely use both of those things but the most pressing thing, the only thing he could really think of was…

Lifting his hand to point as steadily as he could at Steve's chest.

He chuckled. “Why do you keep trying to take my shirt?”

The question made little sense. For one thing, this was the first he remembered being coherent enough to demand anything, and second, Steve wasn't wearing a shirt, he was in a hospital gown, same as Eddie.

He shook his head as best he could, a frustrated frown and a grunt to indicate that wasn't what he meant at all.

Steve leaned closer. “What is it? I don't know what you need, Eddie.”

Now that he was closer, Eddie reached out as best he could and pressed his palm to the left side of Steve's chest.

They stared at each other. Eddie could feel the tears slipping down his face but he didn't dare move his hand to wipe them away.

Slowly, like he was scared, Steve's hand came up to press Eddie's hand closer. Big and warm and missed to the point of aching, though Eddie had been loath to admit it to himself.

“You’re serious?” Steve whispered. “You want...this?”

Eddie nodded frantically.

“If you mean my tit I'm going to be so pissed at you.”

Eddie choked on a laugh. He did his very best to mouth, “That too.”

That got him a laugh, a soft one. "Some things don't change." He looked away, shy. Or not shy exactly, cautious. "I hope you remember you said all this when you wake up again. You're pretty doped up."

That was an easy fix. The drugs probably made it easier to admit but he was tired of pretending it wasn't true.

He pulled Steve's hand until it settled over his own chest, stitches and all, and forced himself to croak, "I already tried to forget, sweetheart. It didn't work."

Steve's answering smile rivaled the dawn.

#this is just every pre-s4 secret relationship fic ever written #and its half assed #but its mine #two cakes situation #steddie #ficlet #my writing

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canichangemyblogname · 2 days ago

Text

Highlighting my tags:

#this all feels like a result of cis het ppl not knowing what ‘sexual attraction’ or ‘sexuality’ mean #IK they’ll take this out of context #& try to turn it into some sort of ‘so they have less love between each other because we don’t see porn on TV?’ (or something similar) #but that is actually the opposite of what I am arguing #I am saying that you’ve created a mlm relationship (the ‘buddie’ ship) devoid of queerness #(and this is completely unrelated to whether they get down and nasty with each other) #take RW&RB (‘cause y’all are comparing Buck & Tommy to that movie)… #[that story] was like two Ken dolls being smashed together while some kid plays ‘house’ (but after she lost all her Barbies, leaving just the guys) #the two characters seemed to lack a sexuality despite getting down & nasty w/ each other #similar to couples in cis het rom cons (like hallmark movies) #& it’s because there’s this ‘inevitability’ to the relationship due to ‘circumstances beyond their control’ (or a lack of options) #it really seems like Buck & Eddie happens in y’all’s fantasies b/c Eddie is simply just there 🧍‍♂️#It’s the whole: ‘once their girl friends have been fridged and are gone then it’s BOUND to happen!’ #Buck has *chosen* Tommy. not out of inevitability. not b/c there are no more girls in the pic. not even b/c of arbitrary [relation]ship milestones #simply because he likes him. because he likes men. because he likes Tommy

I want it to be clear that the supposed “inevitability” of a ship is what often strips m/m fanfiction ships of queerness. (Things like, it’s “bound” to happen, it’s “end game,” it’s “gonna” happen, [but after, of course, the women are out of the way; this can only happen if there are no women])

In the minds of many straight people, especially heteropessimists, and a heterosexist society, there is an inevitability to relationships. Men and women “inevitably” end up together unless circumstances prevent or compel otherwise. This is considered “natural,” “self-evident,” and the “norm” (this is also a feature of compulsory heterosexuality).

For many in the 911 fandom, Buck and Eddie seem to get together because they’ve run out of girlfriends, as they’ve all been fridged, or because their friendship would “naturally” lead to this “end-stage.”

(I want to note: Men who are into men don’t choose to date a man because there are no women available [like fridging the girlfriends]; they date men because they like men and there are men they like available. I know there’s this weird hetero trope that men aren’t picky & they’ll date whomever, so I need to correct the record: men don’t date just anyone they come across. A man’s not going to be into someone b/c that person’s simply there or convenient. Men do choose to date the people they do because they are attracted to them in some way.)

It is not “inevitable” that Buck will “take it slow” (“do it right,” in his mind) and eventually marry a long-term, serious, monogamous girlfriend. It is also no more “inevitable” that he will start fucking his best friend. And it was certainly not narratively inevitable that he would date Tommy and develop an on-again-off-again exes situationship with him. It’s also certainly not inevitable that Tommy is Buck’s “forever.”

Queer people make the active decision to live as their authentic selves. They will themselves to reject heteronormative tropes and live in a way that says, “No, your norms are not inevitable or natural or self-evident; I will live differently and love differently in a way you will never see as socially valid.” This is part of why queerness is political.

Part of what’s important about Buck & Tommy’s relationship *is* that they’re queer for each other. They’re attracted to each other for who the other is, and that includes them both being men. And they actively pursue each other—romantically and sexually—because they really like each other. They’re not choosing each other because there are no more women available. And they’re not choosing each other as a last resort (no one is settling). They get together because they like each other, they want to, and they can. They’re not going with the “choice” that everyone wants (“As much as everyone wants me to be pining for my straight best friend, that’s just not how it is”); they’re going with each other. When they pursue the feelings they have for one another, they’re deciding to live their life, be themselves, and pursue what feels right for them, and in the process reject the norms and expectations forced upon them, including norms like “you need to be alone before you can be happy in a relationship” and expectations like “queer guy pines for straight best friend.”

(I said to a mutual recently: “there’s still this idea that queer lives are *supposed to be* full of misery, pining, aloneness, and an absence of happiness; that we’re forever supposed to be ‘resisting temptation’ or hopelessly in love with something [someone] intangible that we shouldn’t and can’t have.” And both “try being alone again” and “hopelessly and tragically in love with unattainable best friend” play into this alone, hopeless life of temptation stereotype. And it’s because of these pervasive ideas about queer aloneness and lives of half-love that 911 fans care more about pining and a theoretical relationship than the actualized representation on their screens.)

And that’s not insignificant.

[The original version of this ending was posted on the 9th and 11th of May, 2024. This reblog on the 23rd of March, 2025, combines two posts in this thread into one for an overall shorter number of posts in the thread]

Hot take? A show with queer people in it from the beginning was never queerbaiting and— very literally and technically— never could. In the first episode, a gay man comes out to his family. And he doesn’t stop being gay after that; it’s a major plot point and part of his character going forward. You’ve had a married lesbian couple from the jump who are proud and unapologetic about their love for each other. The story has also portrayed several queer couples and stories in episodic plots, including featuring queer weddings.

Buck didn’t suddenly “become” bi. Queerness is not when straight people “turn” queer. He has been attracted to men the entire time; he has always been bi. Understanding yourself and your sexuality as a queer person is often so difficult under heteronormativity. Sometimes, it takes time.

Hell— Buck checking a guy out some time in season 3 or getting flustered by the idea he might like a guy, etc, etc, are not even examples “queerbaiting,” nevermind how the show already features queer stories.

I genuinely think some of y’all are just mad that he’s not sucking face with the man you want him to, and are being weirdly homophobic about it. “Buck kissing this man is kinda off-putting, lmao.” “Buck and his bf’s relationship is awkward. IDK, but it weirds me out.” “There’s something so cringe about Buck’s relationship—” “Who dates someone they haven’t been friends with for years first? It’s kinda creepy…” “I think their relationship is a weird mess. It’s not as meaningful as a slow burn.”

Life isn’t fanfiction and fanfiction tropes don’t make good writing. Most relationships start out with a “hey, I’m interested in you, let’s get to know each other.” You’re just transparently uncomfortable with two men expressing that interest in each other outside the arbitrary rules you’ve established to make a mlm relationship “legitimate” or “meaningful.”

[Fanfiction] tropes— from “there’s only one bed” to “we’re forced together, but fall in love anyway”— are responses to the sex-negativity and purity culture norms forced upon gender and sexual minorities. They provide a workaround for these norms but never a direct challenge. It’s like the Family Guy episode “Prick Up Your Ears,” where conservative Christian abstinence-only sex education leads to kids having ear sex. Ear sex is the workaround to the abstinence and purity rules they’d been taught, not the challenge. We still have stringent rules around who can touch whom and under what circumstances. Tropes reflect this. So, a trope like “there’s only one bed” provides the characters with a justification for their intimacy without directly challenging why it is taboo.

You’ve convinced yourself that shipping— and thus the tropes it employs— is more subversive than actual representation, and the people caught in the crossfire are actual queer people.

Also— for the love of fuck— stop comparing every mlm relationship to RW&RB.

#reblogging with an updated end post #fucking discourse #911 abc

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gothwineaunts · 18 hours ago

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I don’t mean to assume or make anyone alarmed but I’ve heard you and flynn are skipping the focus on Annabel and Lenore bc of a group of Montresor fans (as Lenore and Annabel aren’t popular with them).

Is that true??

I’m not asking because of what’s happening in fastpass, I heard about this information around when season 2 came out.

Wow, that's honestly absurd. Sorry hon, I dunno where you heard that but it's made-up nonsense. A rumor, and not even a particularly good one. I think most anyone would be able to see through it, but I'll go through it with you anyway because I've seen some angst on the tag about this. 1. Lenore and Annabel are the main characters of the story, and that has not changed and will not change. If we intended to toss them aside in season 2, why on earth would we have set so much up in season 1? Also all of the promo art is still of them, and we spent a lot of time on it. So I think it's a safe bet to assume they're still the main characters. 2. Nevermore is, and has always been, a sapphic gothic romance. Montresor is a man. Where is the sense in changing the intent of a story, and likely losing readers in the process, just to appeal to a niche group? 3. As for this niche group of Montresor fans, where? Who are they? And what power do they supposedly have over us to force us to completely change the story to their shadowy whims? Idk if you noticed this but people kind of hate Montresor. He's easily the least liked character in the series. And making him the main character would be maybe the most unpopular decision we could possibly make, so how would that be selling out or making fanservice, if everyone... would hate it? Wouldn't that make it the opposite of fanservice? What is the logic there? 4. As far as I am concerned, Annabel and Lenore are popular with most everybody in the fandom (including people who happen to also like Montresor) on account of them being, once again, the main characters of the story. 5. Annabel got the first flashback, and then Ada, then Prospero, then Eulalie, and Will. I feel like there are enough data points there for most people to be able to see the trajectory of the arc. If you can't, I'm not going to explain it. 6. Related to the above point, do you suppose we've passed over Lenore by accident? Or we just forgot about her? Or is it more likely that we're doing a thing? 7. Y'know, it's always Montresor people make up these moralistic rumors about. I'm sick to death of people being weird about Montresor. Some of you out there really need to learn what a villain is, it's frankly wild how much confusion there seems to be around this concept. 8. This rumor smacks of "you don't actually care about the sapphics" but I regret to inform you that Flynn and I are both sapphics. And worse, we're sapphic together. Kinda shoots that idea out of the water. 9. Is this because everyone is mad they haven't kissed yet? Because this is still the same slowburn you read last season. I don't know why anyone thought there'd be a kiss like ten panels into the new season. 10. If I seem edgy, it's because it's pretty insulting to imply that we just do whatever readers tell us to do when it comes to creating the story. We really put our hearts into this series, and our plans for the plot will not change, no matter what y'all say or do. We do not crowdsource our art. And if we did, it would make an absolute mess of things. Thanks for your question, I hope I cleared things up. <3

#red post

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scribz-ag24 · 1 day ago

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I've recently seen again a post talking about the Sableye and Dusknoir's relationship so i'd like to put my two cents in the discussion, for I love screaming into the void about PMD. (this isnt meant to discourage any other interpretations btw this is just my take on theirs and Dusknoir's relationship, bc I think they're very fun characters and I am very glad the game actually gives these minions a bit of relevance in se5).

Tbh I don't buy that Dusknoir treats the Sableye nicely, at least not out of kindness. I don't think he's a tyrant or inexplicably mean, of course, and I think his minions ADORE him, but i also believe that doesn't mean he's nice to them, sth that i consider meaningful for their character arcs.

Throughout the entire game he's exclusively giving them orders, in se5 he concocts a plan that involves thrashing them MULTIPLE times (he's lucky Grovyle isn't one to try and kill enemies in battle ig), and the cherry on top is that the first time we see him being fully genuine he does this:

(yes, he is in turmoil in here, but there's not a single thing implying that 1. this is an unusual response towards the sablye, 2. dusknoir feels bad for it at some point or is surprised at himself, 3. this has any impact in the sableye at all. You can argue these reactions happen off screen and we don't see them, they don't happen bc they have pressing matters to attend to or they happen after they return to life, and that's perfectly valid, but i'm sticking with what the game shows us, here.)

I must say, though, the fact that the Sableye, despite having been almost mindless pokémon up to now, STAND UP TO AND ATTACK Primal Dialga for their boss and even try to look after him despite him ordering them to check on Grovyle and Celebi first is SO important to me. they are goons to the bone and they love that scheming ghost so much.

My own view is that Dusknoir is generally polite to them (you wouldn't randomly break your own revolver or weapon without any reason, would you?), but is quicker to get mean with them than with people he doesn't know or he is seeking to manipulate. He doesn't care about their behaviour as long as they get the job done, which is why I think the anime thing of the Sableye climbing onto his shoulder isn't that remarkable, rather it's a very cute moment, one that is showing how they've been working together for long and how their size difference affects their interactions, but it is not necessarily conveying an affectionate bond (this is a bit random, but it reminds me of Disney's Jafar with Iago lmao. throw your pet sableye at your enemies so they mock them and then return to your shoulder). Additionally, Dusknoir letting the Sableye onto his shoulder is probably as close as we are gonna get to a villain turning around in his chair while petting a cat in PMD lol.

[this isn't meant to be a one-to-one comparison, it's just a detail i find cute and shows that this gesture can have multiple interpretations, with none being the only right one]

Leaving that aside, I hesitate to claim Dusknoir trusts his Sableye as allies, as Grovyle makes a point in the main story of how the Sableye (your Sableye, he says, as if objectifying them; not friends, but tools, weapons at Dusknoir's disposal) are lacking compared to the way hero/partner/grovyle support one another (power of friendship and hidden information babyyyy). The Sableye are used to Dusknoir's way of doing things, though, I'm sure. They know what happens when he's displeased, after all.

I think, most of all, the Sableye are meant to look disposable: they are 6 identical pokémon that almost act like a hivemind, and we are not supposed to think at all about how we may hurt them in battle any more than we do with the angry Manectric pack or random dungeon pokémon. This, I believe, is why the game has them stand up against Dialga and gives them unique dialogue at the end of se5. They're meant to show their inner shine, just as Dusknoir managed to do. They suddenly gain an individuality they had never shown while they were working to maintain the dark future.

Where they abandoned Dusknoir in the Old Ruins, now Grovyle has motivated them to look for their dignity and fight for a better world, and that starts with protecting their leader from Primal Dialga's rampage, and supporting his new objective and allies in their quest to save the future. In their own small way, they've also grown as characters throughout SE5.

I believe that, overall, Dusknoir saw the Sableye as tools, but thanks to their growth and clear care for him, there's a possibility he might start to see them (and by extension other pokémon) in a more genuine, less pragmatic / objectifying way in the future. Now that Dusknoir has the chance to live a fulfilling life, he may learn to care for others without surrounding himself by so many walls. If anything, I think their future is quite bright. Not that the Sableye would mind if he still thrashed them around, though lol, they're clearly not bothered much by it (special episode 0 had a great depiction of the sableye imo, you can check that romhack if you haven't yet).

In conclusion, look at these little guys who adore their can-get-mean-but-is-mostly-polite boss and probably have a body count but now are good, they're so cute:

#tldr: i think dusknoir not being nice and them being cowards is what makes their se5 actions more significant. they both have an arc #this is all surface level analysis i know but thats how i read them #i didnt bother to talk about grov saying the sableye do 'all the dirty work' around the future bc i didnt know where to put it but. uh.#add that to the prepared execution room and i think these guys have killed people lmao #i must reiterate this isnt throwing shade to any headcanons this is just what i got from the game. people are free to have fun.#also. dusknoir in the middle of his se5 panic attack and existential crisis: get the fuck out of my way this is my moment #HE GETS OUT OF HIS CRISIS ANIMATION SO FAST TOO. HE REALLY SAYS 'not now sweaty. daddy's having some him time' and slaps them #so he can go back to his drama queen pose #hes so awesome. gay toxic uncle behavior #his nemesis is in agony the entire time while this happens. se5 is truly peak fiction #the height difference is so funny too #like no wonder dusknoir didnt have any issue trying to kill the mcs. the sableye are tinier than some starter options ewionfwojfewo #highly throwable imps they are #him beign a bit jerk and him letting the sableye climb him up to give him rocks like in the anime special are not mutually exclusive. to me #this is pokemon. these magic creatures constantly beat up each other #the sableye get climbing privileges if they are good boys and it is useful to give him what he's looking for. and also it's very cute #this was gonna be just a textpost but then it got long and i strted looking for game moments that seemed relevant to the sableye oops #i like to babble about this game and dusknoir especially #sableye #dusknoir #pmd2 #'scribz isnt it cringe to write 500 words retelling the events of a children's game' look if 90% of eos video essays can do it then so can #this is the closest thing my lacking understanding can manage to a meta/analysis post ig

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just-some-random-blogger · 3 hours ago

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ONCE AGAIN A VICTIM TO MY OWN INABILITY TO CONSUME MEDIA FOR GOODNESS KNOWS WHY. A TRUE SHAME I HAVEN'T READ THIS SOONER BECAUSE IT IS BOP A BANGER A SHOWSTOPPER A STUNNER AND I AM IN NEED OF A NEW SET OF PANTS

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

Oh my GOSHHH 😫😫😫😫😫😫😭😭😭😭😭 I say this all the time but GOSHHHH you can really tell if a fic is gonna be good from the first sentence and how they open the story. I so fucking sorry for breathing the same air are you my goddess. Am I bothering you? Also wtf bill in Hogwarts???? Did he leave his homework or smth?

The full moon lingered at the edge of the sky, obstinate in its refusal to dip below the trees. You'd begged Bill not to go out while the moon hung bloated in the sky, an unusual, ominous shade of red.

If there's one thing a man does best is the exact opposite of what you tell him to. How many stories would be rewritten so drastically, how many lives would be saved if you just listened to women 🙄🤚 choke

But he'd gone anyways. Which was fair, you supposed; he wasn't yours to order about. You weren't a couple, despite the simmering tension between you, heightened by the deep connection you’d forged through over a decade of friendship and work and suffering and joy.

Situationship headass 🙄🤚 miss me with that bullshit. NOT THE WE ARENT A COUPLE I WOULD DEADASS ASK BILL WHAT ARE WE THE MINUTE HE LAUGHED AT MY JOKES ID RATHER BE PRESUMPTUOUS THAN BRAIN DEAD *STARTS CHAINSAW*

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

WAIT I KNOW THIS i don't BATTLE AT HOGWARTS? OK WE ARE SO ON TO SOMETHING (I've seen edits HAHAAH) it's fine it's ok I don't need background I understand perfectly

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

.... I know I shouldn't be thinking this but all in thinking is 🫦🫦🫦 hi rem... How are you... Want a baby?

“We don't have a choice,” Remus said, gently nudging Tonks aside and cupping your face. You forced your eyes to focus on his forehead, his crooked nose, his scars, his eyes. “Can you do this?” Remus asked.

OMG TONKS 🫣😅 HI NOT THIRSTING OVER OUR- EH- YOUR HUSBAND also dkskskksksn IDK WHAT I HAD TO SAY BUT HOT. IM TOO BIASED. REMUS I LOVE YOU WE LIKE DIS 🤞 but also tonks 🥺 shes so mother so caring and gentle. Remus being frantic and hot in my head is clouding whatever I wanted to fucking say about this part

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

... Remus so smart.... 🫦 ITS NOT MY FAULT IM SO DISTRACTED

So you waited, and waited, and waited. Four days of burning fever. Four days of changing head-to-toe bandages. Four days of ladling broth between his chapped lips. Four days of praying to anyone that would listen to spare him. To bring him back to you.

Ok but this was beautifully vivid albeit torturous for YN... Is ok... It's for the plot shhhhh *pushes finger onto lips*

You knew he'd be different, no one suffered an attack like that and remained the same, but you knew that you'd love him anyways. The scars on his skin would pale in comparison to the scars left on his psyche, and you would find whatever strength you needed to help him through it.

Embutido core. Also 🧐🧐🧐🧐🤨🤨🤨🤨 FUCK YOU MEAN ALWAYS LOVE HIM???? UR NOT TOGETHER. GET YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS SITUATIONSHIP TRUTHER

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

Oh my gosh

But now that I'm remembering the situationship context.... Cringe as fuck

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

Its giving

MARTHA WHERE IS SHE LOL. I think supes says it tho

He groaned low in his chest, nuzzling into the crook of your neck and heaving a deep breath. His knotted muscles immediately went lax, and he looped an arm around your waist, hauling you into the bed with him. You were shocked at how much strength he still had after a week of bed rest.

First of all. HOT. second of all. SITUATIONSHIP AHHH FUCKIN

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

SNSIIDJSJKS SNIFFING??????????????

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

WKSKKSKKKSN WHAT ^^^^^ LAST GIF X2

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

IS IT THE WOLF JUMPING OUT OF HIM.

OH WAIT I FORGOT TO ASK COS THE TAGS IS LIKE EARLY STAGES OF WEREWOLF FOR BILL I WAS LIKE HE CANONICALLY BECOMES A WEREWOLF??????? OR IS IT A FIC THING I'm realizing as I type this it's probably a fic thing.

ANYWAY BILL BEING JEALOUS? OF REMUS 🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 OK BUT DID YOU WRITE THIS FOR MEEEE TWIRLS HAIR SMILES LIKE SPONGEBOB WAIT ILL GET THE PIC

UHM THIS WASNT THE ONE I HAD IN MIND I WAS THINKING WITH A RAINBOW but I realized it was probably an amalgamation of a bunch of different spongebob images so yeah

Tonks caught you at the end of the hall, grabbing you by the arms. “He's asking for you, but you have to—y/n, listen to me,” she snapped, and you stilled, coiled and ready to flee. “You have to be careful—that kind of trauma…he might not be the Bill you love.”

🥺😭💔 NO CUZ IM CRYING FOR TONKS SHES SO GENTLE AND KIND AND CONCERNED AND WHAT WAS THAT LIKE TO LOVE REMUS LIKE THIS FKJDUDJDJDJ FUCKING HELL *smokes cigarette* (DONT SMOKE)

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

😃 nice 👍

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

POOR BOY. also I know some of these are out of order. I can't be bothered to reorder them let me slide ily

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

🫦 he can join

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

🙄🤚 u being hesitant is so telling of ur situationship. AT LEAST YOUR SELF AWARENESS

His family came in next, a cacophonous, emotional ordeal that made your heart ache with relief. With them, he seemed more like himself; the good-natured, charismatic man you'd fallen in love with, and some of your uncertainty ebbed.

My boy

But clearly not 🫵YOUR🫵 boy 🙄🤚

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

🙄🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚 SITUATIONSHIP FINAL BOSS

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

BRUHHHHH SOMEONE PLAY SILVERSPINGS BY FLEETWOOD MAC. PLS SHES NOT STEVIE NICKS BILL IS 😭😭🤚 LORDIE

“Oh, I am. For probably the first fucking time,” he growled, patience wearing thin. “I’ve loved you for ten fucking years, and I almost lost you. So forgive me, darling, I will not be letting you go again.”

Ngl I'm a petty ass who's into schadenfreude and masochism I'd be like AKSHALY NO FUCK OFF 😭😭😭 (I need a lobotomy)

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

IM SAYING WE BEEN KNEW and my gosh my gosh RABBIT ANALOGY???? INSANE WORK DAFAQ OK QUEEN SORRY FOR EVEN TRYING TO WRITE

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

NO. EW YUCK. WHAT AM I EASY?

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

Yes. I would make you wait and carve your heart out because you need to work for it this is happening too quickly (I SAY AS THEIR SITUATIONSHIP HAS BEEN FORGED A DECADE AGO 🙄🙄🙄🙄🤚🤚😭😭😭😭😭)

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

Weak piece of shit 🫵 make him beg

“I know,” he hummed, —

POMPOUS PIECE OF—

— the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

— SIR IM JUST A HOLE

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

SUDDENLY IM NOT MAD AT HER AT ALL I AM HER. I DONT KNOW WHY IM LIKE THIS EITHER WHY AM I MAD AT HER FOR FOLDING FOR BILL SO QUICKLY WHEN I WOULD HAVE THROWN MYSELF AT HIM LIKE SNAP WHAT THE FUCK

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

ITS FINE IM FINE HAHAHAH

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

YES I CAN'T BE ATTRACTED TO A MAN THAT DOESNT SCARE ME A LIL I WILL JUMP YOUR BONES

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

🥺 they're so gentle BUT IM OVER HERE LIKE 🫦🫦🫦🫦 BARK WOOF GRRR

“No, love. Of course not. I'm still me.” He smoothed the hair from your forehead, palming the side of your skull with his long-fingered hand. “But Remus should be if he tries to get between us again.”

🫦🫦🫦🫦🫦 REMUS MENTIONNNNNNN HE CAN JOINNN DONT BE A KILL JOYYYYYYY HAHAHHAAHA WHYS HE SO PRESSED OMG YOU WROTE THIS FOR MEEEEE DIDNT YOU YEEEEEEEEEEE WEEEEEEEEEE RAHHHHH

He leaned down, catching your laughter with a lissome press of his lips. The last of your reservation dissipated, dripping out between your thighs as the kiss deepened. His lips were pillowy, tongue tinged with iron and herbs, you leaned into his embrace, content to let him devour you whole.

BILL WEASLEY IN MY ROOM RN CHALLENGE: FAILED 😔😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😞😫💔

CONGRATS ON HITTING 1K, you deserve all the love you're getting and more <3333 for your celebration could i get a thousand stitches with bill? Your writing of him has been completely brilliant, i love the way you characterise him <333

hi my darling!!! thank you much!! I'm so grateful you're here and I hope you enjoy 🫶

1000 stitches | B.W.

feat. Bill Weasley x reader

cw: MDNI 18+, injuries and blood, near-death experience, early stages of werewolf!Bill , love confessions

1000 things prompt list (closed!) | masterlist

The sun crested the horizon, shades of violet, clementine, and rose, and still, Bill and the others hadn't returned from Hogwarts.

You'd loved him all your life, and he wouldn't be Bill Weasley, the man that held your heart hostage, if he didn't plunge headlong into danger, especially where his family was concerned.

Always eager for the hunt.

It was Harry, Lupin, and Tonks that arrived back first, bloodied and beaten, singed by the glancing blow of curses.

Molly ran out to them, screaming for her children, but Remus was quick to assuage her.

“They're right behind us—Molly, you must—Molly listen to me,” Remus snapped, shaking her gently. “Ron and Ginny are fine, but Bill—Greyback got a hold of him.”

You clutched the rusted porch railing of the safe house, limbs going numb as the blood drained from your brain.

“He's alive, but barely,” Remus continued, keeping Molly upright by sheer force of will. “And we don't know if he was—”

“Bitten,” you finished, your voice little more than a whimper. Remus looked up at you, nodding solemnly.

He looked like he was going to say something further, when the others suddenly apparated into the clearing. Ginny ran straight into the house, shouting for the medic assigned to the safe house. Ron and Neville held a body between them, the figure limp as a freshly killed stag and twice as bloody.

Bill.

Your ears began to ring, a monotonous, consuming sound, drowning out all of the shouting. You couldn't breathe.

Was he breathing?

You took a sip of air, lungs burning. You'd breathe for him.

Remus grabbed hold of Molly, keeping her out of the way as they carried Bill into the house. Up the stairs and towards you, five steps away, three, one—Ron caught your eye as they passed, looking for too guilty for a boy of only 18, but he quickly looked away, struggling under the weight of his much larger brother.

More members of the Order ran out to help carry him, relieving the boys of the burden, and you could only stand there, staring down at the twin smears of blood where Bill's feet had dragged across the threshold. Staining the stone forever.

Tonks was speaking to you, her hands on your shoulders, but you couldn't hear her, could only stare at the red, red, so much red. Too much red. How could he have anything left?

“We need more hands!” You heard someone call, the words filtering in through the din in your mind.

Hands, hands. You had hands, you could help.

“Tonks—”

“I don't think that's a good idea—”

“I-I can,” you affirmed, your voice sounding far away. Like someone else had spoken through your mouth.

“Good, let's go.”

It took more than five hours to stitch all of Bill's wounds. He'd been savaged, butchered, by Greyback. Almost unrecognizable under the swelling and bruising and gore.

The fact that he survived was nothing short of a miracle.

No one was sure if he'd been bitten. There was one wound on his right thigh that looked suspicious to Remus, but Bill was in too fragile a state for them to test anything.

You'd stitch him together with your own muscle and bone if you needed to.

On the fifth day, many of his wounds had finally healed down to pearlescent, puffy scars thanks to the medics magic. Deep gauges littered his torso and arms, creating new dips and valleys along the lean muscles of his body, a topographical map you could study for eons. The slashes across his face was healing better than anyone dared hoped, and he finally was beginning to look like Bill again.

But the wound on his thigh remained stubborn, pulpy as rotten fruit and refusing to knit together, growing more putrid the more magic that was thrown at it.

An uneasyness settled over the house. No longer a question of will he wake up, but what will wake up.

On the seventh day, Bill woke up screaming.

You were in the kitchen, helping Neville prepare the evening meal, when a roar shook the cedar bones of the old house.

You dropped the dish in your hands with a crash, roast and root vegetables exploding all over the grubby tile floor, and leapt over it, flying up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

“I don't care.” You yanked free from her hold and dashed down the hallway. You burst into the room Bill was being kept in, a white-washed guest room on the quieter, darker end of the house, and found Ron, Arthur, and Remus desperately trying to restrain a frantic Bill on the bed.

“Where is she?” He bellowed.

You shoved Ron aside and flung your arms around Bill's neck, throwing your weight on him in the hopes of keeping him down.

“I'm here, I'm right here,” you soothed, not bothering to hold back the tears of relief streaming down your face and into his ruddy hair.

“There you are,” he whispered, a throaty purr against your pulse. He drew another deep inhale, nose pressed against your jugular, and you suppressed a shiver.

“Are you alright? You didn't tear anything open—”

“Don't care,” he said, his lips charting a scalding path up your neck, days of stubble scratching mercilessly against the tender skin.

“Bill,” you argued, a fire sparking in your lower belly. You tried to push back a bit from his hold so you could inspect his bandages, could escape the intoxicating effect of his newfound affection. His grip tightened, bordering on painful, and a rumble resounded from the barrel of his chest. Something carnal, possessive, and you immediately dissolved back into his arms. Helpless to resist him.

“A ripped stitch isn't going to kill me,” he mumbled into the downy space behind your ear, his voice so much softer than whatever beast had been roused moments ago.

“Bill, we really need to do a full examination,” Remus interrupted gently. “What you've gone through—”

“It can wait,” Bill snarled, glaring at Remus over your shoulder. “Now get the fuck out.”

You gasped, shocked by his crude language, the aggressive edge to his voice. Bill was hardly the delicate sort, but you'd never seen him be outright hostile. Especially not towards his friends and family.

“Bill,” Remus said, hardening his voice.

“Please, just let them check you,” you whispered, stroking his cheek. “It'll give me and your family peace of mind.”

His eyes fluttered closed as you soothed him, his breathing leveling out. From bestial to docile in the span of a few heartbeats. “Only if you stay,” he answered finally, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I'm not going anywhere,” you assured, and he finally let you untangle yourself.

The medic came in first, checking all of his stitches and his vitals. Besides the wound on his leg, he was mostly healed, just some soreness and a slightly elevated temperature and heart rate.

His hand only left your body when the doctor needed it for something, otherwise he maintained contact through the entire examination.

You weren't sure what it meant, this sudden clinginess. If it was the trauma of almost dying, a head injury making him forget you weren't actually together, or something…else.

You hadn't hated the intensity from earlier though, quite the opposite, actually. You just wished you knew what caused it, and why you.

Eventually, Bill declared that he wanted to properly shower, and everyone filed out to give him some privacy. When you stood to leave though, his hand tightened around your wrist.

“Don't go,” he said, drawing you back towards him. He was standing, propped against the bedframe for support.

“But you said you wanted to shower?” You blinked up at him, completely perplexed by this dramatic shift in his demeanor. Bill had never been very physical with you, besides platonic hugs and shoulder bumps.

“Help me,” he murmured, tilting your chin up.

Your heart stopped. “W-what?”

“Are you going to make me beg?” His breath fanned across your lips, balmy and disorienting. Headier than any hit you'd taken from a roll or a pipe.

“Bill, we aren't…together,” you argued weakly, a rabbit negotiating the terms of its release from the jaws of a catamount.

“Something I'd like to remedy, if you'll have me.” His other hand ensnared your waist, pulling your body flush to his.

“I'm not sure you're thinking clearly—” you tried to take a step back, but his grip turned to iron.

You liquified, muscles and bone turning to simpering goo in his arms. You didn't care if it was the pain medicine, or a head injury, or lycanthropy. All you'd ever wanted was to hear those three little words.

“I love you too,” you breathed, and he smiled, bumping his nose against yours before dragging it down your cheek, his hair tickling your lips.

“I know,” he hummed, the hot muscle of his tongue laving over the pulse point beneath your ear. “I can smell it on you.”

You gasped, arousal hitting you like a clap of thunder, your thighs squeezing together against your blooming cunt.

He chuckled, the sound low and viscerally pleased. “Can smell that too, baby. Little heart’s racin’ like a rabbit.”

Oh, fuck. You swallowed thickly, throat closing as fear pumped through your blood, mixing into a strange ichor with the ever-present desire for him.

“You're trembling again,” he said, softening a bit as he pulled back to look you in the eyes. “Are you afraid of me?”

You shook your head. “Should I be?”

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, inundated with both dread and delight.

#bill weasley #harry potter fanfiction #bill weasley x reader

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lu-is-not-ok · 3 days ago

Text

So. Heishou Pack Outis's Uptie Story and how it relates to the Two in One theory.

What the fuck.

I'll just cut to the chase because I don't think I can put this in any eloquent way right now.

You know, when people started poking at me about this Uptie Story, especially how it might relate to Two in One, I wasn't exactly convinced it was going to be that much.

But no.

I couldn't have a normal fucking day could I.

This fucking Uptie Story single-handedly makes Two in One way more fucking likely and I genuinely have no idea how to process that.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, let me give you the summary of the lore drop that made me and a bunch of other people lose our fucking minds.

There are entities within Hongyuan's borders called Anamnaworms. They are ugly worm-like creatures that are made out of humans. Their purpose is to hold memories of those they are made out of. One can insert an Anamnaworm into their head via their ear to gain the memories stored in them. Doing so will, after some time has passed, eventually cause the worm to become assimilated with its host and unable to be retrieved, unless the person is killed before that happens. Despite being treated not unlike a treasured item, they are still considered people, not tools.

Do you understand what this means?

This means that H Corp is confirmed to have interest in technology that can transfer memories from one person to another.

It is just one step removed from a full consciousness transfer like what I theorize happened with Baoyu and Daiyu.

Not only that, but the fact that the eventual result of using an Anamnaworm can be the assimilation of two entities into an inseparable one is a direct parallel to what I theorize will be the end state of Hong Lu's arc.

I mean. What else am I even supposed to say. This fucking speaks for itself.

I guess I can make myself clear that I don't think that Baoyu specifically is an Anamnaworm.

I believe there is a clear difference between Anamnaworms being more focused on memory, while what happened to Baoyu seems to be a full consciousness transfer. If the former was the case, then what we'd be dealing with is a Daiyu who just has Baoyu's memories and is pretending to be him, something that I don't think adds up with the information we have.

Outis's Uptie Story is meant to be a thematic parallel and foreshadowing, not a literal one. At least, that's what I think.

...All I gotta say is that. If I'm right.

I fucking told you so.

#lu speaketh #limbus company #hong lu lcb #hong lu #lcb speculation #lcb theory #bro how is this the timeline we live in

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httpsdana · 1 day ago

Note

you have no idea how happy I am that you're back! I got totally addicted to your stories and the way you write, i seriously love them. I literally fell in love with Jamal just because of how you write about him lol, now he's one of my crushes, and he wasn’t even before!

Could you write something where Jude had already seen the reader at one of his games? She showed up on the big screen because her dad was a former Real Madrid player, and he kind of noticed her, but nothing really happened. Then later, there’s a team event at a pediatric oncology hospital, and she’s one of the intern doctors. The kids start shipping them because they look about the same age (and it happens to be the week she wears a fairy costume for patient visits).

Please think about it! And sorry if this was a bit messy haha.

Doctor Fairy~Jude Bellingham

・❥・prompt list

・❥・masterlist -> part 2

・❥・who I write for

・❥・a/n: I said I wouldn't write for Jude again but anon was so sweet and the request was adorable, so I had to write it 😭

Jude hadn’t meant to notice her that day, not on purpose.

It was just another La Liga match at the Bernabéu, the kind of game where adrenaline drowned out everything else.

But during a brief pause, an injury check in the opponents’ team player, the camera panned to the VIP box.

The crowd cheered as the screen highlighted one of Real Madrid’s most iconic legends: Raúl González. But Jude’s eyes didn’t land on Raúl.

They landed on the girl beside him.

She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. Just smiling softly, leaning slightly toward the legend next to her to say something as he nodded along.

But she had that kind of presence that made him look twice. Graceful, but not in the way that demanded attention, more in the way that made you curious.

Then her name flashed on the screen beneath.

"Raúl González and daughter y/n."

Oh she must be untouchable.

Jude found himself watching just a little too long before the screen changed. He wasn’t sure why it stuck with him. Maybe it was her smile, or the way her eyes seemed to actually watch the match instead of just being there for show.

And then, like most things during a match, the moment passed.

But he didn’t forget her.

Two weeks later, Jude was part of a club-organized visit to a local pediatric oncology hospital. He always made time for these events, knowing how much it meant to the kids. It was supposed to be a simple visit. Photos, gifts, autographs, and some smiles.

What he wasn’t expecting was to walk into the hospital playroom and see her again. The same girl from the stands. Only this time, she wasn’t just a spectator. She was part of the hospital staff.

Not in jeans or a blazer like at the match, but in a lilac tutu, green glittery fairy wings, and a star-shaped wand tucked in her skirt.

He almost stopped in the doorway. She was kneeling beside a patient, letting them decorate her with stickers, a soft laugh escaping her lips. She looked up just as he stepped in.

“...You?” Jude said before he could stop himself, a smile tugging at his lips.

She blinked in surprise, then stood, brushing glitter off her scrubs. “Me.”

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

“Likewise,” she replied, amused.

“You work here?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Intern,” she explained when their eyes met and lingered a little too long. “And apparently also the designated fairy this week.”

He smiled, trying to play it cool. “You’re the girl from the match.”

She tilted her head. “You recognized me?”

“Well, the camera did zoom in on you for a good five seconds.”

She gave a half-smile. “Guess that’s what happens when your father is named Raúl.”

He nodded, then said quietly, “I noticed before the name popped up.”

She let out a quiet laugh, a little taken aback. “Well, I definitely didn’t expect Jude Bellingham to remember me, especially while I’m covered in glitter with wings on my back.”

“Honestly?” he said, looking her over with a grin. “It kind of suits you.”

“Careful,” she teased, “I might take that as a compliment.”

“Maybe it is.”

Before she could answer, a small child tugged on her skirt. “Is he your prince?”

She blinked. “What?”

“Him,” the little girl said, pointing up at Jude. “You’re a fairy. He looks like a prince.”

Jude gave a sheepish grin. “I’ll take that.”

“He should stay here with you,” another kid chimed in. “Fairy and Prince Jude.”

“Okay, that’s a bit dramatic,” she muttered, trying not to laugh, cheeks now tinted pink.

But the kids were relentless. They had Jude sit beside her for storytime, handed them heart-shaped drawings, and assigned them roles in imaginary fairy tales. One even gave Jude a pair of sparkly wings to wear.

“You’re handling this very well,” she said later, handing him a juice box during a break.

“Trust me, I’ve faced tougher crowds,” he said, gesturing to the group of kids still peeking at them from behind a coloring table. “These ones just happen to be cute.”

“You’ve also got glitter on your neck,” she pointed out.

“I think I’m pulling it off,” he said with a wink.

She smiled softly, eyes lingering on him. “You’re good with them.”

“So are you,” he replied, voice a bit gentler now. “They clearly adore you.”

“They adore anything that sparkles.”

“Still,” he added, watching her carefully, “I’m glad I saw you again.”

“While wearing wings and a tutu?”

“Especially then.”

She laughed under her breath. “You’re not what I expected.”

“And you’re not just Raúl’s daughter.”

She looked at him, a little more curious now. “What am I then?”

“Someone I’d really like to see again,” he said. “Maybe…without the wings next time.”

Her smile widened just a bit. “You’re bold.”

“Just honest. Can I take you out?”

She paused, then reached for a nearby notepad and scribbled something down. When she handed it to him, he glanced at the number written across the page.

“You better. I think the kids would be devastated if this was all just a fairy tale.” she said casually.

“Noted,” he grinned. “Oh by the way, I’m keeping these wings.”

By the time it was time to leave, one of the kids had made them matching paper crowns.

And somehow, Jude wore his all the way back to the car.

Because maybe he hadn’t just met a fairy today, maybe he’d stumbled into something a little more magical.

And it all started with a glance, two weeks ago, in a stadium full of strangers.

my taglist: @barcapix @paucubarsisimp @spidybaby @mxryxmfooty @n0vazsq @joaosnovia @ilovebarcaaaa @f1lover55 @jajajhaahaha @universefcb @mariejuli (lmk if you want to be added!!)

#football #football blurb #football imagine #football one shot #football x reader #footballer imagine #real madrid #jude x reader #jude bellingham blurb #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham one shot #jude bellingham imagine #jude bellingham x y/n #jude bellingham x you #jude bellingham fanfic #jude bellingham fluff #jude bellingham drabble #jude bellingham #jude bellingham fic

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highway-143 · 12 hours ago

Text

when ice cracks- park sunghoon

genre: fluff, smut, strangers to enemies (?) to lovers?

pairing: figure skating teacher!sunghoon x female!reader

warnings: swearing, blood, kissing, unprotected sex, ass slapping, oral, (f. rec) thigh fucking, (?) doggy style, (never thought i'd write that one lol) soft-ish dom sunghoon

synopsis: when you decide to finally take figure skating lessons, your instructor is much cuter than you expected... but he doesnt seem to like you as much as you like him.

taglist: @urlocalmultigroupfan @minkilicious @vrusha01

song: like that- babymonster

a.n- this one was kind of a surprise lolll... i dont know where it came from but here you go :D

(proofread)

all scenarios are fake and are not meant to harm any idol in the story

------<?3------

"do you know any good figure skating teachers?"

"what?"

"figure. skating. teachers." you say, your fists planted firmly on elissa's desk as you try to get your best friend to help you.

"bitch, can you see i'm busy?" she asks, gesturing to her open computer and papers scattered across the white surface of her desk.

"ughhh" you groan, knowing she was right. studying to be an engineer had to be more time consuming than normal work. at least the major you had picked was easy enough... and you were in senior year.

"wait, figure skating? since when have you been interested in that?"

"since i decided clown training wasn't an option." you say sarcastically.

elissa rolled her eyes. "ha ha."

"because i want to explore new hobbies."

"i heard from my sister's friend that park sunghoon is starting lessons." she says.

"am i supposed to know who that is?"

"you don't?" she asks, looking shocked.

"no..."

"he's really famous. made it to the olympics, and he's number 7 in all of korea. he's only our age too."

elissa starts typing on her computer, turning it around to show you pictures of a handsome man, either on the ice or in a suit at awards ceremonies.

and damn, he was gorgeous.

he had a sharp jawline, accentuating his full lips and perfect nose, a small mole dotting its side and one under his eye. his hair fell in swoops, framing his face in a way yours could never.

he was beautiful.

and pricey.

you look at the cost of his lessons, $75 per session. who had that kind of money?!

apparently you did.

because when you apply for three classes on his website and put in your card information, your bank account cries a little.

you reassure your conscience with "its okay, all you need is basic training. and if the lessons aren't good, you can always find someone else."

right?

------<?3------

you pull into the parking lot, your old car sliding into an empty spot.

reaching into the backseat, you pull out your skates. last week, you explored amazon for the best and cutest pair you could find, coming across these. white faux leather with light blue threading and laces, and shiny silver blades, that currently held covers so you wouldn't cut your fingers.

you carry the skates out of the car, and into the rink. the outdoor arena was perfect. not too big, but enough space for you to be comfortable.

the crisp winter air reddened your cheeks and nose as you walk to the small tented pavilion next to the rink.

when you step inside the room, you find sunghoon.

and you can't speak anymore.

you cant think.

you cant move.

sunghoon looks up at you from his seat on a bench, his skates half tied and his hair slightly hiding his eyes.

you gape at him as he stares at you, looking you up and down.

"what are you wearing?"

"h-huh?" you say, unsure of what he means.

"your clothes. you should wear something less bulky for your top. it's more aerodynamic."

you look down at your thick coat. "i... i didn't know-"

"obviously not. i assume you're a beginner?" he says flatly, his eyes boring into yours, no warmth in them.

"i mean, yeah. thats why i'm taking lessons, right?" you say, slowly getting more and more pissed off.

"yeah, but even untrained skaters could figure that out."

you curl your hands into fists around your skates. who did he think he was?

"i reccomend leggings and a thin sweater for next time. now, get your skates on and we can start. hurry up." he finishes tying his skates and stands easily on them, walking smoothly over to his bags.

you sit on the bench and start putting on your skates, tying them with the pastel laces.

sunghoon steps closer to you, watching you tie the second.

"you're doing it wrong." he scoffs.

you stare at him as he looks at your skates. "care to enlighten me on how i'm doing it wrong? you ask.

"feel how loose they are? not going to support your ankles, are they?"

you bite back sarcastic comments. "well i tied them the best i can."

sunghoon crouches down, one knee on the floor as he grabs your foot. your cheeks heat up as he unties your laces.

"terrible skates. i swear, half of you prioritize looks over functionality."

"what's wrong with them!?" you ask, fed up with his critical reviews of everything.

"the material isn't very supportive, the pads on the soles are too thin, and the blades are duller than they should be." he says simply. "maybe you should do better research next time."

you roll your eyes. "sorry i bought the wrong thing. they were affordable. thank heavens, because your classes practically killed my bank account."

"i didn't ask you to take these classes, did i?" he says, moving to untie your other skate. "if it was really that big of a deal, you would've gone somewhere else. and considering you signed up for three classes, you had enough money."

you sputter, trying to find the words to tell him you literally had no clue about anything figure skating related.

"okay, so i bought the wrong thing. i have never skated before, how am i supposed to know what to wear or buy or do?"

he smirks at you, standing back up. "maybe if you scrolled a little farther on the website, you'd find links to everything. and tips for newbies. but you didn't. its all on you, y/n"

you sit in shock, his words like a slap to your ego.

sunghoon walks away, still looking smug. "stand up, newbie."

you struggle to your feet, ankles slightly bending outward as you rise. you had to admit, the support to them was very helpful. if sunghoon hadn't tightened them, you'd probably have fallen already.

without looking back at you, sunghoon speaks. "told you they needed to be tighter. fix your legs. don't stand like a baby deer, straighten your knees and stand up. don't let your ankles pop out, and keep your feet locked straight ahead."

you do as he says, and suddenly, your stance is perfect. you don't wobble or fall over, you stand tall, feeling proud of yourself already.

sunghoon struts back over to you. "lets get on the ice. remember, ankles locked. flex your calves if you have to."

"okay," you slowly take steps forward, growing more confident as you walk farther away from the bench. "so what are we doing today?" you ask sunghoon, who is already stepping onto the rink, gliding away as he circles around the ice.

"the basics, newbie" he calls, swerving and spinning while you cautiously step onto the slippery surface.

you place one foot onto the ice, and slowly put weight on it, getting ready to bring your other foot on. but as you lift it up, your foot on the ice slides away from you, and you grip onto the railing to pull back.

sunghoon appears in front of you, another smirk plastered over his devastatingly handsome face. "need help, newbie?" he asks, looking at your sliding foot.

"no thanks, i've got it," you say, trying and failing to get your whole body onto the rink.

after your fourth try, sunghoon is holding back laughter. you glare at him, foot slowly sliding away again.

"want some advice?" he asks, smirking.

you nod, pulling your foot back in.

"when you're ready to step your other foot in, don't push forward with the one on the ice. try to shift your weight to the side. the skate doesn't naturally want to move that way, so it'll basically lock in."

you push your weight sideways, and find yourself with both feet on the rink. you steady yourself with the short wall surrounding the edge, and look over at sunghoon.

"look at that. now, lets really get started. let go of the wall." he says, skating away from you.

letting your fingers pull away from the surface, standing up straight, ankles and knees locked.

"now what?"

"do you want to move forward?" sunghoon asks, twirling figure eights in the center of the rink.

"yeah."

"push your weight to the side on one foot, like before, and then move forward with the other. then switch sides."

when you slowly start skating away from the wall and towards sunghoon, you feel a smile growing on your face.

the rest of the lesson progresses very slowly, you struggle with speeding up and some of the techniques sunghoon tries to teach you, and sunghoon's temper rises higher and higher, but he doesn't break.

not yet.

------</3------

the front door creaks open as you walk inside, and you call out for your roomate. "elissa! are you home?!" you yell, setting your skates by the front door.

"no, i'm in the bahamas." you hear her say from the kitchen.

"so funny," you roll your eyes, moving into the kitchen to find elissa making a bowl of cereal. "guess who i met today?"

"ronald mcdonald?"

"bitch-" you lightly slap her shoulder. "no, park sunghoon."

"and? did you make a fool of yourself at the lesson?"

you roll your eyes and sit down at the island counter. "no. well... as a beginner, not much. but maybe a little"

elissa sits across from you, chewing on her cheerios. "you're going for more, right?"

"might as well. i signed up for the lessons. but not gonna lie, sunghoon is kind of a jerk."

"really?"

"yeah," you say, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl. "he was critical of everything and very demeaning... like it's my fault i signed up for classes that are for all levels, including beginners. sorry."

elissa chuckles. "but is he cute in person?"

"very," you say, eyes glazed, your mind picturing how beautiful sunghoon looked at the lesson.

especially when he was on his knees for you.

nope, you can't go there. never gonna happen. he practically hates you.

"... said he was really nice." says elissa.

you were too zoned out to catch what she said. "hmm?" you ask, shaking the image of sunghoon out of your mind.

"i said, my sister's friend said he was really nice. he was a beginner too. so i don't know why sunghoon is treating you weird."

"yeah, i don't know..." you say, drifting back into your sunghoon dreamland.

his hair covering his eyes, his large hands on your skates, holding the blue laces, veins sticking out, his lips that were so easily kissable, so out of reach. every part of him was perfect.

except for his attitude.

------</3------

one week later, you and your car trundle into the parking lot.

you walk into the tent, and sunghoon is sitting on the bench, tying his laces like last week.

"hey." you say, and just like before, he looks up at you through his hair.

"hey," he looks you up and down, again, and nods. "better choice this time." he says, gesturing to your black leggings and army green sweater. "maybe this week you will actually be better. oh wait, it's your skills that are bad."

you frown and sit down on the bench, sliding your skates on and tying them as tight as possible.

"still too loose," sunghoon comments. "give me your foot." he reaches for your leg and pulls your foot into his lap. you have to swivel your body to face him, and your cheeks heat up again. his fingers on your skin felt like fire.

he ties your laces in silence, and when he moves to grab your other foot, you hear a sharp gasp.

"ah, shit," he says, grabbing his hand.

you look up and see his finger cut open, a trickle of blood falling from the slice. his other hand holds it tightly, trying to lessen the blood flow, and you notice a small part of your blade wasn't covered by the gaurd.

you jump up, feeling guilty. "i'm so, so, so, so sorry," you say. "do you have any band aids?"

"in my bag." he says, bringing his finger to his lips and sucking the blood off.

and you couldn't help but stare at the way his lips molded around his thumb as you hand him the bandage. how they wetted his finger so perfectly.

he catches you caught in a trance, a quizzical look upon his face. you immediately look away, embarrassed.

when he had tied the band aid around his finger, he grabs your other leg and reties the laces. you watch his expert fingers dance across your skate, every accidental brush to your skin causing an unsolicited reaction that displayed itself as a redness to your face.

you and sunghoon stand, and he turns to give you his trademark smirk. "you ready, newbie? maybe this week will be better."

with a nod, you follow sunghoon to the rink. this time, you easily step on the ice and move away, but you're no match for sunghoon, who starts twirling with ease.

"this week, we should start an easy routine. it'll help you learn more of the basics."

"okay," you nod along with his words. "what is it?"

"it's a song i choreographed. it's called XO. english or korean version?"

"i dont care," you say, "whatever you think is best."

sunghoon grabs his phone and puts the song on. the instrumentals start and he moves to the center of the rink.

"i'll show you how it's supposed to look, and then we can get started."

you smile and lean back against the wall, and the song starts.

sunghoon starts moving on the ice, and you're easily mesmerized by his skill. he pirouettes and leaps around the rink, and you find yourself caught in his beauty, skill, and grace.

the song plays in the background, the lyrics in korean pairing well with the english ones.

so just say O babe, 저 달을 향해 날아가 볼래

sunghoon twirls back to the center, and bows. when he rises, you can see the gleam in his eyes.

he really loves this.

------</3------

after the lesson, you step out of the rink. your legs are sore and a little shaky, and your palms hurt from how many times you fell. you had lost count at this point.

sunghoon walks into the tent, catching you staring at your reddened hands.

"seven" he says.

"what?"

"you fell seven times... and just a tip, don't have your fingers all spread out when you fall. it's dangerous, especially when there are other people on the ice."

"okay," you start untying your knotted skates. "thanks for the lessons. you're a really good skater. probably the best i've ever seen"

sunghoon nods. "thank you. and you're pretty good for a newbie. you learn quickly."

you laugh cynically. "yeah, i guess i do. how's your thumb?"

"oh... it's fine now. it doesn't sting anymore, so that's good."

"good."

and then you fall into an awkward silence. sunghoon looks at his phone while you take off your skates.

you stand up to leave when sunghoon stops you. "ah... y/n, wait."

you turn around, confused. "whats up?"

"i... never mind. see you next week."

------</3------

it feels like years until your next lesson. when you finally walk into the tent, sunghoon isn't there.

you wait for him, putting on your skates and tying them tighter than humanly possible, and then sit back.

and wait.

and wait some more.

15 minutes later, sunghoon runs into the tent, panting and carrying his bag.

"i'm s-sorry," he says, bending over with his hands on his knees. "c-car broke down. i had to run five blocks."

you look up from your phone, amused. "it's okay, i don't mind waiting."

"y-your skates... are too loose again," he says, standing up. "hang on."

sunghoon sits on the floor in front of you, pulling your foot onto his thigh as he unties your skate. you sigh, even when you thought you had it, you didn't.

he fixes your laces, even thought they feel exactly the same, and starts putting his on. you take a second to look at his pair of skates, old and creased, but somehow still clean and usable.

"how long have you had those?" you ask, pointing to them.

"uhh... almost 10 years i think."

"why so long?"

"my mom gave them to me. it was my birthday present. they still work, so i still use them. plus, they remind me of the person who supported my dreams the most, you know?"

"wow," you say, staring at the faded white material. "that's really cute."

"yeah," he laughs. "cute was really what i was going for."

you fall back into an easy silence. sunghoon pulls out two plastic water bottles from his bag and hands you one. "you might want this today. lets go."

and you follow sunghoon off to the rink, water bottle in hand.

------</3------

"no, you need to tuck your ankle in the back of your knee. kind of like a flamingo." sunghoon demonstrates the position. "not like some russian dancer."

you try again and this time, he nods. "now bend your hips and try to sink lower. lock all of your body and then pop it into a spin."

he shows you how to do it and you try, hitting the move with ease.

"now all together."

you tuck your ankle and practice the full move. sunghoon waves his hand, skating closer to you. "you're not putting it together right."

he moves behind you, adjusting the way your knee held your ankle.

and then he grabs your hips.

and you forget how to breathe.

because with sunghoon's hands touching you, everything feels calm.

but also rough.

the way the pads of his fingers press hard into your skin.

the way his breathing quickens ever so slightly when you turn your head back to look at him.

the way he gets lost in your eyes, and you in his.

and you're suprised to find warmth in them this time. not the same glare you saw before.

tenderness.

"you need to stick your hips out. rotate them. that makes it easier for your body to pop," sunghoon says, breaking whatever moment you just had.

"try again."

------</3------

you turn to sunghoon in the tent, staring into his eyes before you speak.

"i want more classes."

he smirks at you, and you roll your eyes. "because i'm not that good at the routine yet. i want to keep practicing."

sunghoon nods. "okay, lets do it."

before you walk out of the tent, he grabs your wrist.

"i'll even offer a discounted price. half off. if you promise to work your ass off. and practice off the ice."

"don't worry, i can do that." you grin up at him, pulling your wrist out of his grasp. "i knew you liked me."

he sputters, trying to find words. you stand there with your hands on your waist, waiting for his excuse.

"no. absolutely not. i do this with all my students. especially the good ones."

"so i'm a good student?"

his eyes soften. "yeah, you are."

"thanks... i gotta go. see you next week."

you jog to your car, sliding into the drivers seat and turning on the ignition.

you're about to pull out of the lot when you see sunghoon exit the rink and start walking.

"hey!" you call, waving out the window.

he walks up to your car, bending down to look at you.

"what's up?"

"need a ride? your car broke down, right? least i can do for the lessons."

"yeah, that would be great, thanks." he walks to the other side and hops in, his long legs barely fitting behind the front console of your car.

you plug your phone into the charger, and a song starts to play.

XO... XO... kiss me, don't say no

"you like it that much, huh?"

you blush and scramble to change it, but sunghoon stops you.

"it's fine, i like it too."

you start driving, humming along to the song.

and sunghoon hums with you.

------<3------

your car pulls into the parking lot of sunghoon's apartment, easing into a tight spot.

"you wanna come in? for lunch?"

"sure!" you say, stepping out of the car and following him into the complex.

his apartment isn't big or small. it's just average. the kitchen is a nice size, and everything is decorated well, which didn't surprise you. all the furniture and appliances are sleek and modern, something your broke college student ass only dreamed of having.

"damn, sunghoon. this is nice."

he smiles and puts his skates in a bin by the door. "thanks. i worked hard for it."

"i bet."

"do you want a sandwich?" he asks, rubbing the back of his neck.

"that sounds awesome. anything i can do to help?"

"nah, just sit there and look pretty."

both of you freeze at the words that just came out of his mouth.

sit there and look pretty.

and neither one of you mentions it.

------<3------

"okay, my turn. what's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

you and sunghoon spent lunch asking each other questions ranging from what's your favorite color? to when did you realize that skating was your dream?

"damn..." says sunghoon. "uhhh... probably the time in first grade when i ate dirt thinking it would impress the girl i liked. i ended up puking right in front of her."

you start laughing, and sunghoon can't help but join you. the way your eyes scrunch up and you try to cover your mouth with your hand mesmerizes him.

you catch him staring, and he looks away.

"when were you the happiest."

you look up, racking through your brain. "honestly, skating with you. it's a nice distraction from all the schoolwork, and you're a really good teacher."

"wow... that's really nice." he says, looking a little shook.

"what's the best thing you did to trick somebody. like anything at all?"

"honest answer?" he asks, looking nervous.

"honest answer."

"so... don't get mad, but you know how your skates are always too loose?"

"mhm..." you look at him expectantly.

"well they aren't. i just really like helping you. it feels good, you know?"

"wait... what?"

sunghoon nods his head, maintaining eye contact with you as he drops the biggest bomb.

"i like you. a lot."

and you sit there, your jaw dropped slightly, thoughts running through your mind faster than sunghoon could skate.

"ah, i'm sorry, i made it too weird, didn't i? just forge-"

you cut him off by placing a soft kiss to his lips, cupping his jaw in your hands as you finally taste them.

finally let them taste you.

and sunghoon doesn't pull away. he doesn't push you away either.

he pulls you closer.

one hand on the back of your head, he moans while pressing his lips deeper into yours, the vibration sending chills through your body. he runs his hand through your hair while he grabs your chin with the other, caressing your skin. he nudges your lips with his tounge, asking for entry.

and you immediately give it to him.

his tounge pushes into your mouth, twirling around yours, tasting you fully, completely.

like he can't get enough of you.

and you cant get enough of him.

------<3------

slap

"ahh... hoonie... please!' you cry, a red mark forming on your ass.

you never thought you'd be here. bent over sunghoon's dining table, both of your clothes somewhere on the floor, your legs spread for him so nicely.

damn, sunghoon loved it.

he bends down and presses a soft kiss where his hand hit you. your legs shake and your cunt drips at the feeling of his lips on you.

you were so wet for him.

he takes a second to smell your pussy, the juices that were already slick between your thighs, dripping down your legs helplessly.

embarrassingly.

he sweeps up your wetness with his tounge, eliciting a loud moan from you, your fists grabbing the edge of the table as he licked up your cunt.

"so wet for me, hmm?" he groans between licks to your core, lapping up your slick like a hungry dog. although you couldn't see it, his cock was hard, standing straight up. but now wasn't time for his release. he had to pleasure you first.

when your legs threaten to give out, he holds you by your hips, obscene slurping sounds coming from where he was eating you.

his teeth lightly nip at your clit, and the overstimulation sends a jolt through your body. you moan his name as you feel yourself climaxing.

"h-hoon.... ah.... i'm gonna cum... shit..." and you scream as your orgasm crashes over you, sunghoon's tounge working you through your high, drinking all of you until there was nothing left but a dull ache between your thighs.

"so beautiful baby," he says, licking his lips. "so delicious."

sunghoon stands behind you and places a kiss to your shoulder, working his way up.

your neck.

your jaw.

when he reached your lips, you can see the remnants of your orgasm on his chin.

and you could taste it in his mouth when he crashes his lips on yours.

he gripped your waist, pressing your chest harder into the table with his. his cock slipped between your thighs, and your sensitive clit could barely handle the contact.

he slowly thrusted between your closed legs, your thighs hugging his hard dick so perfectly, he almost came on the spot.

no. he had to make this perfect for you.

he speeds up, his pelvis slapping hard against your ass every time he pushed in. you moan deeply into the table, and his hand snakes up to grab the back of your neck, holding you down as your back arched.

he grunts as his orgasm starts to take over, pulling out from between your legs and keeping himself from cumming.

edging himself out.

so that he could cum inside you.

you whine desperately when he pulls out, shamelessly wiggling your ass at him, begging for more.

his deep chuckle echoes in your ears. "such a needy little baby, huh? what do you want, princess?" he asks, bringing his lips to your ear, whispering sultrily to you.

"need your cock, please hoonie... please, please, need you in me."

he groans at the way you wiggle in front of him, begging, pleading for him to ruin you.

and he doesn't hold back.

he grabs your legs and spreads them wide, exposing your cunt to the cold afternoon air.

when sunghoon rubs the tip of his cock through your folds, you whimper, so utterly wrecked for him. so perfect for him.

you slightly sway your hips around him, eliciting a groan from his perfect lips.

and without warning, he pushes inside you.

his thick cock stretches your little hole so much, all you can do is squirm, little yelps cried out with every small push into you.

sunghoon moans. "fuck, y/n... you're so damn tight... shit, baby, i'm not gonnna last long."

"s'okay," you whine. "fill me up, please hoonie... pleasepleaseplease..." your words trail off as he bottoms out, your pussy clenching around him like a vice, sucking him deeper and deeper in.

and then he moves.

he pulls out of your dripping hole and slams back in, tears already starting to form in your eyes.

and he thrusts again.

and again.

he pounds into you so powerfully, you feel like you're about to be split open. all you can do is helplessly whine as sunghoon hits so deep, you can feel the tip of his cock kissing your cervix.

with every thrust, a tear falls down your cheek, spilling onto the table as sunghoon pumps into you.

the room is filled with the sounds of skin against skin, your wetness sucking around him, and both of your mingled sounds of lust.

"hoonie... holy fuck, sunghoon..."

he notices the tears painting your face, and leans forward to wipe them with his lips, pressing gentle kisses that were the complete opposite of how hard he was thrusting into you.

"princess, fuck... i'm coming. fuckfuckfuckkk"

you feel sunghoon bury into you one last time as he fills you up, his cum dripping out of your cunt alongside your own.

you both shake with orgasm, and sunghoon presses his lips against your back, riding out his high.

you look over your shoulder at him as he pulls out. his hair is a mess of sweat, sticking to his forehead, and his lips are puffy and swollen from how much he used them on you.

he smiles down at you, motioning for you to stand up.

you turn to face him, and your legs give out.

you sink to the ground, limbs feeling like gelatin, and sunghoon laughs.

"i ruined you that bad?" he asks, kneeling down in front of you.

you whine, defeated. "it's not funny, sunghoon." but you laugh anyways, leaning your head against the leg of the table.

"lets go, baby," he says, reaching for your hand. "i need a shower. care to join?"

"hell yeah," you shakily stand, and sunghoon immediately picks you up and tosses you over his shoulder.

you can't help but laugh as he pats your ass, carrying you into the bathroom.

------<3------

you wake up the next morning to find sunghoon's limbs wrapped tightly around you, and an unknown tee shirt you could only assume was his covering your chest. his hair was messy from sleep, and there was a faint trail of drool falling from his mouth, tiny snores sounding through his nose.

you giggle at how adorable he looks, and he wakes from the feeling of your laughter against his chest.

"hmm? wha-" he looks down at you, a dorky smile spreading across his pink lips. "oh. its you."

"rude." you say, staring up at him. "you drool in your sleep."

"not what i meant." he mumbles, wrapping his arms tighter around you. "and i know. might as well get used to it."

"what does that mean?"

"it means, i'm asking you to be my girlfriend."

you pretend to debate the thought, scratching your chin. "i don't know.... what's in it for me?"

sunghoon laughs and plays along. "hmm. how about free skating lessons and my amazing, award winning, delicious, bisquick waffles for breakfast?"

you smile up at him, catching his eyes. "of course, sunghoon. i would love to be your girlfriend."

------<3------

a.n- oh dear god. this was the fastest and longest fic i've written ㅠㅠ if you liked it, please reblog/comment! and if you have any ideas, feel free to send me an ask, they're always greatly appreciated.

also- if anybody is interested in a part 2 for this fic, i have some ideas. lmk if you want to see it hehe

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zalrb · 3 days ago

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(Severance Spoilers) Just wanted to say I completely agree with you on MH, and I think you worded it wonderfully. When the episode ended, I found myself feeling little to no sympathy for Mark S because his entire autonomy arc so far hinges on what is, essentially, a shallow infatuation where he couldn't even tell the woman he was about to sleep with wasn't the woman he supposedly loves. I don't buy the supposed depth of their feelings. I think it was a mistake to make so much of his character arc hinge on that, to be honest.

Admittedly, there's a big disconnect between the way they're coming across to me and the way the writers talk about their romantic relationship, to the point where I wouldn't be surprised if they do screw Gemma over at the end just so Mark and Helly can keep their idealized love affair.

Thank you! But it's fascinating to me because, the fact that I don't think they have the right chemistry aside, I just don't think they writers took the time for love and romance? Like, Burt and Irving had the paintings and the tote bags and the hand touches and the smiling down the hallway, and the jokes, they had a series of details and small intimacies that made up the romance.

Mark worrying about Helly after she attempts to commit suicide or taking her place in the Break room felt like Mark caring for someone who was a part of his team particularly after newly and unexpectedly being made team leader and him at first being annoyed by her rebelliousness and then being changed by it while thematically important and present, to me, didn't necessitate romance but perhaps admiration. Am I supposed to see flirting because she mocked him about the work being important and mysterious? Helly also mocks Irving and Dylan. Like, it just does not work for me on its own and in comparison to the other innie love story.

But then in comparison to MarkGemma? In comparison to how Mark sobs before going into work, in comparison to how he spends his nights and his weekends drinking, in comparison to how his house is perpetually shrouded in darkness, in comparison to how he goes to the tree where he thinks Gemma died and sobs and his Innie fashions the same tree out of clay, in comparison to how Gemma remembers her relationship with Mark so vividly that she mimics how their hands used to twine around each other in bed when she's held captive in Lumon, in comparison to how she's tried to escape multiple times to be with him and when she makes it far enough to go in the elevator but ultimately fails she cries his name, in comparison to how Mark chose a life-threatening procedure to see her again, in comparison to all of that? I'm meant to weigh MarkHelly the same because of their thematic weight which I don't even find earned? Impossible.

#markgemma #severance #gemma scout #mark scout

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valacre · 2 days ago

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: ̗̀➛ Quiet Before the Storm

Sentinel Prime x Reader - Transformers One

A blue canvas from which white clouds had been painted was the artwork Sentinel admired. Laid upon his back, soft green grass cushioned him and faintly reminded him of the recharge slab he’d used back in Iacon. Softer, of course, but to think this softness naturally occurred throughout your whole planet? It almost made him chuckle thinking about it, knowing that if he’d learned of it in the past when he’d ruled Iacon, he’d likely have used Earth for whatever means possible to serve himself.

Thinking of it now left a sour taste atop his glossa, and he frowned momentarily as he shut his optics to rid himself of the mental images. It was a good thing Earth was so far away from Cybertron, and what more, that it hadn’t existed when he ruled. It was almost absurd to think this way, and he did laugh this time, the sound both humourless and full of mirth. Had anything gone differently, would he never have met you?

Opening his optics and looking to the side, he sees you fumbling with something in your hands. Flowers. White, orange, and yellow flowers. You were twisting them this way and that, trying to make a circle, though you were hunched over your work, and he had to reach over and tap your spine, reminding you to straighten up and not cause a flare-up.

You huffed at him.

He huffed back.

You shot him an unimpressed look.

He smiled back in reply.

“Weren’t you busy cloud gazing?” You ask, looking down at your work but you straighten up your spine and visibly appear less tense. “Tell me what you see.”

And Sentinel looks back up, shuffling to get more comfortable as he rests his servos atop his abdomen. Gazing at the clouds up above, he marvels at the sunlight peeking through, casting the white clouds in a golden light which makes them appear as though they come from another world. Remembering some of the stories he’d read in your books, he recalls pictures which sometimes accompanied them, and some reminded him of what he now saw.

Magical; fantastical, even.

“I see a castle.” He says, looking closer. “A figure upon a beast… Maybe a horse. They ride across the clouds with dazzling sunlight at their back.” He chuckles. “Perhaps they are an adventurer or a knight.” He muses, seeing the scene change and something akin to a ship appears, first earthly in appearance, then morphs into something otherworldly. Humongous and terrifying and so vivid he could almost believe it manifested before his optics to reach out for him and take him away.

He wouldn’t allow that to happen. Not unless he could take you with him.

“I think you’d fit perfectly as a knight.” You say, lifting your hands to admire your messy handiwork. Setting the flower crown atop your head, you turn and lean a hand upon the picnic blanket beneath you, looking down at him as he glances towards you. “You could be my knight in shining armour.” You grin, briefly looking him over. “Once you’ve gotten a fresh coat of paint and a better polish.”

“Not a king?” He asks, half-joking.

“I think the power would get to your helm.” You say and laugh as you lay down beside him, removing the flower crown and setting it atop your chest whilst you cloud gaze. “No, I see you as a knight. Fighting to redeem a past that haunts you, standing strong despite the burden on your shoulders, doing what you can to protect the princess who saved you from your own mind.”

“I take it that you are the princess?” He asks though he swallows thickly from your description of his supposed knightly self. He couldn’t see it, saw himself more as a broken-down fool, yet you could see and imagine him as something as noble as a brave knight, and it made his spark squeeze within his chassis.

“Of course, I am.” And you’re reaching out to take his servo within your smaller hand, laying them down to rest between you. Perhaps it was meant as comfort, or an absentminded action, but Sentinel’s frame is on fire and the clouds above begin to shift with the wind, turning into a scene where a golden ocean crashes upon a golden shore. Figures are running and flying, changing with the clouds and becoming intertwined, appearing joyful despite their simple structure. A wave crashes and he sees a swirling tunnel from which sunlight races through until it reaches him and kisses his frame, making it warmer as his vents begin to work to cool him down.

He sees you glancing at him from the corner of his optics, the corner of your mouth curling up before you look back at the clouds. Your hand is so soft, your fingers so delicate as they rest against his palm and the base of his digits. He curls them, carefully trapping you in his grip. You do not pull away.

The clouds change again, and Sentinel sees a mighty bed of which the sunlight is the blanket. It reminds him that the nightmares have begun to lessen, that the nights are easier to sleep through and that he no longer fears your absence, though he greatly misses it. He remembers the night before, standing in the doorway to the barn and looking towards your house, knowing which window was to your bedroom and longing to be in there with you. With your hand being so soft, he wonders whether the skin which isn’t subjected to hard work is even softer.

He's touched your hair once and that was akin to silk on Cybertron. He wants to touch it again. Would you allow him if he asked?

“The sky on Cybertron was nothing like this.” He said, speaking for just the sake of it. “It was beautiful, stunning during the night and the day, but nothing like this.” His digits curl a little further, tips touching your skin, stroking it. “Iacon City was built beneath the surface so few to no Cybertronians ever got to see it. I admit that I am grateful for having experienced it, but to also have a chance to see yours, too.”

“Perhaps we ought to do this more often.” Say you, thumb stroking against what you believed to be his knuckles. “Of course, easier said than done. The sky is rarely this clear in autumn. Winds will be rougher soon and the clouds will be mostly grey and heavy with rain.” You huff a breath, and a shiver passes through you. The air is no longer as warm as it was, and you shouldn’t stay out here for too long. “Perhaps we can do more of this in summer. By then most of the work on the farm should be done, so there shouldn’t be too much for us to do.”

“I’d like that.” Said he, smiling at you as he leaned up, bringing your hand up to kiss your knuckles, making you blush before you suddenly yelped in surprise as he picked you up bridal style. “Well then, shall your knight in shining armour bring you back to the farm? You’re shivering from the cold.”

“Don’t forget the blanket.” You say, laughing at the ridiculousness as he effortlessly places the tip of his pede beneath the blanket before kicking it up and turning around to make it drape across his wings. “You look like you’re wearing a cloak.” And he does. You’d called him a knight as a joke, but with the blanket and the unique way he was built, he truly seemed so knightly it could almost have made you swoon a little. Almost. “A blue and golden bird posing as a proud knight. Heh, sounds like a fairytale.” Leaning against him as he walks across the meadow towards your farm, you spot your home from behind the trees of your back garden; cosy and inviting. Perhaps you should bid him to come in and teach him how to work the oven and the kettle so he could be of use inside too.

He'd probably like that a lot, clingy as he can be sometimes.

“I suppose my life has become a fairytale.” Says he, fighting to calm his spark from spinning and pulsing wildly within his chassis as it feels so right and perfect to carry you in his arms. You’ve worked and continue to work hard for him, so it is only fair of him to return the favour whenever he can. Besides, he loves any excuse he can find to touch you. This was just the perfect one.

Previous / Next Music: Enya – Caribbean Blue (300% Slowed)

#maccadam #transformers #tfone #tfone sentinel #sentinel prime #sentinel prime x reader #vala writes #A New Life

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mrs-delaney · 18 hours ago

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Hide | Chapter 5.2 | In Spite of Ourselves

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 11.1k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, emotionally charged confrontations, conflicting priorities, and that sinking feeling when you realize letting go might not be an option anymore

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

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

📌 Requests: Open

Author’s Note:

First off, I’m so sorry this chapter is late—I have COVID and feel like death. Thanks for being patient with me while I try to survive this plague. You guys are the best, seriously. 💜

Sometimes, you can feel the ground shifting under your feet before you even know why. That slow, uneasy realization that something fundamental has changed, and there’s no way to rewind to who you were before.

This chapter is all about that tipping point—the moment when you realize that what you thought was just a spontaneous, whirlwind connection has become something rooted, something permanent. It’s about standing on the edge of something new and terrifying, trying to decide whether to leap or turn away.

For Joe, it’s about fighting against his instinct to compartmentalize—trying to reconcile his carefully curated, structured life with the unplanned, unpredictable connection he’s found with Riley. It’s about recognizing that sometimes stability doesn’t come from control—it comes from trusting that the ground beneath you won’t give way.

For Riley, it’s the weight of something she didn’t see coming—a collision of her carefree spirit with the harsh reality that this isn’t just a passing moment. It’s the vulnerability of admitting that maybe, just maybe, she’s started to care too much about a man who was never supposed to be more than a few unforgettable days.

This chapter is about that moment when you stop pretending you’re unaffected—when you face the truth that whatever this is, it’s too big to ignore. It’s about two people who were never supposed to fit finding themselves completely and undeniably entwined.

I hope this one hits you right in the gut. I poured my whole heart into capturing that feeling of being terrified and exhilarated all at once—the point where “maybe” turns into “definitely” and you can’t unfeel it, no matter how hard you try.

Thank you so much for all your support and love on the last chapter! Your reactions genuinely fuel me to keep writing—even while battling COVID. I can’t wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! 💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains and a headache that felt like it had been personally handcrafted by the devil himself. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy, and when he shifted, something sharp dug into his ribs.

A bead.

He peeled his eyes open just enough to see a rogue strand of Mardi Gras beads tangled in the sheets. The memories hit in pieces—Riley on his shoulders, her victorious yell, too much bourbon, Tomas shoving a flask in his hand every time he turned around, the slow, easy way she'd curled into him after—

Bzzzzz.

Joe groaned as the insistent sound of a phone vibrated somewhere in the room. Not Riley's—hers was still facedown on the nightstand.

He patted blindly around his side of the bed until he found his own phone, squinting at the screen.

Mom.

Shit.

He answered on autopilot. "Hey."

"Hey, sweetheart. You busy?"

Joe rubbed a hand over his face, trying to push through the fog. "Uh… not really."

"Good! I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by. Maybe grab lunch?"

Joe blinked. "Lunch?" He turned his head just enough to glance at the clock. 11:47 AM.

"Yeah, lunch. That thing people eat in the middle of the day? You know it?"

He swallowed, wincing at how dry his throat was. "I'm not home."

A pause. "…Okay. No problem. When will you be?"

Joe scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

Another pause, longer. "…You're out of town? I thought you had a full schedule this week."

There was no use lying. "I did."

Joe sighed, bracing himself. "I moved some things around."

His mom's voice shifted. "You moved some things around."

"Yep."

"…To go where?"

Joe exhaled through his nose, staring at the ceiling. "New Orleans."

Silence. Then—

"You moved things around… to go to New Orleans… for a few days."

"Correct."

A beat. Then, in that knowing, motherly tone that sent a fresh wave of dread down his spine—

"And what exactly are you doing in New Orleans?"

Joe glanced sideways. Riley was still buried under the covers, only the top of her head visible. He closed his eyes. "Visiting a friend."

"A friend."

"Yup."

"You moved your entire schedule around to visit a friend in New Orleans."

"…Yup."

His mom made a sound. A knowing sound. "Is this friend female?"

Joe hesitated. "Mom."

Silence.

Then, "So you're in New Orleans."

"Yes."

"With a maybe female friend."

Joe groaned. "Mom."

"That's very interesting."

"I hate this conversation."

"No, no, I'm fascinated. Tell me everything."

Joe sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay, I'm done now. I'll call you when I'm back in town. LOVE YOU."

"Wait—"

He hung up and immediately flopped back against the pillows, draping an arm over his face.

"Friend, huh?" came Riley's sleepy, amused voice from under the covers. She rolled over, peeking at him with one eye. "That's what they're calling it these days?"

Joe groaned again. "How long have you been awake?"

"Long enough," she murmured, a small smile playing on her lips. "You sound terrible."

"I'm dying. You'll have to eulogize me. Make sure to mention my many talents and few flaws."

"Blame Tomas," Riley said, pushing herself up slightly. "Every time I turned around he was handing you that flask."

“I don’t even know what was in it,” Joe muttered, rubbing his temple. “Pretty sure it wasn’t legal.”

“Water,” Riley commanded, dropping her head back onto the pillow. “We need water.”

Joe chuckled, immediately regretting it when his head throbbed in protest. “Didn’t you get us water last night?”

“I did,” she mumbled, not bothering to lift her head. “But apparently we drank it all before passing out.”

Joe sighed and forced himself to sit up, wincing at the way the room swayed. “How about I get us some more water and painkillers instead?”

“Yes, go be the strong one,” Riley mumbled into the pillow. “You’re clearly better at handling your liquor than I am.”

Joe managed to haul himself out of bed, pulling on his discarded boxers before padding to the kitchen. He filled two glasses with water and hunted down ibuprofen in the bathroom cabinet, returning to find Riley exactly as he'd left her—sprawled across the bed like a wounded starfish.

"Come on," he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sit up. Doctor's orders."

Riley glared at him through one cracked eyelid. "You're not that kind of doctor."

"I've seen like, three episodes of Grey's Anatomy," Joe countered. "Close enough."

With a groan of protest, Riley hauled herself upright, accepting the pills and water with as much dignity as someone in her condition could muster. Joe swallowed his own, then settled back against the headboard, arm automatically extending in invitation.

Riley scooted closer, fitting herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. For a while, they just sat there in companionable silence, sipping water and letting the medication begin its work.

"I think I need to stay perfectly still for approximately twelve hours," Riley said finally. "Possibly longer."

Joe hummed in agreement. "No more parades today?"

"God, no," Riley groaned. "I wish we could, but my partying skills are rusty. I forgot how Mardi Gras takes no prisoners."

"So what you're saying is," Joe ventured carefully, "today is a good day to do absolutely nothing?"

"Absolutely nothing," Riley agreed, nestling closer.

And somehow, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.

And they did. The entire day unfolded in languid, comfortable laziness—a late breakfast of toast and coffee (the most they could stomach), followed by a marathon of 90s cartoons on Riley's worn leather couch. It had been one of those unexpected connections during their first meeting in New York—discovering they both harbored a not-so-secret love for the cartoons they'd grown up with.

They settled easily into a marathon of classics—everything from Animaniacs to Batman: The Animated Series—his arm draped casually over Riley's shoulders as she leaned against his chest. The simple domesticity of it struck him halfway through their third episode—how natural it felt to be here with her, doing absolutely nothing special.

When her phone buzzed for the third time in five minutes, Riley groaned, finally reaching to check it.

"Sorry," she said, glancing at the screen. "My friends are relentless."

Joe peered over her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the group chat title: THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

"The Dolls?" he questioned, amused.

Riley rolled her eyes. "High school nickname that unfortunately stuck. Laura, Haley, and me. Been friends since we were fifteen."

"And they're checking in on you?"

"More like demanding a full report," Riley admitted, her thumbs hovering over the keyboard. "I promised I'd tell them how things were going."

"Don't let me stop you," Joe said, genuinely curious about what she might say.

Riley shot him a look that was half suspicious, half playful. "You just want to know what I'm going to say about you."

"Maybe," he admitted with a grin.

Riley turned back to her phone, angling it slightly away from him as she typed, a small smile playing on her lips.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: Are you alive or did you drink the city dry last night?

Laura: Hello???

Haley: She's obviously busy. Let the woman live.

Haley: But also CALL US IMMEDIATELY we need details

Riley: I'm alive. Barely. Shit got crazy.

Laura: 👀👀👀

Laura: And the boy?

Riley: Also alive. We got a shoe last night.

Haley: Please tell me you got a photo of Joe Burrow at Mardi Gras

Riley: You know I did. She sent them one.

Laura: Look at y'all!! So cute. So how's it going? Scale of 1-10?

Riley paused, glancing up at Joe who pretended to be absorbed in the cartoon. She smiled to herself and typed again.

Riley: Y'all unfortunately for me its off the scale.

Haley: No way

Riley: Yes what i am gonna do?

Laura: OH MY GOD

Haley: Is he still there? RIGHT NOW??

Riley: Possibly watching Batman on my couch as we speak.

Laura: YOU'RE TEXTING US WHILE HE'S RIGHT THERE??

Riley: He's curious what I'm saying about him.

Haley: Tell him we said he better be treating our girl right or we'll find ways to make shit very uncomfortable for him 🔪

Riley: I'm not telling him that.

Laura: Fine. When do we get to meet him?

Riley: Let's not get ahead of ourselves. He leaves tomorrow.

There was a pause in the incoming messages, and Riley could almost feel her friends' unspoken concern through the screen.

Haley: And then what?

It was the question Riley had been avoiding even in her own mind. She glanced at Joe again, who was now openly watching her, a question in his eyes.

Riley: I don't know. We haven't talked about it.

Laura: Girl...

Riley: I know. It's just been...nice. I don't want to ruin it by overthinking.

Haley: y'all better talk about it before he leaves!!

laura: seriously what is the plan

riley: i know i know we will

Riley: I've got to go. Will call tomorrow. Love you both.

Haley: Love you. Be careful with your heart. ❤️

Laura: What she said. And USE PROTECTION. ❤️

Riley turned her phone face down on the coffee table, cheeks slightly flushed. "They say hi," she said, clearly editing heavily.

Joe smirked. "And what else?"

"Nothing important," Riley replied too quickly.

"Uh-huh." Joe wasn't convinced but let it drop, pulling her closer against him. "So, you gonna send me those pictures from yesterday you just sent the girls?"

Riley's head whipped around, eyes wide. "I knew you were being nosy!" She shoved his shoulder playfully. "Were you reading my texts the whole time?"

"Just enough to know you've been documenting our adventures," he teased, fingers finding the ticklish spot at her waist.

She squirmed away, laughing. "Maybe I will, maybe I won't. Depends on how nice you are to me."

Joe's expression softened, his hand finding hers. "We should probably talk about what happens next, you know. After tomorrow."

Riley's smile faded slightly, but she didn't pull away. "I know," she said quietly. "But not right now, okay? Let's just enjoy what we've got for right now."

Their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them. Joe nodded, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Deal. But soon."

"Soon," she agreed, nestling back against him as Batman outsmarted the Joker once again on screen.

By the time evening rolled around, their hangovers had mostly subsided, leaving behind a pleasant, drowsy contentment. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across Riley's living room, the sounds of smaller parades floating in through the open windows.

"Are you sure you don't want to catch one more parade before you leave tomorrow?" Riley asked, her head in Joe's lap as he absently stroked her hair. "There's a couple of fun ones tonight."

Joe considered this for a moment, weighing the appeal of spending another night in the Carnival crowds against something more private. "My hotel room has a balcony overlooking the parade route," he said decisively. "Let's watch from there. Private, comfortable, with room service on speed dial."

Riley's lips curved into a smile. "That does sound appealing. Very VIP."

"Plus," Joe added, his fingers still playing with her hair, "I haven't actually spent any time in the place I'm paying for."

Riley laughed, sitting up to face him. "Are you suggesting I've been monopolizing your time, Burrow?"

"Absolutely," Joe confirmed, grinning. "And I've enjoyed every second of it. But I thought maybe... I don't know. Maybe we could do the hotel tonight. Watch the parades from the balcony, order some room service, see how the other half of Mardi Gras lives."

"The fancy half, you mean," Riley teased, but her eyes were warm.

"Exactly," Joe nodded. "What do you think?"

Riley pretended to consider it, tapping her chin theatrically. "Let me see... private balcony, air conditioning, room service, no crowds..." She grinned. "I think I can be persuaded."

"That's what I was hoping you'd say," Joe replied, already reaching for his phone. "I'll call ahead, have them prep something special for us. Make sure the kitchen stays open late."

The casual way he took charge of the evening—confident and unspoken, like he knew exactly what he wanted—caught Riley off guard. Amusement flickered in her eyes, but it quickly softened into something warmer, more appreciative. She liked seeing him like this—decisive, assured, leaving no room for second-guessing.

Joe didn’t waste any more time, leaning in to kiss her softly at first—just a brush of lips that melted into something deeper, more deliberate. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and Riley’s fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring herself against the pull of his presence.

When she finally pulled back, just enough to catch her breath, her eyes sparkled with mischief. “If we start this now, we’re never gonna make it to your hotel before the streets are packed.”

Joe smirked, clearly unbothered. “That supposed to be a problem?”

Riley gave him a knowing look, fighting back a grin. “Only if you want to be stuck in the middle of a crowd for the next three hours.”

Joe sighed dramatically, dropping his forehead to hers. “Fine. Rain check. But I’m cashing it in later.”

Her smile turned wicked, fingers playing with the hem of his shirt. “I’m counting on it.”

She stood, stretching her arms above her head, her t-shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. Joe caught himself staring and quickly looked away—only to realize too late that his reaction was probably just as obvious.

"I should pack an overnight bag," Riley said, rolling out her shoulders. Then she glanced down at her loungewear. "And maybe put on real clothes."

Joe, caught off guard by the warmth that spread through him at the sight of her looking so comfortable and at home, managed a simple, "You look fine as you are."

Riley paused mid-step, one eyebrow raising slightly. "That so?"

"I just meant—" Joe began, then stopped himself, recognizing the teasing glint in her eyes.

"Mmhmm." She smiled, a knowing look passing between them. "I'll be quick."

As she disappeared into her bedroom, Joe sat back on the couch, struck by the realization that something had shifted between them in the past day and a half. What he felt watching her move around his space went beyond simple attraction. It felt like something clicking into place, something he hadn't even known was missing.

This was something else entirely. Something that made his chest feel tight when she looked at him like that, something that made him want to tell her things he rarely shared with anyone.

Something that was going to make leaving tomorrow a lot harder than he'd anticipated.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, another reminder of the real world waiting beyond this Mardi Gras bubble they'd created.

Sarah: Just checking in. Flight still good for tomorrow? Need any changes?

Joe stared at the message, the mundane logistics suddenly feeling like a weight. He typed back a quick affirmative, then set his phone aside, not wanting to think about tomorrow just yet.

In the bedroom, Riley was having a similar moment of realization as she tossed overnight essentials into a small bag. Her phone lit up with another message from the group chat.

Laura: I know you're ignoring us, but I had to say: I haven't heard you this happy in ages. That's all.

Riley smiled, warmth spreading through her chest. She hadn't told her friends everything—how Joe had lifted her onto his shoulders during the parade, his quiet vulnerability when he talked about life after football, the way he'd looked around her house like he was memorizing every detail. Some things felt too precious to share, even with the people who knew her best.

She typed back a simple heart emoji, then finished packing, trying not to think about what this all meant beyond tonight. Tomorrow would come whether they were ready or not. But they still had tonight, and she intended to make the most of it.

When she emerged from the bedroom, overnight bag in hand, Joe was standing by the window, looking out at the neighborhood. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, and the way his face lit up at the sight of her sent a flutter through her stomach that had nothing to do with her lingering hangover.

"Ready?" he asked.

Riley nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Ready."

Joe arrived at the hotel first, slipping through the lobby with practiced ease. He was used to keeping a low profile, and the staff here had already proven they valued discretion. A simple nod from the desk clerk was all the acknowledgment he got as he made his way upstairs.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a soft knock at his door.

Riley stepped inside quickly, hood pulled up, oversized sunglasses still on. "I feel like a mistress sneaking into a politician's hotel room," she muttered, tugging the glasses off.

Joe smirked. "Want me to start making bad policy decisions to complete the fantasy?"

"Please don't." She tossed her bag onto a chair and glanced around.

Joe watched as Riley took in the suite, struck by how different it felt having her here, in this impersonal space, after the warmth of her house. Despite the luxury—the high ceilings, antique furniture, tall windows overlooking the parade route—it felt less like home than Riley's cozy shotgun had after just one night. He found himself missing the character of her place—the emerald walls, the mismatched furniture, the art covering every surface. This place was beautiful but sterile by comparison.

"This view though," Riley said, dropping her overnight bag on a chair and heading straight for the balcony doors. "Front row seats."

Below them, the street hummed with energy—people in costumes and masks making their way toward preferred viewing spots, street vendors selling beads and drinks, the occasional burst of music from passing groups.

Joe followed her onto the balcony, coming up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist. A sense of déjà vu washed over him—they'd stood like this just yesterday, on his first night in the city. Had it really only been a day and a half? It felt impossible that he'd know her so well after such a short time.

"First parade should come through in about an hour," Joe said, resting his chin on Riley's shoulder. "Plenty of time to order dinner."

Riley turned in his arms, facing him with a mischievous smile. "Plenty of time for other things too."

"That so?" Joe asked, his hands settling on her hips, already pulling her closer.

"Absolutely," Riley confirmed, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Any objections?"

"Not a single one," Joe murmured, his mouth finding hers.

Riley laughed against his lips, her hands already working at the hem of his shirt.

Without breaking the kiss, he guided her back inside, moving from the balcony into the bedroom with easy purpose.

The kiss deepened as they crossed the threshold, clothes falling to the floor in an urgent tangle. Joe's hands slipped beneath Riley's shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of her back. When his fingers traced the line of her spine, she arched into him with a soft sound that made his blood run hot.

His shirt hit the floor first, followed quickly by hers. Riley's hands found his chest, fingers tracing the contours of muscle with clear appreciation. Joe watched her face as she touched him—the focus in her eyes, the slight parting of her lips—and felt something tighten in his chest that had nothing to do with physical desire.

When his hands reached the clasp of her bra, Riley smiled, reaching behind herself to unfasten it before he could.

The sight of her—golden in the late afternoon light filtering through the balcony doors, confident in her bare skin—nearly undid him.

"Fuck," he breathed quietly, the word slipping out without thought, admiration rather than vulgarity coloring his voice.

Riley's smile deepened, eyes darkening playfully. "That's the idea, but you're still wearing pants."

He removed his jeans before guiding her toward the bed, pulling her down with him so she straddled his hips. The weight of her against him, the feel of skin on skin, the way her hair fell around them like a curtain—all familiar now yet somehow more intense than it had been that morning.

This time, there was none of the hesitation of their first encounter. This was a continuation, a deepening of something they'd already begun. Her body against his felt both new and achingly familiar, like returning to a place he'd only visited once but had thought about constantly since.

He took his time with her—mapping the constellation of freckles across her collarbone with his lips, learning which touches made her breath catch, which made her arch against him, which drew his name from her lips like a prayer. Every response, every reaction was filed away, precious knowledge he wanted to keep.

Riley was just as thorough in her exploration—her hands finding the sensitive spot on his hip bone that made him shudder, her lips tracing the scar on his knee with unexpected tenderness, her eyes never leaving his face as she gauged the effect she had on him.

When Riley's leg hooked around his waist, Joe flipped their positions in one smooth motion, covering her body with his own.

Without breaking rhythm, he reached toward the nightstand where he'd left a condom earlier—a moment of preparation that now seemed like the most practical decision he'd ever made.

They moved together with a synchronicity that felt both natural and miraculous, finding a rhythm that built steadily toward release. Riley met him thrust for thrust, her hands never still, her eyes never leaving his except when pleasure forced them closed.

When she came undone beneath him, her body tightening around him, her back arching off the bed, Joe followed her over the edge—the physical release accompanied by something deeper, more profound, that left him breathless and shaken.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, hearts racing, skin cooling in the air-conditioned room. Riley's head rested on his chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shoulder. Joe's hand found its way to her hair, stroking the silky strands as their breathing slowly returned to normal.

"So," Riley said finally, her voice warm with satisfaction, "about that room service..."

Joe grinned, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "I'll get the menu."

They did eventually order room service—a feast of local specialties that they devoured while lounging in plush hotel robes, the parade passing in a blur of lights and music on the street below. The balcony provided the perfect vantage point—close enough to catch beads thrown by particularly ambitious riders, but removed from the chaos of the crowds.

"I have to admit," Riley said, plucking a beignet from the dessert plate, "this is a pretty great way to experience Mardi Gras."

Joe nodded, leaning back in his chair, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "Best of both worlds. The view without the crowds."

"Though there is something to be said for being down in it," Riley mused, licking powdered sugar from her fingers in a way that made Joe temporarily forget what they were discussing. "The energy of the crowd, the music up close. Especially the second lines."

"Second lines?" Joe asked, dragging his attention back to the conversation.

Riley's eyes lit up. "Oh, you've never experienced a real second line? That's criminal. We have to fix that before you leave."

"What exactly is a second line?" Joe asked, curious now.

"It's... hard to explain," Riley said, searching for the right words. "Technically, it's the group of people who follow behind the main parade—the 'first line' being the official band and members. But it's so much more than that. It's this spontaneous celebration, with music and dancing and everyone joining in. It's the heart of New Orleans street culture."

Her enthusiasm was infectious, her hands moving animatedly as she described the tradition. "The best ones happen after the main parades, when brass bands just start playing and people follow. No barriers, no formality—just pure joy."

Joe watched her, entranced by her passion. "Sounds amazing."

"It is," Riley confirmed. "And there's almost always one that forms after the night parades here. We could join, if you wanted. You'd still be incognito—everyone's in costume, and it's dark, and no one's paying attention to individual faces anyway."

Joe hesitated, weighing the risk against the obvious happiness it would bring Riley. "Would I need my full royal costume again?"

Riley shook her head. "Just a mask would be fine. And maybe a hat. It's more about the spirit than the outfit, anyway."

The joy in her eyes made the decision easy. "Alright," Joe agreed. "Let's do it."

Riley's smile was blinding. "Really? You'll love it, I promise. It's my favorite part of Carnival."

As they finished their dessert, the parade outside reached its conclusion, the final floats passing beneath their balcony in a blaze of light and sound. But rather than dispersing, the crowd seemed to be gathering, coalescing around something Joe couldn't quite see from their vantage point.

"Listen," Riley said, tilting her head. "Hear that?"

In the distance, the unmistakable sound of brass instruments—trumpets, trombones, tubas—began to rise above the general din. Not the organized music of the parade bands, but something more organic, more spontaneous.

"We gotta move it, Burrow. We're missing it."

Joe could see the longing in her expression. "Let's go," he said simply, already reaching for his disguise.

They scrambled into their clothes with a frantic energy that had them bumping into each other, laughing as they nearly toppled over. Riley dug through her bag, producing two bandanas—one purple, one green—and handed the green one to Joe.

She reached up, adjusting the bandana around his face, making sure it covered enough but that he could still see. Joe had worn one yesterday, but somehow her hands on his face, fixing it just right, felt more intimate than before.

"Wait," Riley said, grabbing his Bengals cap and pulling it low over his eyes. She stood back to examine her work. "Perfect. Now come on."

The hotel lobby was nearly empty, the staff having long given up trying to maintain decorum as Carnival reached its peak outside. They slipped through the doors and into the night, the air thick with humidity and possibility.

The music was louder now, a pulsing rhythm that seemed to vibrate through the pavement itself. Riley clutched his hand tighter, pulling him through the crowd toward the sound.

And then, suddenly, they were there.

Time seemed to slow as they rounded the corner. The street opened up before them, transformed into something magical. A brass band—maybe a dozen players strong—had claimed the intersection, their instruments gleaming under streetlights, their bodies swaying as they played. Around them, people moved in a fluid dance, some with elaborate steps, others simply swaying, all connected by the music that flowed between them.

There were no barriers here, no separation between performers and audience. Just people—all kinds of people—caught up in the same moment, the same music, the same joy.

Joe felt something shift inside him as he took it all in. This wasn't like the organized parades, wasn't like any celebration he'd ever experienced. This was raw, authentic connection—strangers becoming community through nothing more than shared rhythm and movement.

Riley was watching him, her eyes bright above her bandana. Without a word, she pulled him deeper into the crowd, finding a spot where they could move freely. The press of bodies created a strange anonymity, a freedom he hadn't expected.

The band played something with a driving beat that had the crowd whooping in recognition. Joe didn't know the music, but it didn't matter—the energy was contagious, impossible to resist.

Before he could overthink it, he was moving. Not with any particular skill, but with an abandon he hadn't allowed himself in years—maybe ever. The constraints that usually bound him—the careful image, the constant awareness of being watched—fell away, leaving just Joe, just this moment, just the music and Riley's hand in his.

A woman with feathers in her hair pressed a plastic cup into his hand, filled with something sweet and potent. Joe drank it without hesitation, feeling the alcohol warm his blood, loosen his limbs even further. Riley accepted her own cup from a man in a glittering vest, raising it in a toast before drinking deeply.

The second line began to move, the band leading the way down the street, the crowd flowing behind them like a river finding a new course. Where others struggled with the chaos, Joe moved with surprising ease, his body naturally creating space for them both. There was a calm certainty to his movements, not from knowing the streets but from an instinctive awareness of the crowd itself.

When the crowd compressed unexpectedly, Joe simply shifted his position, creating a protective bubble around Riley without being overbearing. His hand remained steady at the small of her back, not controlling but present. The subtle protection allowed Riley to lose herself completely in the moment, to dance and laugh with wild abandon, knowing he was there.

Everything took on a dreamlike quality—the glow of streetlights reflecting off brass instruments, the blur of faces and costumes, the way sound seemed to wrap around them like a physical presence. Joe lost track of time, lost track of anything beyond this moment.

Someone tossed beads around his neck. Someone else pressed another drink into his hand. A woman with silver-painted skin danced past him, trailing glitter in her wake. A man with a trumpet pulled away from the band to play directly to Riley, who laughed and spun in response.

And through it all, Riley stayed close, her hand finding his whenever they were separated, her body moving against his in a dance that felt like conversation. She would glance back at him occasionally, appreciating the way he navigated the crowd with that same quiet confidence he brought to everything else.

The second line wound its way through streets Joe didn't recognize, each turn revealing new sights, new sounds, new people joining the celebration. They passed beneath balconies where people called down to them, through narrow passages where the buildings seemed to amplify the music, into wider avenues where the crowd spread out like water finding its level.

As they moved through the streets, the brass melodies swirling around them, Joe found himself thinking of vinyl records, of that moment in the shop when the Talking Heads album had appeared in his hands like some cosmic message. Home is where I want to be. The line had been circling his mind since that first night in Riley's house, but now—surrounded by strangers who felt like friends, caught in music that moved through him rather than just around him—he understood what David Byrne had been trying to say all along.

Home wasn't a place. It wasn't Cincinnati. It wasn't the careful apartment he'd decorated with the help of a designer who'd asked him what he wanted and he'd answered, "Clean lines." It wasn't even Athens, which he still called home out of habit more than feeling.

Home was this. Right here. This moment. This singular point in time where everything aligned in a way he'd never experienced—the rhythm of the brass, the press of people, the weight of Riley's hand in his. It was the unexpected joy of surrender, of letting go of the careful control he maintained in every other aspect of his life.

Something fundamental shifted inside him, plates of identity rearranging themselves into a new configuration. The Joe Burrow who prepared relentlessly, who measured success in completions and touchdowns, who crafted his image with the same precision he used to read defenses—that Joe Burrow was still there. But now there was room for something else. Something new.

Or maybe something ancient, something that had always been there beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to emerge.

The band hit a crescendo, the crowd surging in response, and Joe felt it like a physical wave through his body. He was laughing, he realized, in a way he hadn't since childhood—full-bodied, unrestrained, absolutely present.

Riley was looking up at him, something unspoken but unmistakable in her eyes. Joe pulled his bandana down just long enough to kiss her—a brief, electric contact before he covered his face again. It was reckless perhaps, but in that moment, it felt like the only possible response to the overwhelming tide of emotion.

When the song ended, the band transitioning seamlessly into something else, the spell wasn't broken. If anything, it deepened, solidified into certainty.

In the middle of Carnival, in the heart of New Orleans, surrounded by strangers and music and motion, Joe Burrow felt himself change. Not dramatically, not completely—but fundamentally, in ways that reverberated through every fiber of his being. Like a quarterback who suddenly sees the field in a different way, who recognizes patterns where before there was only chaos, Joe saw his life through new eyes.

This was what Riley had meant. This was what couldn't be explained, only experienced.

This, he realized with crystal clarity, was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Riley looked up at him as the crowd moved around them, her eyes bright with recognition. "Tell me this isn't the most alive you've ever felt," she challenged, her voice barely audible over the music but somehow perfectly clear to him.

And Joe couldn't lie. "It is," he admitted, the truth of it resonating through him like the brass notes themselves. "You were right. This is incredible."

"Thank you," he said as she came back into his arms, knowing the words were woefully inadequate. "For showing me this. For showing me your New Orleans."

For showing me a version of myself I didn't know existed, he wanted to add, but couldn't bring himself to say.

"Thank you for giving it a chance," Riley replied, stretching up to kiss him, heedless of the crowd around them.

The second line continued for hours, winding through the Quarter, gaining and losing participants as it went. Joe and Riley stayed with it until the very end, until the band finally came to rest in a small square, playing one final, triumphant number before disbanding into the night.

As the crowd dispersed, Riley leaned against Joe, breathless and flushed with exertion and joy. "Well, Burrow," she said, looking up at him with dancing eyes, "what do you think? Worth missing the VIP balcony view?"

Joe stared at her for a moment, still struggling with the magnitude of what he was feeling. There was something terrifying about it—this sudden, seismic shift in his perception of what mattered, what he wanted, who he could be. He'd always prided himself on his focus, his singular dedication to his career. Yet here he was, in the middle of the off-season, already mentally rearranging his calendar to include more of... this. More of her.

"I'm clearing my entire schedule next year," he said, the words coming out before he could filter them, surprising even himself with their certainty.

Riley's eyes widened slightly, catching the weight behind his seemingly casual statement. For a moment, they just looked at each other, the implications of his words—of a future that extended beyond this weekend—hanging in the air between them.

Neither seemed ready to examine it too closely, both perhaps afraid to break the spell of the moment by putting too fine a point on it.

Instead, Riley simply took his hand, leading him back toward the hotel. "I'm holding you to that," she said, and Joe knew she meant it as more than just a casual promise.

The walk back was quieter, the streets beginning to empty as even Carnival revelers eventually succumbed to exhaustion. They moved in comfortable silence, hands intertwined, occasionally stopping to kiss in doorways or against lamp posts, unhurried and content.

Joe's mind was still racing, trying to process everything he'd experienced, everything he was feeling. The careful architecture of his life—the routines and boundaries he'd constructed over years—seemed suddenly insufficient, too small to contain this new thing growing inside him. It wasn't just attraction or even affection. It was something more fundamental, more disruptive.

It scared him, if he was honest with himself. He'd built his career, his entire identity, around being in control. Around knowing exactly what he wanted and pursuing it with single-minded determination. But this—whatever was happening with Riley—hadn't been part of the plan. It was unexpected, uncharted territory.

And yet, the thought of returning to his carefully ordered life without her in it seemed impossible now, like trying to go back to black and white after seeing in color.

By the time they reached the hotel, the first hints of dawn were appearing on the horizon—a subtle lightening of the eastern sky, a promise of the day to come. Joe's flight was in the afternoon, a reality they had both been carefully avoiding discussing.

In the elevator, Riley leaned against him, her energy finally flagging after hours of dancing. "I think you've officially experienced the full Mardi Gras," she murmured. "Parades, costumes, second lines... We hit all the highlights."

"Best tour guide ever," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, wishing he had the words to tell her that she'd shown him far more than just a city—she'd shown him a different way of being in the world, a different possibility for himself that he'd never considered before.

But those were thoughts too new, feelings too raw to articulate just yet. So he held her closer instead, memorizing the weight of her against him, the scent of her hair, the perfect fit of her hand in his—storing up sensory memories to carry back to Cincinnati, where he knew everything would look different now, whether he wanted it to or not.

Back in the hotel room, they shed their clothes with the easy familiarity of people who had done this before, climbing into the massive bed with grateful sighs. Riley immediately curled against him, her head finding its spot on his shoulder, her arm draped across his chest.

"What time's your flight again?" she asked, her voice already heavy with exhaustion.

"Nine," Joe admitted reluctantly. "So I should probably be at the airport by seven."

Riley groaned softly. "That's like...three hours from now."

"I'll sleep on the plane," Joe said, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her shoulder. "This is worth it."

She was quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, her voice was smaller, more vulnerable than he'd heard it before.

"I don't want you to go," she admitted quietly, the late hour and exhaustion lowering her usual guards.

Joe tightened his arm around her. "I don't want to go either," he said honestly.

Riley propped herself up on one elbow, looking down at him with an uncharacteristically serious expression. "So where does that leave us? This weekend has been... I don't even have words for what it's been. But tomorrow you go back to Cincinnati, and I stay here, and then I'm off to LA for recording, and then you start training, and..." She trailed off, the logistics suddenly overwhelming.

Joe reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He wanted to tell her everything—how she'd upended his carefully constructed world, how he'd caught himself considering what it would be like to have a place here, how for the first time in his life his single-minded focus on football felt insufficient. But those thoughts were too new, too raw, too untested to share just yet.

"And we figure it out," he said instead, simpler but no less true. "If we want to make it work, we will."

"Just like that?" Riley asked, a hint of skepticism in her voice. "It's never that simple."

"Maybe it is," Joe countered. "Maybe we're making it complicated by overthinking."

Riley laughed softly. "Says the overthinker who didn't kiss me when he wanted to in New York."

Joe smiled, caught. "I'm trying." He hesitated, then decided to let her in, just a little. "Look, this is different for me. I'm a homebody. Always have been. I've spent my whole life laser-focused on one thing—football. Everything else just... existed around it. Relationships, friendships... they were always secondary. Had to be." His voice dropped lower, more vulnerable. "I don't know how to do this—to feel this connected to someone so fast. It's like finding a missing piece you didn't know was missing."

Riley watched him carefully, giving him space to continue.

"But this weekend," he said slowly, "with you...it's like I found a part of myself I forgot existed. Or maybe never knew was there." He shook his head slightly. "I don't know how to fit that into my life in Cincinnati, but I know I want to try."

It wasn't everything he was feeling—not nearly—but it was more than he'd shared with anyone in a long time. More than he'd admitted even to himself until this moment.

Riley studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his face for something. Whatever she saw there must have satisfied her, because she leaned down, capturing his lips in a kiss so tender it made his chest ache.

"Okay," she whispered against his mouth. "We figure it out."

They sealed the promise with another kiss, and another, until talking gave way to touching, and words were replaced by sighs and moans and whispered encouragements. They made love with a new urgency, as if trying to store up memories to carry them through the coming separation. Joe memorized every sound she made, every arch of her back, every gasp of his name. Riley traced his body with fingers and lips like she was committing him to memory, learning him by heart.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, sweat cooling on their skin, breathing gradually slowing to normal. Joe struggled to keep his eyes open, exhaustion finally claiming him after the longest, most extraordinary day.

"Go to sleep," Riley murmured, pressing a kiss to his chest. "I'll be here in the morning."

Joe wanted to say something more—something about how these few days had changed him, how he'd never felt this way before, how he already missed her even though she was still in his arms. But sleep pulled him under before he could find the words, the gentle rhythm of Riley's breathing against his skin lulling him into dreams.

Joe woke just five minutes before his alarm was set to go off, the room still dark, Riley's warm body curled against his side. For a moment, he just watched her sleep—the peaceful expression on her face, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the tangle of blonde hair spread across the pillow.

His flight was at 9 AM, which meant he needed to be at the airport in less than two hours. The thought of leaving—leaving her—and returning to his carefully structured life in Cincinnati created a physical ache in his chest, surprising in its intensity.

Joe slipped out of bed carefully, trying not to disturb her. He padded to the bathroom, splashing water on his face as he tried to sort through the tumult of emotions.

He needed to say something—something to mark what had happened here, something to carry them through the weeks or months that might pass before they could be together again. But what could possibly capture the significance of these days? What token could possibly be enough?

As he dried his face, his eyes caught on his reflection in the mirror—specifically, on the thin silicone bracelet on his wrist. His LSU bracelet, the one he'd worn since his college days, a simple blue band with purple lettering. A reminder of where he'd come from, of the journey that had made him who he was.

It wasn't much, but it was significant. Personal. A piece of himself she could keep.

Decision made, Joe returned to the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the bed to watch Riley sleep for a few more precious moments. Then, gently, he slid the bracelet from his wrist and placed it on the nightstand.

He found the hotel stationery in the desk drawer, pausing with pen in hand as he considered what to write. He wasn't one for flowery words or lengthy explanations, but he wanted her to understand what these days had meant.

Finally, he began to write:

Riley,

Not good at goodbyes, so I'm not waking you up. These few days have been the best I've had in a long time. Thank you for showing me your city, your world.

This bracelet has been with me since LSU. Through everything. I want you to have it until next time. And there will be a next time—soon.

Call me when you're up.

Joe

He folded the note and placed it beside the bracelet, then leaned down to press a gentle kiss to Riley's forehead. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, her fingers curling into the warm spot he'd left in the sheets.

Joe dressed quietly, packed his few belongings, and took one last look at the room—at Riley asleep in the massive bed, at the balcony where they'd watched the parades, at the scattered evidence of their night together.

Before heading out, he grabbed his phone and sent a quick text to Mark, asking him to push back their morning meeting by an hour. He needed to make one more stop before heading to the airport.

Downstairs, Joe approached the front desk, where a different clerk from the previous day greeted him with a professional smile.

"Checking out, Mr. Burrow?"

"Yes," Joe said, sliding his keycard across the counter. "But I was hoping to extend checkout for the room until this afternoon. My... friend is still sleeping, and I want her to be able to rest as long as she needs."

The clerk nodded, typing something into the computer. "No problem at all, sir. We can extend it until 3 PM if that works?"

"Perfect," Joe said, adding his credit card to the counter. "And whatever room service she orders, put it on this."

With that taken care of, Joe stepped outside into the quiet morning streets, the city still recovering from another night of Carnival. The air was cool, clean in a way it wouldn't be once the day's revelry began again. He took a deep breath, savoring one last taste of New Orleans before heading to his waiting car.

But as he settled into the backseat and gave the driver directions to the airport, Joe knew with absolute certainty that he would be back. Soon.

Riley woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains they'd forgotten to close and an empty space beside her in the bed. She reached out, finding the sheets cool to the touch—Joe had been gone for a while.

"Joe?" she called, her voice thick with sleep. No response.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her face as she glanced around the room. His bag was gone from the chair where he'd left it, his shoes no longer by the door. A hollow feeling opened up in her chest, a sense of loss that seemed disproportionate to their short time together.

For a moment, she just sat there, the reality of his departure settling over her like a weight. He'd left without waking her. Without saying goodbye. Her throat tightened as an unwelcome thought pushed its way forward: maybe this weekend hadn't meant to him what it had to her. Maybe once he stepped away from the Mardi Gras bubble, from her world, he'd realized it was just a nice diversion—nothing worth disrupting his real life for.

She'd let herself hope. Worse, she'd let herself believe he felt it too—that unexplainable connection, that sense of recognition that had nothing to do with how long they'd known each other and everything to do with how deeply they'd connected.

Riley swallowed hard, blinking back tears that had appeared without warning. This wasn't her. She didn't get emotional over men, especially ones she'd just met. But as she looked around the empty hotel room, at the indentation in the pillow where his head had been, at the single earring she'd tossed on the dresser that now seemed to emphasize her aloneness—she couldn't deny the ache spreading through her chest.

Then her eyes caught on something on the nightstand—a purple and gold silicone bracelet, the colors faded from years of wear. LSU. Joe's bracelet, the one he'd worn constantly, that she'd noticed he never took off.

Beside it lay a folded piece of hotel stationery with her name on it.

Riley reached for both with slightly trembling hands, sliding the bracelet onto her wrist before unfolding the note. As she read his words, the tears she'd been fighting spilled over, tracking silently down her cheeks.

The note wasn't long or poetic. It was pure Joe—straightforward, unembellished, and somehow more meaningful because of it. He'd left her his bracelet. A piece of himself, something important, something personal.

She traced her fingers over his handwriting, the physical evidence of his presence, of his promise to return. The tears came faster now, catching her off guard with their intensity.

"Shit," she whispered, pressing the note to her chest as she squeezed her eyes shut.

She was crying not just because he was gone, but because she missed him already, with an intensity that scared her. Because in just three days, he'd somehow worked his way past all her carefully constructed defenses. Because she was already counting the days until "next time," even though they hadn't set a date, even though their lives existed in different worlds, on different trajectories.

Riley lay back against the pillows, his bracelet a comforting weight on her wrist, his note still clutched in her hand. She allowed herself this moment of vulnerability—of missing him, of acknowledging what these days had meant, of being afraid of how much she'd come to care in such a short time.

The tears weren't just sadness. They were recognition of something rare, something precious, something worth fighting for. And beneath it all, a quiet certainty that whatever had started here was far from over.

She reached for her phone, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand as she began to type a message to the man who'd somehow, in the space of a Mardi Gras weekend, become essential.

She stared at the blank text screen for a moment, her thumb hovering over the keyboard. Riley Carter had never struggled with words—they were her livelihood, her art—but somehow finding the right ones for this felt impossible. Too casual would diminish what had happened between them. Too intense might scare him off.

Finally, she typed:

Riley: Just found your note. Already wearing the bracelet. Thanks for making me cry before coffee, Burrow.

She paused, deleted it, then tried again:

Riley: The bracelet is perfect. I'll keep it safe for you. Thank you for everything.

Too formal. Too distant. She deleted that too, frustration building.

She tried once more:

Riley: Found your note. Miss you already. The bracelet doesn't leave my wrist until you're back to claim it.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then immediately tossed her phone aside, her heart racing like she'd just performed in front of thousands. It was the truth—simple, direct, vulnerable. The kind of truth she usually saved for her lyrics, not her life.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately.

She hadn't expected such a quick response. He must have turned his phone on the second the plane touched down, a thought that made the ache in her chest soften into something warmer.

Joe: Back in Cincinnati. Three days wasn't enough. I'll call you later.

She replied with just a heart emoji. Sometimes words weren't necessary.

Riley smiled through the remnants of her tears, holding her wrist up to examine the faded purple and gold band that now felt like the most precious thing she owned.

Joe stepped off the plane, already feeling the shift. The cold Cincinnati air, the familiar airport, the weight of his real life settling back onto his shoulders.

His driver was waiting for him at arrivals, a clipboard with "BURROW" in his hand though they both knew it wasn't necessary. Joe nodded in greeting, sliding into the back seat of the black SUV as the driver loaded his single bag into the trunk.

"Good trip, Mr. Burrow?" the driver asked, the same question he always asked.

"Yeah," Joe said, surprised by how inadequate the word felt. "It was."

He scrolled through the messages that had accumulated during his flight—his agent reminding him about tomorrow's meeting with the equipment sponsor, his trainer checking if he wanted to bump their session to evening instead of morning, his mom asking if he'd made it home safely. He replied to each with practiced efficiency, but his mind was still in New Orleans.

The city had felt different with Riley there. And now, Cincinnati felt... less.

The drive to his place was the same as always. Same route, same buildings, same grey February sky. But now he noticed the absence of color, the lack of life compared to the vibrant chaos of New Orleans. When had Cincinnati started feeling so sterile?

He got home, dropped his bag by the door, and immediately noticed how he almost hated how his house now felt compared to Riley's. No warm light, no music, no trailing plants or mismatched furniture that somehow worked. His place was all clean lines and neutral tones, professionally decorated to be impressive but not personal. It had never bothered him before.

Joe moved through the empty rooms, turning on lights, opening blinds, trying to inject some life into the space. He glanced at his wrist out of habit—only to remember the bracelet wasn't there. That small weight was missing, and it threw him. He rubbed his thumb over the spot where the silicone band usually sat, the phantom pressure a constant reminder of what he'd left behind.

In the kitchen, he opened the refrigerator, stared at the protein shakes and meal-prepped containers, then closed it again without taking anything. His stomach growled, but nothing appealed to him. He wanted beignets dusted with powdered sugar. He wanted spicy gumbo and Riley laughing across the table.

He checked his phone again, rereading Riley's text, lingering on Miss you already before typing:

Joe: What song are you playing right now?

A beat later, her response:

Riley: "In Spite of Ourselves" by John Prine & Iris DeMent

Joe smiled, immediately searching for the song on his phone. He connected to the speakers—rarely used except for pregame warm-up playlists—and hit play. The playful, honest duet filled his living room, the lyrics about two imperfect people who fit together perfectly making his smile widen. He could almost hear Riley's laugh, could picture her singing along. Somehow, the song made the space feel less empty.

He closed his eyes, leaning back against the couch as the music washed over him. The pull in his chest was almost physical, a tightness that hadn't been there before New Orleans. Before Riley.

When the song ended, Joe walked to his bag and carefully removed the Talking Heads vinyl he'd bought at the record store. He held it for a moment, then placed it prominently on the console table in his entryway—the only personal item in the otherwise meticulously designed space. It looked out of place among his minimalist decor—vibrant, meaningful, a splash of color in the monochrome.

He picked up his phone again, staring at the record he’d placed on the console table—the only personal item in the otherwise meticulously designed space. It looked out of place, bold and colorful against the clean lines and muted tones.

He ran his thumb over his bare wrist, missing the familiar weight of his bracelet. The room felt empty, too perfect. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something needed to change—something to make this space feel less like a hotel and more like a home.

Decisively, he opened a browser and searched for high-end turntables. The price didn’t matter; what mattered was quality. If Riley was going to visit—and she would, he’d make sure of it—he wanted the music to sound just right.

Joe scrolled through reviews, comparing features with the same focus he usually reserved for studying defensive schemes. Turntable. Amplifier. Speakers. The best system money could buy.

Small changes. Starting points. The kind of details no one but Riley would notice or understand. Because somehow, in just three days, she'd seen parts of him he'd forgotten existed, or maybe never knew were there at all. He glanced around his living room again, seeing it through new eyes, and for the first time since buying it, he didn't see a showcase.

He saw potential.

Riley left the hotel as soon as she got up. There was no reason to stay—the late checkout Joe had arranged would go unused. The room felt wrong without him there, like she was sharing the space with a ghost. His absence was somehow more present, more tangible, than if he'd never been there at all.

The half-empty coffee cup he'd left on the nightstand. The indent in his pillow. The lingering scent of his cologne in the bathroom. All evidence of someone who was gone but not quite gone.

She'd never hurried through her morning routine so quickly, desperate to escape the emptiness that was somehow worse than being alone.

When she finally made it home, the city felt strange around her. It was still Mardi Gras, still her favorite time of year in her favorite place, but something was off. Like someone had adjusted all the colors, making them slightly less vibrant. She'd lived in New Orleans for years, knew every corner of her neighborhood, but suddenly the familiar patterns of her life felt... insufficient.

"Get it together, Carter," she muttered to herself as she unlocked her front door. "It was three days. Three."

But it had been three days that had somehow shifted something fundamental inside her. Three days that had her checking her phone every five minutes, staring at his bracelet on her wrist, playing their conversations over in her head like favorite tracks on a well-worn album.

Her house, normally her sanctuary, felt too quiet. She walked through the rooms, running her fingers over the surfaces of familiar objects, wondering if Joe had touched them too. The record player in the corner caught her eye. She picked out a vinyl without thinking too hard about it, needing something to fill the silence.

John Prine's voice filled the room, and Riley sank onto her couch, absentmindedly rubbing her thumb over Joe's LSU bracelet. She had studio time booked later—their album wouldn't finish itself—but for now, she allowed herself this moment of... what? Not sadness, exactly. Something more complex. Something that made her feel both lighter and heavier at the same time.

Her phone buzzed.

Joe: What song are you playing right now?

Riley smiled for the first time since waking up alone. How did he know? She glanced at the record spinning on her turntable, then typed:

Riley: "In Spite of Ourselves" by John Prine & Iris DeMent

She didn't explain why—didn't mention how the lyrics about two imperfect people finding each other felt suddenly, intensely relevant, or how Prine's wry humor was the only thing keeping her from sliding into a frankly embarrassing level of melancholy. He'd either get it or he wouldn't.

She set her phone down and leaned her head back, closing her eyes as the music washed over her. Three days. Just three days, and she was already haunting her own house like some lovesick teenager. It was ridiculous. It was completely unlike her. What would Haley and Laura say?

Well, she knew exactly what they'd say. They'd say she was in trouble. And they'd be right.

Her phone buzzed again. Not Joe this time, but a reminder of her studio session in two hours. Real life, calling her back. The album they were midway through recording wasn't going to wait, and honestly, work was probably exactly what she needed right now.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Riley hit Laura's contact and put the phone on speaker as she started gathering her things for the studio.

"Well, well, well," Laura's voice filled the room after the second ring. "If it isn't the ghost who's been ignoring our texts all morning. I was about to send a search party to make sure Quarterback Boy didn't turn out to be a serial killer."

"He left this morning," Riley said, surprised by how her voice caught slightly on the words. "Early flight."

There was a pause on the other end of the line. When Laura spoke again, her teasing tone had vanished. "You okay, Ri?"

"I'm fine," Riley said automatically, then sighed. "Actually, I don't know what I am. It's stupid. It was just a few days."

"Doesn't sound stupid to me," Laura said quietly. "Sounds like something happened."

Riley sank back onto the couch, absently touching the LSU bracelet on her wrist. "Yeah. Something happened." She paused, struggling to find words—ridiculous for someone who wrote lyrics for a living. "I can't explain it, Laura. It's like... I've known him forever? But also not at all? And now he's gone and my house feels wrong and I'm playing John Prine like some heartbroken teenager and I don't even recognize myself right now."

Laura let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. You're in it deep."

"Shut up," Riley groaned, but there was no heat in it. "I know how it sounds."

"Actually, it sounds exactly like you," Laura said, her voice gentler now. "The real you. The one who feels everything so intensely. That's who you've always been, Ri. You kind of lost that part of yourself during all those years with Ethan."

Riley was quiet for a moment, letting that sink in. Laura wasn't wrong. The on-again, off-again years with Ethan had taken a toll she hadn't fully recognized until after it was over. She'd spent a whole year deliberately single after they finally ended things for good, focusing on finding herself again. And somewhere in that process, she'd gotten comfortable keeping her feelings at a distance, not letting herself explore possibilities with anyone else.

"Maybe," she admitted finally. "It just feels... risky."

"Good risky or bad risky?"

Riley laughed. "I don't even know anymore."

"So when are you seeing him again?"

The question caught Riley off guard. Not if. When. Like there was no doubt.

"I don't know," she admitted. "We didn't really make specific plans. He's got training, I've got the album... and then we leave for Italy right after. It'll be at least a month before there's even a possibility."

"A month?" Laura groaned dramatically. "You're going to be impossible to live with in Italy. Here I was looking forward to celebrating your birthday in Tuscany, and now you're going to be pining after Football Boy the whole time."

"I am not going to be pining," Riley protested, though the thought of a full month without seeing Joe did create a hollow feeling in her chest. "I'll be completely present and birthday-appropriate."

"Mmhmm," Laura hummed skeptically. "Keep telling yourself that."

"You're the worst."

"No, I'm the best, which is why I'm going to help you figure out when you can see him after we get back. Haley owes me twenty bucks, by the way."

"You bet on me?"

"I bet on chemistry. Haley said you'd play it cool for at least a week before making any moves. I said you'd be planning your next meeting before his plane even landed."

Riley rolled her eyes, but couldn't stop smiling. "I hate you both."

"No, you don't," Laura said, her voice softening. "Listen, I know this is new territory for you. But I haven't heard you sound like this about anyone... maybe ever. So whatever this is? I'm here for it."

"Thanks, L," Riley said quietly. "I gotta go. Studio time."

"Go make magic. And Riley? I'm really happy for you."

After they hung up, Riley stood in her living room for a moment longer, feeling oddly settled. Hearing herself say it out loud—admit how she was feeling, acknowledge that she wanted to see him again soon—had made it more real somehow. Less something happening to her and more something she was choosing.

A month. Four weeks. Thirty-some days before seeing him again was even possible. The thought was daunting, but also... maybe good? Time to process whatever this was becoming, time to finish the album without distraction, time to be sure this wasn't just Mardi Gras magic that would dissolve in the daylight of real life.

Though even as she thought it, Riley knew better. Whatever was happening between them was too real, too grounded to be dismissed as holiday fantasy.

Riley forced herself up off the couch, heading to her bedroom to change into something more suitable for the studio. As she passed her dresser, she caught sight of herself in the mirror—Joe's bracelet on her wrist, a small smile still playing at her lips. She looked different somehow. Not dramatically, not in any way anyone else would notice. But she could see it.

"Three days," she whispered to her reflection, half-accusation, half-wonder.

But sometimes three days was all it took.

She grabbed her guitar case, her notebook full of half-finished lyrics, her jacket. At the door, she paused, looking back at her empty house. For the first time since moving in, she felt a strange sense of anticipation—not just of coming back, but of someday having someone else there too. Someone specific.

Riley locked the door behind her, adjusting Joe's bracelet on her wrist as she walked down her front steps. She might be in trouble, but she was pretty sure it was the good kind.

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