#when was the last time I did a long post like this

[swoo-bats]

Tucker didn't think he'd ever be interacting with one of the Big Bosses. Glimpses of them in the lobby, hallways, other work areas, sure; that's how he got in on the open secret, after all. A few too many times of the Waynes showing up to work with injuries that didn't really coincide with the "skiing accident" or whatever they claimed it to be. But Tucker, familiar with Danny's tendencies to hide his own injuries, knows what to look for.

After getting a little suspicious, Tucker started paying more attention to the Bats. He religiously followed social media posts. Twitter was a hot bed for sightings and Tiktok was great for seeing clips of fights. And after a few weeks of paying close attention to social media and any local celebrity gossip as well as the short sightings at work, Tucker can definitively say that Bruce Wayne is Batman and Tim Drake-Wayne is Red Robin.

Though he had to put in the work, he figured that with observation of the more obvious injuries and work absences over a long period of time, any Wayne Enterprises employee would come to the same conclusion. He just sped up the process a bit in his unrelenting curiosity. It must be an open secret like Danny's identity in Amity Park; people are being polite by not talking about it.

He even confirmed his speculation with his coworkers. At lunch he had casually mentioned to Jamie, a fellow systems engineer, "With what the Waynes get up to, I'm surprised they're actually at work as often as they are."

To which she eagerly replied, "Right?! They're probably so tired all the time. If I did what they did, I'd be calling out super often." She tilted her head back and forth, considering. "Though I don't have the money for that."

Two other coworkers nearby also joined in, commenting on how the Waynes are so rich, it's not really a surprise what shenanigans they get up to. Tucker nodded along, excited now that his suspicions were basically confirmed.

So when he had heard two guys in the alley outside of his apartment talking about a big drug shipment (do people really think no one will hear them if they talk in echoey alleys?), he figured he could pass it on to the Bats. Just slip a post-it into a file that's getting sent up to their office, no problem.

Safe to say, Tucker was not expecting to be called up to talk with them. Did they want more information about the drug shipment? He already wrote down everything he knew! Or... oh no, he hopes that they don't think he's involved with those guys. He walks out of the elevator, hoping he looks like a normal employee and isn't giving off, like, criminal vibes or whatever. He knows he's not guilty of anything, that this is definitely one of those scenarios like "oh shit, what if I accidentally brought a gun to the airport?" where the anxiety obviously doesn't come from any rational place. But he is still excited to meet them for real. They're heroes! The only other hero Tucker has ever met is Danny and he doesn't really count.

He makes his way to the secretary at the desk in front of the office doors and says that he was asked to come up to talk. They confirm his name with his employee ID and let him through.

The first thing Tucker notices is that the office is way less cool than he thought it'd be. It's a little bland, honestly. He wasn't expecting, like, a Batman costume to just be displayed in the room, but typical office gray is what meets his eyes.

The second thing he notices is that Tim Drake-Wayne is the only other one in the room. Tucker guesses that makes sense, he heard Batman got a nasty hit over the head last night, so he's probably taking care of his concussion or head wound or whatever.

Tim gestures for him to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of the desk. Tucker does. It isn't a comfortable chair.

"So Mr. Foley, I was wondering if you could explain why you passed on a note involving a drug deal to me."

"Well, sir, I figured this was the most direct way I had to pass on some information to the Bats. I don't know anything more than what I wrote on there, though."

Tim's expression turns confused. "Why would you think I have a method of communication with the Bats?"

Tucker's own face becomes confused. Are they still pretending they both don't know that the other knows? "Why wouldn't you?"

Tim blinks. "Although they may have... saved me... from kidnappings a couple of times," he says very reluctantly, "I definitely do not have direct contact with the Bats. I suggest you find another way to contact them." He finishes, pushing the note towards Tucker.

Mind running, Tucker picks up his note. Why keep denying it? Unless he thinks that Tucker's gonna tell someone? But it's already an open secret in the building, so why worry about that? Maybe he doesn't want any rogues going after WE employees and targeting them since they know the Bats' identities? But how would the rogues find out what the employees know? Everyone is pretending they don't know, since it's an open secret and everything...

Understanding dawns on Tucker's face. Plausible deniability! If Tim confirms his identity to Tucker, who knows who Tucker could tell. If the Waynes never outright confirm it then they can decry anyone who blabs as making it up. Tucker nods.

"Ah, I see, sir. I'll definitely make sure to pass it on correctly this time." Tucker puts the note in a pocket of his slacks. When he looks back up, Tim looks skeptical. "Anything else you need to discuss?"

"You didn't answer my earlier question. Why did you think I had a way to communicate with the Bats?"

Tucker runs a few answers through his mind and picks the least plausible one. "I've never seen you or Mr. Wayne in the same place as the Bats."

Tim's expression turns bewildered and Tucker holds back a laugh. This guy is a pretty good actor, though Tucker's answer was pretty funny too. Too bad "the butts match" isn't a joke he can make in a work setting.

"I'm sure you haven't seen most people together with the Bats though? Why us?" Tim questions.

For a moment Tucker wonders why Tim's dragging the explanation out, but he knows this building is full of security cameras and whatnot. One of Batman's enemies might be like Technus and be able to get to this footage.

'Wow, he's thorough,' he thinks.

Tucker shrugs, "Celebrities are more interesting to gossip and form theories around." He pauses and scrambles to add, "Not that I'm gossiping about you and Mr. Wayne or anything! I just mean in general, celebrities have to deal with more gossip because they're assumed to be more interesting than average people."

He watches Tim's face until it eases into something more neutral. Tucker really hopes he didn't just talk himself out of his job.

"Ah. I see. That's all then, you can go."

Tucker sighs in relief. "Thank you, sir." He stands and takes his leave. In the elevator back to his floor Tucker wonders if he should actually send the note again or if that's redundant since he knows they already got it.

Well, he may as well look for an alternate method of communication in case something like this happens again.

---

Tim watches Tucker Foley exit his office and his racing mind is full of questions about the man. He was definitely lying about the "same room" excuse, there's no way he would be working in system engineering if that was the extent of his logical reasoning ability. Tim wants to know what actually made him suspicious to Foley, why he thought that Tim could easily communicate with the Bats.

The preliminary research paints a picture of a man wanting to get out of his hometown and live in the big city. His hometown is a city itself, so he was probably looking for something new and exciting. And nothing screams exciting like Gotham.

The interesting part of this research is that Amity Park's main tourist attraction is their supposed haunted city and ghost hero. Who fights other ghosts. Tim rolls his eyes at the obvious gimmick. But more research proves the hero to be real, whether he's a ghost remains to be seen. Though it seems like the city's opinion was the complete opposite when the hero first appeared, lumping him in with the other "ghosts." That early information is hard to find, just sparse blog posts about "Phantom" and the occasional facebook post made by complaining residents. In fact, all of their digital newspapers only seem to go back a few years. If it was only a couple papers it wouldn't be weird, but all of them have nothing earlier than five years ago.

No wait, he needs to focus on Foley. Find out what he thinks he knows. And he can't have the other Bats look into him either because then Foley will know for sure that Tim is connected to them. So a trawl through his digital footprint it is, then.

He can't get through the security.

Tim is frustrated, at home on his own computer trying to access Foley's tech and nothing he's doing is working. If Foley did this himself then Tim is glad he's working for WE because he is having difficulties getting through the security. He scowls at the screen.

As Red Robin he's on par with Oracle with their tech knowledge. So there's no reason why he can't do this. He just needs to persevere.

Two hours later finds Tim angrily looking for more information on Amity Park. Is it secretly a tech haven? Could it rival Silicon Valley for their advancements in cybersecurity? He finds a few engineers located in the city but none of them are listed as cybersecurity or any related fields. One listing has him pausing when he sees "ecto-tech engineers" next to a name. The Fentons. What the hell is ecto-tech?

The Fentons' website is cringe-inducing, but he scans through their bright-colored pages and comes away not knowing whether or not this technology could be used to amp up someone's cybersecurity. Though it definitely could amp up someone's building security, given that you were trying to secure it from ghosts. Tim sighs.

Are these even real engineers? This has to be part of the city's ghost tourism attraction, right? But on the Fentons' About page, they do list degrees from the University of Wisconsin in... ectobiology? Tim wants to slam his head against his desk. What the hell is up with this city?

Tucker gets a job at Wayne Enterprises, and instantly clocks Bruce and Tim and Batman and Red Robin (and thus by extension figures out the rest of the family).

But since he figured it out so easily, he assumes it’s an open secret that everyone knows but keeps on the down-low for privacy and whatnot. After all, that’s what Danny’s identity had been like by the time they all graduated. Basically everyone in town knew unless the feds were asking. Because those white-suited government bastards can Fuck Right Off.

And thus, when he later finds an important potential lead on something, he doesn’t think much of just… handing it off to them to deal with. Yeah, he’s temporarily breaking the illusion, but it’s not that big of a deal.

Needless to say, Tim vehemently disagrees with that assessment, and is now deeply invested in finding out what the hell is up with his employee and his weirdly secretive hometown.

[deadly-diminuendo]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

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Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ words you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips breaks apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

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[allfortheslay25]

Sorry to that one person who asked about more Milo in my inbox. The ask disappeared and has yet to come back after the draft refused to post so I’ll be posting it just like this.

Hopefully you see it🙏

I should probably mention I wrote this chapter years ago but only adjusted some things at the beginning of the year before January

Milo Future Spoilers

There was nothing like the humidity of South Carolina; damp, sweltering, and mouth drying.

Neil smacked his lips and wiped sweat off the back of his neck. No, nothing like it.

The press of something freezing was soothing for a split second before it was alerting. Neil flinched away from the cold glass bottle Andrew pushed against his neck before taking it.

"Thanks."

Andrew squatted next to him, picking under his armbands to collect the sweat building up under them. Neil stared because Neil liked this pair. A shade of white with the thinnest pair of double orange stripes down the inner forearm. Andrew didn't wear them for much. It didn't go with the silver and gold tone of his uniform nor the black of his wardrobe. He hadn't really put them on since Allison gifted them to him back in 2012.

Andrew took Neil's soda from him after watching the man do little to open the damn thing. He popped off the cap, licking the back before pressing it to Neil's forehead.

Neil quirked up a smile. "It's fresh."

Andrew just turned away with his own drink half done.

"Where the fuck is Nicky? It's boiling out here!" Allison shouted from where she was handing out drinks.

Aaron flicked cooler water at Matt when the man attempted to steal the last lemonade. "Probably got sidetracked talking about Germany again. He acts as if we haven't been caught up with him in the last week."

Kevin rattled the doors like a madman. "Let me in.

We're right here, let me in!"

It would have been hilarious, enough to bring smiles and teasing from the old Foxes. But recently, with Kevin's publicized relapse and his alleged divorce from Thea, well, no one was laughing at Kevin these days.

The outer court walls had seen better days too.

The orange paint had faded to a yellow hue, chipped and dusty with tagging unwashed at the corners. Neil knew the Palmetto Foxes had been on a fortunate rise and he knew sometime after his leave did it begin to fall apart. Wymack bit off more than he could chew, they said. Too many scandals, too many suicides and murders, too many delinquents being allowed on a court. But Neil supposes they did well enough to keep those doors open another year.

Neil's drink was promptly swiped from his hands, the culprit? His son, Milo.

"If you're not gonna drink it at least don't let it go hot."

Neil squinted up at the boy. He did that standing too. Milo had hit puberty and outgrew Neil sometime between 12 and 13, but then the growing never stopped. He stood now, at an even 6ft with no chance of finishing his growth spurt.

Lanky and awkward teenage limbs, freckled and messy haired, Milo somehow stopped looking like Neil. Everyone always says his baby face is nostalgic to first year Neil Josten, but if you put the pictures side by side, Milo always had something Neil didn't. There was a sharpness to him, something he couldn't hide better than Neil.

"Kevin, stop playing with the doors, you'll break them." Renee chastised. It was a miracle to have her here with them in the flesh at all. She spent most of their reunions on video chat with low internet. "I'm sure Coach will be here soon with the keys."

Milo, soda long finished, turned to Kevin with an otter pop between his teeth. "Does it bother you that much?" He mumbled.

Kevin let go of the doors with reluctance. "No... I just... I want to see it already."

Milo hummed around his treat before standing and marching over to the doors. He hip checked Kevin—an eerie sight as they stood head to head in height—and pulled something from his pocket.

Milo fiddled with the fence and it sprung open.

The Old Foxes stared in disbelief.

"You had the keys the whole time? Milo!" Dan said.

Milo shrugged, displaying a paperclip and a hairpin. He shoved the fence out the way and marched on to the doors he'd need a code for. As Milo fooled around with it, the Foxes all turned to Neil with faces of amusement and exasperation.

"He's your son alright." They said.

"Little Josten."

"Little Monster." They all cooed.

"That's 'Little Minyard-Josten' to you." Milo announced before punching a button on the door.

It beeped and clicked and Milo turned the handle to allow everyone inside.

"How did you know the code!?" Kevin wondered.

"They just had a baby, no?" Milo pointed out. "It's always been someone's birthday."

The foyer was almost the same as they'd all last seen it. Orange benches were set here and there, and the floor was white tile with orange paw prints. Orange cones were stacked in a corner, three deep and six high. A white door was on the wall to their right, and an orange door was opposite them. Only difference was there was a crack in the wall no one patched up, and the white tiles had muddled down to a moppy grey.

Milo moved past it to the gear closet. As the Old Foxes looked around and chatted about memories a decade old, Milo had suited up and stolen a racquet.

"Should we let him keep doing that?" Allison muttered to the rest.

"Leave him be, this is the most excited we've seen him since before the B R E A K U P call." Dan whispered.

"You know he can spell faster than us, right?"

Aaron whispered back.

"And you know you're a bad whisperer, right?"

Matt countered.

"Cousins!" Anything Aaron was about to say was cut off by Nicky's loud arrival. He raced towards Aaron and Andrew, bringing them into tight squeezes despite the twos wriggling.

Neil smiled because it'd been three years since Andrew had told Nicky he could hug him without asking. Andrew sometimes snapped that he was sick of it, but Andrew had also told Neil years ago that he didn't do regret.

Nicky let out a sharp gasp from his position in hugging Neil. He all but shoved the man into Matt before springing himself onto Milo. "My baby nephew! You've gotten so big! Last time I saw you you were definitely a head shorter! What are they feeding you? Is it Kevin's diet?"

Milo smiled and hugged Nicky as hard as he could despite the pads. "A mix of junk food and Kevin's dietary plan I only follow when I'm bored."

Kevin sent him a glare for that but went back to finding proper gear without a word.

"How did any of you get inside?" Wymack wondered gruffly. Standing in the flesh, was their beloved coach who hadn't seemed to age a day in their eyes. The only thing new was the baby attached to his chest.

Everyone flooded his space in an instant, cooing and awing at the little infant with orange bows in her curly hair. It was a shame Kevin had to be the one to tell them Wymack and Abby were having a baby. He was too excited to remember they wanted to surprise everyone. Sarah was adopted by them as soon as she'd been born, the baby of a previous Fox who didn't want children. None of them knew her from anything other than the tabloids that printed her face everywhere on Exy news the week after her discharge from the hospital. She dropped out of Palmetto soon after and was in the wind before Wymack and Abby could say goodbye.

"Okay you animals, get your diseased faces out of my baby's face. And Kevin, get your face out that closet and hug me dammit."

Kevin paused from where he was pulling a pair of gloves out of the gear closet to sheepishly shuffle over to his father.

"Where's Abby?" Kevin asked as he smiled at

Sarah's squinty face.

"Napping. She wanted to come by but I told her we'd be here all day and she can stop by when she's had at least an hour of sleep." Wymack said.

He tossed the court keys at Neil who used them to unlock all of the doors inside.

Before anyone finished dressing, Jeremy Knox and Jean Moreau knocked on the locker room doors. This reunion was special, a chance for Jean to see Renee, and Jeremy to see Kevin in an act of support in these dire times.

Having so many professional exy stars in one room felt charged in a way. Kevin seemed ready to cream his pants, or so Andrew commented.

Jeremy looked good in orange and Jean looked like he'd rather do the scrimmage naked. But Neil only had eyes for Andrew whose old uniform stretched on him like a wet dream.

"Can you even play like that?" Aaron smirked, silently laughing at Andrew's predicament. Aaron hadn't been on his college grind in so long, he'd lost muscle mass but gained a healthy weight that his uniform fit almost perfectly.

Andrew silently knocked Aaron on the shoulder with his racquet and clicked his tongue at the weight of it. Neil understood the feeling. Their old racquets were like feathers, Neil wasn't sure he could play with something so lightweight.

Milo was setting up cones and baskets of exy balls with cheerfulness. He was running around the court with a giddiness that rubbed off onto everyone else.

"Don't forget to stretch," Kevin reminded him.

Milo turned and threw his body into a bridge position before resting into a handstand.

"Show off." Kevin grumbled as Jeremy laughed.

Milo properly stretched afterward, first to finish as he picked up the basket of exy balls.

"I wanna show you something. Miss Renee, may you take the goal for me?" Milo asked.

“My pleasure,” Renee said with a smile. She gave Andrew a friendly pat on the shoulder and took her place in the goal.

“We don’t have all day, Milo.” Kevin complained.

“Let him do what he wants, it’s his first game playing with us.” Dan said.

“My first game playing with you guys was actually in the morning of July 14th, 2006. It was my ‘Unbirthday’ as uncle Nicky put it and Matt knocked me onto my back.” Milo said as he got into position.

“You can’t count that as a real game.” Kevin said.

Milo smiled over his shoulder, one of the ones that made the Foxes refer to him as ‘Little Monster’ at times. “Shut up, Day, and watch this.”

He looked back at Renee who nodded at him and got into position. The stance was loose but almost as sturdy as it’d been all those years ago. Milo took up a ball and tossed it to her lightly, allowing her to hit it back far enough he’d have to chase it down the court. And Milo did. He didn’t want to see where it was headed. With bullet-like speed he took off, throwing himself from the wall, flying down the court before anyone could do much as turn their heads. The ball hit a far wall and came back. Milo jumped, snatching it from the air and landing on his left foot before propelling himself forward. He made light work of the cones and within 10 steps, scored on Renee. Neil didn’t know why but when Milo had taken the ball, he waited for a pass to someone who wasn’t there. It itched at his brain in a familiarity he couldn’t place.

Andrew narrowed his eyes before his mouth quirked into one of his amused expressions.

“What?” Neil wondered a little too loud.

“He’s just doing the most for no reason.” Kevin interrupted.

“He just mimicked Neil’s exact play his first time at a Fox match.” Andrew corrected.

Everyone turned to him in confusion.

Neil looked back, running it through his head but that game had been so long ago he didn’t remember.

Dan's eyes lit up, though. “He passed to me. Neil, you did that same jump thing your first game—back when Seth was taken off and you made your debut. You passed to me because someone was on your ass.”

“There’s no way. We can’t even remember it clearly. No one can say for sure.” Allison said.

Andrew tapped his temple. “I can. Memory like a steel trap, I never took my eyes off him. I’m the one who passed the ball to Neil.”

“It’s a fluke.” Kevin said.

Milo whistled at them to get everyone’s attention. “I’m not finished.” He tossed another ball to Renee. “I’ll call it for you this time; Seth Gordon 2006.” Milo changed the grip on his racquet, hands lower as his fingers gesture higher. He straightened his back and ran a few seconds after the ball flew, watching it with his eyes and racing at a slower yet more desperate pace. Once he’d caught it, he whipped it over his shoulder with such speed and strength, it nearly clipped Renee on the shoulder.

“There’s no way to guarantee that.” Kevin hissed.

Milo tossed another ball and cocked his head at Kevin. “Really? Let’s get more famous. Let’s see…” Milo tapped the button of his racquet against the floor and passed his stick to his left hand and the movement was so specific, Jean and the Foxes straightened in disbelief. “Kevin Day, 2007.” Milo called, once again changing his posture. The ball went and Milo moved, catching it and weaving around cones with such single mindedness it was breathtaking. Renee was serious now as she waited, eager to stop Milo but incapable of accomplishing it. The ball whistled past her ear and the Foxes roared in incredulous excitement.

“Join me, will you, Mister Knox?” Milo asked.

Jeremy smirked and followed onto the court. He attempted to take up a backliner position but Milo moved him into the striker mark. He passed a ball to Jeremy and motioned for him to continue. The Foxes readied for whatever trick Milo held up his sleeve next. He moved his racquet back to his right and hunched his shoulders a bit in a way that left him open for injury. Jeremy moved to get past him and Milo hooked his foot around his and sent him stumbling. Milo then yanked his stick out of his unassuming hands with a simple twist, stealing the ball and sending it across the court to be slammed into the goal wall.

“Jean Moreau, 2005.” Milo said. Jeremy was on his ass behind him, clutching his wrist in surprise.

“That was a dirty move. I had so much faith in you.”

Milo gave him his racquet, using it to pull Jeremy to his feet. “You were expecting Jean-Yvves Moreau, 2009. But I like surprises.”

Jean frowned from his place by the Foxes. “That move is long dead. You can hurt someone with it.”

Milo held up Jeremy’s arm by the elbow, waving it at Jean. “He’s all in one piece. Now I’ve got something special for you all. Get on the court, Miss Renee, Drew, you may wait for my last demonstration off to the side.

As they all took their marks, not for a scrimmage but for shooting on the goal, Milo sauntered onto Renee’s place, tossing his racquet for hers. He spun it around and moved his hands before crouching and staring them down the court. Even with the helmet over his eyes, there was an intensity that boiled the cool air into something claustrophobic to the group. No one had to guess who Milo was mimicking now, but he still called out to them.

“Andrew Minyard, 2016.”

Neil got first dibs as he was the first to line up. He moved past Nicky and shot at the goal with a ferocity he saved for real matches. The deafening crack that boomed through the space as Milo’s racquet connected with the ball made everyone flinch in their spots. The ball sailed through the air like a jet before smacking into the other goal.

“There’s no way you did that!” Nicky screamed.

“That’s Andrew’s move. Do you know how many goalies have attempted to replicate that and succeeded?” Kevin shouted. “Eight! Only six have accomplished it in all exy history!”

“Seven, counting me.” Milo said, tossing the racquet over his shoulder. “But if I’m truly honest, I wouldn’t be able to do it again as accurately. Especially during an intense game. I’ve practiced your moves since I could hold a racquet and I've mastered your techniques in less years than you’ve all been playing. But Drew’s moves are special.”

Kevin was still staring at the ball across the court. “We need that tape. Get us that tape. You’ll need to show it to recruiters—”

“Slow down, Kevin.” Jeremy said.

“You’re turning red.” Jean said.

Kevin seemed close to fainting. When he’d had some water and Wymack promised to send him the security tape, they all got their chance to shoot on Milo who didn’t allow a single one through. After the showboating, they played a real scrimmage. Whoever won got to play with Milo next and even as Kevin lost thrice in a row, he never stopped his giddy chatter about the places Milo would go and the changes he’d bring to the sport.

[cherrygirlfriend]

touchy subject III pairing: reader x exfiancé!rafe synopsis: seeing your ex-fiancé after four years. warnings: angst and comfort. fluff. mentions of miscarriage/stillbirth and DUI. wc: 2.7k part 3 and the last part of touchy subject! click here for part 1, click here for part 2 i really liked writing for them and honestly i'm considering occasionally writing blurbs for them and what their relationship would shape into, lmk if you'd be interested!! originally posted 11/28/2024

part I & part II

seeing you in front of that store felt like it might've killed rafe. the first face he fell in love with, the woman who'd left him with nothing but scars and an engagement ring. somehow, he still managed to stay alive.

but hearing you say his name in the soft voice he hadn't heard in over four years, the same one that you used to tell him you loved him every single night before your body went slack in his arms, that might have been the final blow.

"what are you doing here?" you managed to mutter, your hand instinctively going to your locket, squeezing it in your hand, and the gesture didn't go unnoticed by rafe.

"what's this?" rafe asked as the two of you laid in bed, his finger tracing the patterns on the heart-shaped locket resting on your chest, the one you'd worn around your neck for as long as he'd known you.

"this?" you asked, opening the locket, displaying two pictures; one of them was of you when you were a little girl, standing between your parents with a wide, toothy grin on your face, and the other was a picture of you and rafe, taken at midsummers. "i got this from my mom. it's a family heirloom of sorts. when she's born," you looked down at your stomach, "we've gotta get a picture taken of us three so i can put it here."

he let out a small chuckle, "i'm honored that you want me in your heart."

"i think you're always going to be in my heart," you rolled your eyes, "whether i want it or not."

"i'm here to see you. i thought that'd be obvious." rafe said without an ounce of emotion in his voice, the sound causing a shiver to run down your spine. grieving your daughter on what would've been her fifth birthday wasn't a moment you exactly wanted your ex to witness, but this was still rafe. the man you loved for so long, the only man you ever loved, the one you were going to marry, and this was still the house that was supposed to be your home.

so you stepped aside, pulling your cardigan closed as a way to close yourself off from the man as you walked further into the house, not daring yourself to look back at him, fearing the urge that still remained in your chest to just pull him close to you and be in his arms.

you heard the door close, pressing your eyes shut as you stood in front of the fireplace, your arms crossed in front of your chest as if defending yourself, the man's footsteps echoing in the room, "it's cold in here."

"the radiator's broken."

"can you just, at least look at me, or something?"

"do i have to?" you chuckled humorlessly, and when you felt his hand on your shoulder, it felt like the room got ten degrees colder, the man slowly turning you around to face him, and when you refused to look up at him, focusing on the baby blue sweater he was wearing, he brought his hand to your chin, gently lifting it up, just like he did every time he was about to kiss you.

"we need to talk."

if someone was to ask you what would be the most uncomfortable situation you had ever been in, this would be among the top 3, right after you got the 'birds and the bees' talk and the time you said your goodbyes to the same man now sitting beside you, the space between you two big enough to fit another person.

"why did you come back?" rafe asks, without even sparing you a glance. you decide to do the same, your gaze staying on the fire crackling in front of you.

"i don't know. a part of me thinks it's because i missed home."

"and the other part?"

missed us. missed her. "missed my mom, i guess."

your mother had driven you home from the hospital, insisting that she'd stay with you for the next few days; you still hadn't seen rafe. you couldn't face him, couldn't face the guilt you carried around for being the reason your daughter would be coming home in an urn.

she'd gone to the store for groceries, leaving you to sit on the couch you and rafe had picked out, staring at the engagement picture that hung above the fireplace.

you didn't know how it started, how every single vase ended up as nothing but shards of glass on the floor, how the coffee table had ended up as planks of wood, how your fists were bruised from beating them against the walls, your knees bloody from when you'd collapsed on the ground amongst all the glass.

"do you know what day it is?" rafe asked with a weak voice, and you could hear him try to swallow down the emotion crawling up his throat.

his question made you want to let out a small, humorless laugh. you don't know how you could ever forget. "of course." the day i killed her.

rafe stood up, running his hand over his chin before trailing over the short strands of hair on his head, "why did you do it?" he looked to you. "why did you leave?"

"i had no reason to stay." you say emotionlessly, your fingers intertwined as you kept your eyes on them as if you were praying.

"you had me. you would've had me if you just let me be there."

"rafe, i killed our daughter."

"what-"

"i'm the reason our daughter isn't here. i'm the reason she doesn't exist. i'm the reason that today isn't only her fifth birthday, but also the fifth anniversary of her death."

rafe kneeled down in front of you, his hands cupping your cheeks, not caring if it made you uncomfortable, or that this was the first time he'd properly touched you in over four years, the only thing that mattered to him was that you listened.

"you did not kill our daughter."

"i did."

"no." he scoffed, "you aren't the reason she's dead. the reason is the drunken asshole who drove at you. you loved her with your entire being, with everything you had, even before she was born. you would've been the most amazing mother in the world. don't you dare blame yourself for something you had zero control over."

"i shouldn't have driven in that weather. i knew it was gonna be raining, that the roads would be slippery-"

"no." rafe said sternly, "look at me."

your eyes moved to look into rafe's steel-blue ones, shimmering with unshed tears, his jaw clenched, and only then did you realize that he was cupping your face in his hands, his touch somehow managing to make you feel warm even in the cold apartment.

"i won't have you blame yourself for something you had no fuckin' control over. evelyn was so wanted, by both of us. she would've been so loved. we would've done anything to protect her, and to keep her safe. if any fucker even thought about hurting her, i would've made sure they'd regret ever being born. but you are not to blame for her not being here."

rafe's hands moved from your cheeks to your hands, the man instead taking your clenched fists into his, letting out a small sniffle, and when he pressed his eyes closed and let out a sigh, a tear rolled down his cheek.

"yeah, you could've not driven in the rain. but i should've been the one to drive you to your mom's, you were eight months along, an insane man would make you drive yourself, or i should've made sure you got home before it was dark, or i should've picked you up myself. there are so many things we could've done differently, but that doesn't mean that either of us is to blame for it."

"i spent so long blaming myself for what happened, but not even for a moment did i blame you. you did everything to keep her safe, and i know it, and i'm sure that she knows it too. you loved her more than anything, and i won't let some drunk driving idiot make you feel like you did anything wrong."

slowly, you opened your fists, half-moon prints on the palms on your hands caused by your nails, and without even realizing, tears had been rolling down your eyes the entire time that rafe had been speaking, the man standing up and pressing a kiss on your forehead that felt like it burnt and would leave a mark that'd be there forever, before he settled down next to you.

a strand of hair was stuck on your cheek, almost glued on there by the tears you shed, the blonde man tugging it behind your ear, his eyes still on you, his hands still cupping yours.

"i don't blame you for what happened, nor do i blame you for pushing me away. but i wish you would've let me in, to be there for you, instead of leaving. so we could've grieved her together."

"i think we should break up, rafe."

"what?" rafe turned to look at you; this wasn't what he had been expecting to hear after two months of silence, "if this is about the baby-"

"i can't do it anymore." you closed your eyes, letting a tear run down your cheek, "i need to leave. start over."

you turned your head to look at him, his words feeling like a weight had been lifted off your shoulders, and even though you tried to find it, there was nothing in his eyes that said that he was lying.

"you don't blame me for any of it?"

your voice was weak and feeble, as if a part of you was expecting him to tell you that he did, but when he pulled you into his embrace, he told you the truth in the best way he knew how to: without saying a single word.

you didn't know how long you had been in rafe's arms; it felt like hours, while also feeling like the moment had lasted mere seconds, like you two lived in your own bubble. it felt like the last four years hadn't happened, like you had never left.

but when he pulled away from the embrace and looked down at his watch, letting out a sigh, you knew what was coming. the bubble burst.

"i should probably get going." rafe let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed the bridge of his nose before starting to get up off the couch, stretching his long limbs.

"yeah, yeah." you said softly, clearing your throat, trying to act like nothing had happened, like you hadn't gone through every memory you shared while he was just holding you to comfort you, "your girlfriend's probably waiting for you."

rafe stopped in his tracks, turning to look down at you, "girlfriend?"

"shit," you chuckle softly, fidgeting with your hands and chewing on your lower lip, "i guess she's your fiancée, now."

he sat down on the couch next to you while you simply avoided his gaze, not wanting him to read everything you were feeling like he so often seemed to do, but your attempt was unsuccessful, the man bringing his hand to your chin and gently turning your head so you were forced to look at him, his brows slightly furrowed while he looked at you pointedly.

"what girlfriend, or fiancée?"

you didn't know if rafe was acting stupid, or if he was genuinely confused, but you could still remember the woman with him at the jewelry store, the woman who had managed to make him smile, whose back rafe placed his hand on.

"you know," you clear your throat, taking his hand off your chin and turning your head away from him, not wanting him to see the tears brimming in your eyes as you thought about him waiting at the aisle for another woman, "the woman at the jewelry store."

rafe let out a soft laugh, and when you turned your head, facing him, he was nearly keeling over in laughter, his head in his hands.

"what?"

"that-" rafe said inbetween laughs, "that wasn't my girlfriend."

"what?" you mumbled softly, your brows furrowing, "what do you mean, rafe?"

"sorry-" he continued laughing for a while only to be stopped by a soft smack you delivered to his shoulder, before the man took a deep breath, looking at you with a small smile gracing his lips, a sight that still got your heart to flutter, "that wasn't my girlfriend, or my fiancée."

"then... who was she?"

"that was," rafe let out another chuckle as if you had said something foolish, taking one of your hands in his and intertwining your fingers, "wheezie's girlfriend."

you tried processing the words that had left his lips, but no matter what, they didn't seem to make since. "why were you in a jewelry store together? wheezie's only like-"

"wheezie's nineteen." rafe shook his head, "her girlfriend, lucy, asked me to help her pick out a ring. sarah was supposed to go with her, but she had some preschool stuff to deal with relating to jack, so i got stuck with that duty…"

"isn't nineteen a bit... young?"

"it is. but you remember how young we were when we got engaged? or sarah?" a fond smile took over rafe's lips as he turned to look at the fire that was slowly burning out, letting the next words out in a hushed tone. "guess it runs in the family."

"guess so." you say, biting down on your lip, turning to look at the fire with him, your cheeks warm as you felt like an idiot for your assumption.

"i still haven't moved on." rafe said, letting out a breath, "i don't know if i can. i don't think i even want to." you turned to look back at one another at the same time, both of you seeing the same melancholy in the other one's eyes, "there's no one i would ever want to be with other than you."

you took a deep breath, his words ringing through your head as you looked at him, a damp trail running down his cheek was still visible from the tears he had shed, and you took a deep breath, making a decision that you knew would impact the rest of your life.

"me neither, rafe."

you brought your hand to his cheek and felt the tear he had shed under your touch, pulling his face to meet yours until your lips clashed, feeling the exact same that it did four years ago, making you wonder how you ever let it go.

SIX MONTHS LATER...

you laid on a blanket in the middle of a field of sunflowers, your arms crossed behind your head and your eyes pressed closed, letting the sun beam down your face, warming you up as your bare feet were being tickled by blades of grass.

your daydreaming was interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and you opened one of your eyes to see rafe stumble through the long flowers into the small clearing you'd found, a small chuckle leaving your lips.

"don't laugh at me." he scolded, shaking his head as he landed on the blanket next to you, letting out a soft grunt.

"why not?" you asked, sticking your tongue out at him, your boyfriend gasping in feigned offence, about to quip back at you, only to be stopped by the small, chaste peck you pressed on his lips, even the small display of affection managing to leave him speechless.

as he settled down next to you, you smiled while looking up at the sky, white clouds covering a part of the beautiful icy blue nothingness that was so much like rafe's eyes, your thoughts on her. you took rafe's hand in yours, keeping your eyes trained up while you let yourselves just exist together.

"you're always going to be in my heart, evelyn louise cameron." you said softly as you traced the patterns on your locket, rafe turning his head to look at you, a somber expression on his face as he pressed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"yeah, she will. and neither of us will ever forget her."

[miss-oranje-disco-dancer]

then send me a son

pairing: joel miller x reader

cws/tags: so much angst (w/ happy ending! i swear), discussion of suicide attempt (the canon one), suicidal ideations, losing a child, losing a parent, survivors guilt, discussions of abortion, unplanned pregnancy, p in v, oral sex, virginity loss (but it's not that big of deal/not a kink), both dealing w grief, ellie is dead, this is set in jackson post tlou pt I

summary: joel is put on suicide watch after he returns to jackson w/o ellie and reader becomes his 'caregiver' of sorts. lowkey enemies to lovers but also not bc it's kinda one-sided 'hatred'

a/n: author is pro-choice! and also understands the complexities of mental health that reader and joel do not at times (just wanted to make it clear that i understand... from personal experience... what depression is like as well as suicidal ideation).

title is from the song 'the suburbs' by arcade fire, but listen to the entirety of the suburbs (album) and funeral (album) if you want to understand my mindframe while writing this

the last sentence is a quote and i've reblogged it before but i'll find the image and post it/reblog it again

wc: 9.4k

masterlist | ko-fi | taglist

Joel is just surprised Tommy has the gall to ask, “Where’s Ellie?” when he arrives in Jackson alone. 

In this world, when two people leave and only one comes back, you don’t ask because you already know what happened. You wait for that person to tell you about a miracle, and when they don’t, you know for sure. 

“Heaven, if you believe in that sort of thing,” is Joel’s response. 

But Joel doesn’t believe in Heaven or Hell, or anything other than ashes and dirt. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Tommy says because he’d already said ‘I’m sorry’ when Sarah died, and that didn’t bring her back. 

It takes a hefty amount of booze to get Joel to tell the story.

“I just hope she died for something. Then, at least, I’ll know I’m being selfish.”

I didn’t get that with Sarah, he thinks. She didn’t die for a ‘noble cause’. He doubts Ellie did either. 

“You’re being put on watch,” Maria tells him the next morning – when he’s sober and asking what his duties are now that he’s back. 

Life goes on, which means work goes on, so what’s my job? As long as it’s not burning bodies, I’ll be okay. 

“Watch? Like I’m watching, or I’m being watched.”

“Being watched.”

He asks why, though he doesn’t need to. Tommy knows why he’s got that scar on his forehead. 

“Fucking authoritarian bullshit,” he mutters, half into his pillow. “Thought you were a communist.”

“I am. And this has nothing to do with that.”

“I bet Tommy put you up to it anyway.”

“He didn’t ‘put me up to anything’.”

“But he told you, didn’t he?”

“He told me a long time ago.”

“Figures. You always knew I was a coward.”

“You say stuff like that, and then act like you don’t need help.”

“I didn’t say I don’t need help. I said I don’t want it.”

She’s silent, letting him continue. “Now let me grieve in peace, will you?”

She hums something akin to agreement, but asks for something that sounds like protest to him. “Where’s your gun?”

“Which one?”

“All of ‘em.”

He tells her because he doesn’t want Tommy or anyone else searching through all his bullshit because that’s what happens if he doesn’t give ‘em up.

“Want my kitchen knives too?” he says, almost wryly. 

She takes most of them, but leaves the more blunt ones out of sympathy. He can have butter on his toast. Unless she takes the toaster so he can’t take it with him in the bathtub. 

She leaves the toaster, and then, leaves him alone. 

Quite frankly, he’s too old to kill himself. Sure, people do it at his age, but he’s so goddamn tired. Moreover, he knows he could get someone else to do it pretty easily. Maybe he could be a martyr. He could save someone from a clicker or a soldier. He could save someone’s life for once. But would that be enough to save his soul? To make it to Heaven and see Ellie and Sarah again?

Maybe, he would, if God really does love people the way some say he does. But if Joel was God, he’d deny himself entry.

He stays in bed for the rest of the day. Aside from the two times he eats. And once in the middle of the night to take a piss because he may be depressed, but the last of his dignity is motivation enough not to wet the bed. 

He doesn’t shower or change his clothes. Not like he’s wearing a shirt anyway, just boxers ‘cause it’s too hot outside and he doesn’t want to get up and turn on the fan. Sleep doesn’t come easy, but it comes. It comes because it has to, reluctant as it is.

He wakes up to the voice of an unfamiliar woman. Quieter than Ellie or Sarah, less stern than Maria or Tess. Not like he was expecting to hear from three out of four of those women, not outside of his dreams. 

You’ve always cared about people, saving lives and all that. But you’re no good with a gun, so Tommy finds a better job than patrol for you.  

“You’re going to be watching my brother, Joel.”

“Like, spying on him?”

“No, like making sure he doesn’t kill himself.”

A suicidal man is nothing new, especially in this world, but Tommy’s bluntness about it is. He acts as if it’s a normal job. Like the ones in office buildings that sound wonderful even though the people who tell you about them assure you it was barely better than life is now. This new watchmen position is the same as patrol, in a way. Terrifying in the gravity it holds. You have to keep someone alive.

You can shoot deer, you can run quickly, you can hide well. You can survive on your own. But, at age 10, your mom bled out as you sat by her side. You were too weak to carry her, to dig a grave and bury her. Your survival feels unearned, but you’re no good with guns. You’d miss if you tried to do it. That’s a rare thought anyway, and surely not one you plan to ever speak aloud. They’d put you on watch too, which sounds suffocating, in all honesty.

You don’t know Joel. You’ve heard his name in passing, but you arrived in Jackson during the period of time he was gone. He was going to take some girl to some hospital for something or other. 

“What about that girl?” you ask. “Is she not taking care of him?”

“She’s not around anymore.”

“Oh,” you say. 

He just nods. The ‘why’ of the whole arrangement makes sense, but you’re still unclear on the ‘how’. Am I just supposed to stay in his house 24/7? Is he allowed to shower on his own? Do I have to cook or do laundry?

“Just check in on him. He’s not the most… personable, but don’t take anything he says to heart.”

Just check in on him. It sounds simpler than it will be, you know that much. Even keeping a plant alive takes more than ‘checking in on it’. 

You arrive at his house around 10 AM. You assume he’ll be awake, but when you look around his living room and kitchen, you can’t find him. Oh God, you think. What if he’s… 

He’s asleep in bed. You’re pretty sure. He’s lying there and there’s no evidence that anything’s wrong, but when you say his name from the doorway, he doesn’t move. So, you walk closer to him, just to make sure he’s breathing. 

“Joel,” you say softly – because your other option is reaching out to touch him, and you feel that’s a little too personal, especially when he’s not wearing a shirt. 

“Who the Hell are you and how did you get into my house?” he says. 

“Tommy sent me.”

“Oh, so they’re making you watch me?”

“Yeah.”

You’re glad he knows about the arrangement. Maybe he’ll give you some direction on what to do with him. 

“Must hate you if they stuck you with me.” 

You can’t tell if he’s being ironic, but you hope so. Still, you don’t know how to respond. You decide on a simple, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

Though you’re alone in the room, you sit with perfect posture on Joel’s couch, looking around at the decor – or lack thereof – looking for clues about who this man is. 

You think about making him breakfast, but you’d have to raid his cabinets to do so, and you’re terrified to make any missteps when it comes to Joel. You don’t think he’ll kill himself over burnt toast, but there is a persistent need lodged inside your brain to make him like you. It’s a little selfish when you should be focused on just keeping him alive, but maybe if he likes you, he’ll feel better, maybe you’ll feel better too. That’s still nothing but the ever-lingering hope in your heart. But it’s something.

He comes downstairs eventually, in a t-shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. 

“Good morning,” you say. 

“No, it ain’t,” he says, heading in the direction of the kitchen. 

“Do you want me to help you with anything? Breakfast or coffee?”

“I can make my own damn coffee, kid.”

And he does. The first shred of kindness you get from him is an offer to pour you a cup. 

“I’m alright, but thank you.”

He sits down in a chair across from you and sips his coffee as you watch him awkwardly. 

“Are you really gonna do that all day?”

“Do what?”

“Sit there and stare at me.”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“You could leave, for starters.”

“I’ll get in trouble.”

“What? You afraid Tommy’ll get upset with you?”

“A little.”

“He’s a softie. I wouldn’t worry too much.”

You are worried. Sure, you want Tommy to be happy with you, but moreover, you don’t want to leave Joel alone lest something happen to him. You might not know the guy very well, but you’d hate to see someone take their own life. 

“Can I just stay here? I promise I’ll leave you alone.”

He shrugs, and you take it as a yes.

He does not need a caregiver or a watchman. He does not need you, but you look like a kicked puppy and there’s no way he’ll force you to leave. Another young girl he’ll reluctantly let stick by his side. It’s almost cruel of Tommy to send someone like you. Someone young and full of life. Someone he has a hard time pushing away. 

He should’ve sent Joel a crotchety old bitch or a drill sergeant. Maybe Tommy thinks he’s doing Joel a favor by giving him a nice girl, polite and eager to please. It’s a good thing your chipper attitude irritates him. It’s the first item on the very small list of qualities that Joel dislikes.

At first, he insists on making his own food. You’re still a guest, even if he’s reluctant to have you as one. It doesn’t matter where he lives, he’ll always have been raised in Texas. He’ll always hear his mother calling him out on his lack of manners. His hospitality is force of habit.

Plus, if he lets you do anything for him, he’ll owe you something – at least in his mind. And he doesn’t want to owe anyone anything. He doesn’t want to give or get or build any kind of rapport with you whatsoever, especially since you seem to take all attention as progress, despite the fact that Joel is harsh with you most of the time. 

The whole ordeal makes him feel like more of a failure than he did before. He couldn’t save Ellie, or Sarah for that matter, and now he’s being forced into his own retirement or held hostage depending on how you look at it, so he can’t even get the satisfaction that productivity brings.

He also finds himself pretty fucking bored without work. He became so used to being in constant battle, even in his sleep. One wrong move and he was dead. The worst injury he’s gotten in the past few weeks was a paper cut.

Reading was never his biggest hobby, but it’s not bad when you find the right book. Often, you’ll sit across the room from him and read a book of your own, and the silence as he relaxes into the couch is quite peaceful for a change. 

No amount of peace and quiet can cure his boredom, though. It makes him antsy, and you notice. You notice a lot when your job is just staring at him, it seems.

“I found a book of crossword puzzles,” you announce. 

“Congratulations,” Joel says. 

“I thought since you were bored, I’d give them to you, and maybe you could do them…”

By the look on your face, he can guess that you’re regretting your words. Lest he make you cry, he accepts the book. 

“Plus, it looks kind of old so I don’t know if I’d know how to do it myself,” you add.

He knows you don’t mean it as an insult, but it sounds like one, and it makes him laugh. The list of qualities Joel likes about you is already long — and buried deep in his subconscious — but he’ll have to add the fact that you can make him laugh.

“Are you calling me old?”

“Not in a bad way. You’re just older than I am.”

He flips through the book and finds that about 80% of them are done. 

“Somebody did most of these already.”

“I’m sorry… maybe I could erase that person’s answers and then you could do them?”

“I think I’d still be able to tell.”

You hang your head in defeat. 

“Gimme a pencil and I’ll try the ones that aren’t done yet.”

You look through his junk drawer, find a pencil, and hand it to him. He doesn’t expect you to sit on the couch next to him. 

“I know you’re supposed to watch me, but you don’t have to watch that closely.”

You move away slightly, no longer looking over his shoulder. 

“I was just curious about the answers.”

“I was kidding around,” he says (though, it’s only a half-truth). “Come back here.”

It takes him about a week to finish the book. 

“Had to go back and fix some of the others,” he says. “The person who originally filled ‘em out was an idiot.”

“That’s not very nice. Maybe it was a kid.”

“Kid had great handwriting, then.”

You pause, hesitating for a reason he can’t pinpoint. 

“What? You want me to say sorry for calling that guy an idiot. ‘Cause I will if it matters that much to you.”

“No, no, fuck that guy, he was an idiot,” you say, clearly taking after him. 

“Language, Missy,” he says, jokingly scolding you. 

“Sorry. I should stop swearing.”

“It’s okay. You probably picked it up from me anyway.”

“Maybe,” you agree. You’re fidgeting, holding something behind your back, he notices. 

“Whatcha got there?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, really,” you say, holding it out to him. “I just figured since you finished the crossword book, I should get you more.”

He only did the crosswords for you. He never really cared for them anyway. He just wanted to make you happy — he’d rather have you content than pissy or whiny. The only thing worse than your constant insistence on getting his approval would be if you just sat there and cried all day.

He’d tried to give the book back to you, but you couldn’t do ‘em on your own since you were lacking in 90s pop culture knowledge. So, he did them, with you watching over his shoulder the whole time. 

He’s about to admit this to you and hand the new one back over to you when he looks at the pages – white paper, stapled together, all drawn up in pen. 

“Did you make these?” he asks, in awe of both your ability to draw perfectly straight lines, and moreover, how much you must care if you’re willing to go to these lengths. Kiss-ass behavior, he tells himself.

You nod, and he gets the sudden urge to hug you, but opts for a thank you with a smile he can’t repress.

“You didn’t have to do all this, but it’s very sweet of you.”

He considers taking back the ‘very sweet’ comment when he finds that 3 down is four letters with the prompt “grumpy old man”. JOEL fits perfectly in the blank spaces. 

You go on walks, read endless books, and Joel finally lets you start taking on some of the housework. It should be nice, but you get the feeling he’s not all that happy about this situation. Not that he tells you it outright. He doesn’t tell you much at all. And you’ve tried. It’s not like you’re asking hard-hitting questions. 

“How old are you?” 

“56.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue.”

He doesn’t even bother to ask the same question back to you. Sometimes, he doesn’t even look up at you when you speak to him. You know it’s the depression of losing someone close to you, you know what that feels like – the problem is, you don’t know how to fix it. You only know how to hide it.

It’s quite simple, in theory. All you have to do is give him the desire to get out of bed every day. But you don’t even know what he likes. All you know is that your presence is not high on his list of favorite things. You try and try until you swear his shitty attitude is rubbing off on you. 

Tommy checks in with you periodically, asking you how things are going with Joel, and this would be the perfect opportunity for you to get out of this position, which Joel would probably love, but to spite him, you tell Tommy it’s going well.

And it is, in a way – Joel is not actively mean to you. He doesn’t insult you or argue with you, he just mostly ignores you. So, you figure if you ignore him, maybe he’ll miss your attention. Stupid teenage bullshit mindset, acting like you have a crush on him, playing some sort of push and pull game that he’s not even privy to. 

But that’s not like you. That brooding behavior is all Joel, so it lasts no more than a day or so until you go back to trying, and accept the fact that he’s just an asshole. Doesn’t mean you have to be one. 

You never expected to win him over with the crossword puzzles but you see the look in his eyes when you give him the homemade ones, and you know there’s something in there besides all that pain. You know that look, can’t put a name to it, all you know is that it’s a good sign, one you had yet to see from Joel.

Joel wouldn’t have thought he’d get tired of hearing someone ask, “can I do anything for you?”, constantly begging to dote on him, to care for him. The last time someone did this for him was on Father’s Day, which is an ancient holiday now, almost mythical.

But it’s been weeks of the same old shit. It has nothing to do with you. In fact, you’re probably the best ‘caregiver’ he could’ve gotten stuck with. Thing is, though, he doesn’t want a caregiver, and he’s tired of said caregiver bombarding him. It’s enough to just have her watching him like a hawk, but yapping in his ear is another thing. Because he enjoys the quiet (and because the way you ask him questions reminds him of Ellie.)

It’s a joke, a stupid joke. It’s his patience wearing thin.

“Can I get you anything?” you ask. 

“Sure. A beer, maybe. And a fuckin’ blowjob,” he mutters. Yeah, that’d be the dream but it’s a joke, bordering on a jab at you. 

“I don’t think we have any beer,” you say. You both know damn well there’s no alcohol in the house. 

“I know.”

“And, as for the other thing- is that something that you’d want… me to do?”

“Hey,” his tone softens. “Sweetheart, it was a joke. I was messing with you.”

“Okay, so you don’t want that, correct?”

“It was a joke. I’m sorry I even said it.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you say, sheepishly. “It’s your house, your rules, right?”

The concept of free speech in his house was one he’d brought up regarding ‘swear words’— It’s his house so he’s allowed to say ‘fuck’, ‘shit’, ‘bitch’, and every other word he could come up with, and he came up with some deep cuts just to make you laugh. Admittedly, it’s a nice sound.

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. “I just think that these sorts of topics aren’t appropriate for someone…”

“You know I’m an adult, right, Joel?”

“Yes, I know, but you’re still young and you seem a little innocent. I don’t want to put those types of thoughts in your head.”

“I know what a blowjob is, and I know what sex is. I just haven’t found the right person yet. That doesn’t mean I’ve never thought about it or whatever.”

You rarely snap at him, so he knows that word — innocent — must’ve been more offensive than he’d meant it. Maybe you’re not innocent. Maybe you’re just kind and a hell of a lot younger than him. Maybe it just seems like you should be.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“But do you want it?” You punctuate every word with a newfound annoyance.

“It’s not about that.”

“Yes it is.” You’re quite incredulous for someone who has been presented with the idea only a moment ago.

“Fine. Yes, in theory, if we were just two people who know each other, then, sure, if you offered, I’d say yes.”

“I offered.”

The way he calls you ‘sweetheart’ feels more like an insult than a term of endearment. You’d rather be ‘kid’ or nothing at all, anything less patronizing. It’s worse when he calls you innocent. You’re not innocent, you’re just nice — something that Joel is not. You’re painfully nice. You’ve heard it makes people like you. You’re still waiting on the results, though.

But, if he’d ordered you to suck him off, you’d have kneed him in the balls, and he would’ve thought twice about calling you ‘sweetheart’. The thing is, he doesn’t. Instead, he backs away from the opportunity, tells you it was a joke. 

But you see two things behind his eyes: one, he wants this. He might not want to want this, but he does. More importantly, you see his genuine concern for your well-being override this desire and you realize you feel safer around him than you do around most men. That’s one of the reasons that you do give him ‘a fuckin’ blowjob’. The other being that, sometimes, before you go to bed, you can’t sleep, and a certain man comes to mind as your fingers slip beneath the waistband of your panties. 

When you reiterate that you offered, you exchange a long stare wherein you try to reach into each other’s souls and sort this shit out but when you both realize you can’t, Joel says, “Okay.”

And you say, “Okay.”

A new kind of tension bubbles to the surface as Joel sits down on the couch and you kneel before him. 

You fiddle with his belt, eventually managing to get it undone, but Joel does the rest of the work it takes to get his pants down to his ankles, boxers too. 

You’d imagined he’d be big, but that’s how fantasies work. Every man’s dick is big in your lewd daydreams, but it’s like you manifested it with Joel. You begin to feel like you’re in over your head, and though you aren’t innocent, you aren’t experienced enough to take him. But who are you to back down from a challenge?

Joel can see hesitation wash over your face for the first time. You pause, study the scene like you’re trying to decide your approach, and then you take his cock in your hand, looking up at him like you’re asking for the green light.

He gives you the go-ahead with the only piece of advice he thinks you’ll need. “Just don’t bite, and you’ll do fine.”

He probably should’ve mentioned another thing: don’t take too much at once or you’ll choke. His head lolls back and his eyes fall closed the moment your lips meet the tip of it. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t want you to feel intimidated by his presence while you’re exploring, so to speak. He lets out a low groan of approval to let you know he’s still with you.

But he’s fading into a beautiful oblivion until he hears you gag, feels you sputter and it shocks him out of that blissful feeling. His eyes snap open and he cradles the back of your head. 

“Easy, easy,” he says. “Don’t hurt yourself.” 

You pull away briefly and catch your breath. 

“That’s good,” he says. “Breathe, baby.”

He can see you looking for instructions, so he takes your hand and helps you get a firm grip on his cock, sliding your hand up and down, and finally letting you do it on your own. 

“Doin’ good, baby,” he says. “You gotta give your mouth a break sometimes.”

You’ve never gotten anything close to praise from Joel before. It’d warm your heart like nothing else if it weren’t so goddamn sexy in this context. 

You nod, wipe the spit from your chin, and give your mouth a brief break, but you can’t hold yourself back forever. Soon, your lips are back on his cock, kissing from the base to the tip, flicking your tongue over the head, seeing what reactions you can get from him. 

When you get into the rhythm of hand and mouth in tandem, you barely register him telling you that he’s gonna come. 

You imagine it’s an acquired taste but it’s not awful. You can swallow it. So, you do, and you look up at him with a smile. 

He looks like he’s woken up from a dream and he’s still getting his bearings straight, but he’s quick to stand up and take your hand. 

“Where are we going?”

“To my bed.”

You’d follow him anywhere but bed does sound good to you right now. It sounds like an adventure. You don’t go into his bedroom unless absolutely necessary. You’d think he was hiding something horrible in there if you didn’t have a mutual feeling regarding your own bedroom.

“Are we going to have sex?” you ask. 

“No,” he says. 

“Then, what are we going to do?”

“You,” he begins. “Are going to lie back and relax.”

He coaxes you to lie down, and he doesn’t have to try hard. 

“I,” he continues. “Am going to make you feel good.”

You’re fairly certain about what he means, so there’s nothing left for you to do but let him do the work. It’s just another part of the job you’ll have to learn from experience.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says. 

You nod. 

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Let’s get you out of these clothes,” he says, playing with the hem of your t-shirt. 

“Wait-” you say, sitting up, and he withdraws. “Can we kiss… first?”

He looks surprised for a moment, and you worry you’ve fucked up. 

“I just feel like we should do that,” you say, much quieter.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”

His hand cups your cheek and he looks you in the eyes like he’s trying to find answers somewhere in there. 

“Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“Not really, not the way I want you to kiss me.”

“Feels a bit rude of me to have put my dick in your mouth before you’d even been kissed.”

Still, he leans in and kisses you, but it’s soft, gentle. It’s not a peck on the lips, though, it’s more. It gradually gains momentum and passion. Eventually, he slips his tongue in your mouth and you take it in stride. 

“You’re very good at this,” he says. “If I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t think this was your first time.”

“Is that a compliment?” you ask, doubting Joel is capable of such things.

He ignores your question, and sighs. You know it’s not directed at you because you’re fairly sure he’s not listening.

“I know I said I was gonna do some things with you, but I don’t wanna take things too fast, okay?”

“Are you saying you’re just going to kiss me?”

“I think that’d be the right thing to do.”

“That’s not fair,” you whine.

You wish you could sound sexy, or whatever, but you probably come off like a bratty child.  

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not fair. You said you’d make me feel good. I thought you were gonna return the favor.”

“I was.”

“Then, why are you backing out?”

You’re shocked that he’s the pussy — pun-intended — in this scenario.

“I thought it might be too much for you.”

You grab his hand and slip it under the flimsy fabric of your shorts. 

His eyes go wide. 

Fucking hell, you’re wet, is the only thought on Joel’s mind. It makes sense. He’d be offended, maybe even worried if you were dry as a desert down there, but he’s barely touched you. Either you really enjoyed kissing him or you actually liked sucking him off too.

He gently presses the pads of his fingers against the wet spot on your panties.

“You’re right, baby. It’s only fair if I help you out.”

He’s able to get your shorts and your panties down in one swift pull. You look impressed by the action. Just you wait, he thinks. He’s not an expert by any means, but it’s not too hard to learn if you pay attention — and sex is one of the only times Joel does listen — it’s also not a skill you lose over time. It’s muscle memory, or maybe it’s innate.

His thumb rubs your clit lazily as he watches your face scrunch up in pleasure, your eyes fill with need. When the first finger slips inside you, he hears a breathy sigh come from above — it sounds like relief though he knows you haven’t come yet.

He’s never had a woman have such a strong reaction to his lips on her clit. It almost startles him at first. You’re frantic from the moment his lips meet your skin, crying out for him like you’re scared he’ll stop.

“Hey,” he says, “I’m right here. Don’t have to get so worked up. I’m gonna take care of you.”

He can’t say another word because his lips are occupied, so he relies on his hands, his soothing touch, to tell you that everything is alright. He gets the urge to tell you how good you are for him, how good you taste, how pretty you are like this, but he knows it’d be cruel to let up now. He’s callous often, sometimes harsh, but rarely cruel.

His instinct tells him to drag this out, to make your thighs shake, to have tears running down your cheeks, to tease you. To be the asshole that he tends to be when you’re around (and when you’re not). This is a version of Joel you might come to like.

He’s lived long enough to be well-practiced in this field of life. Doesn’t matter if he’s particularly romantic or even sociable, it’s just happened enough times over the course of fifty plus years for him to know the ins and outs. He can get you there quickly and lead you through it slowly.

He’s so used to you saying his name in a tone he considers pestering that he’s begun to hate the word itself. But when it’s drawn out and desperate like this, it sounds wonderful.

You’re at his mercy, he thinks. Which means he’s in control. And, as much as he’d hate to admit it, control does not mean he can kill you, control means he can care for you.

When you come down from your high, Joel is looking up at you from between your thighs with messy hair and kiss-dark lips. His smile looks like one of pride. Your cheeks heat up, only half-remembering what just happened. You could describe the event simply in a cause and effect relationship — he went down on you, so you came. You know what an orgasm feels like, but that was something beyond anything you’d ever experienced before. You fear an addiction may be coming on.

Your voice comes out shaky, which only makes your first words after a long silence sound stupider. “Thank you.”

He looks confused, and it takes him a moment to respond. “My pleasure,” he says, and you swear it might be when you see a semi through his sweatpants.

You’d offer more ‘help’ but you truly don’t think you can manage it. You can feel your body pulling you towards sleep. Your eyes have barely opened and they want to close again.

Joel notices because how could he not, you’re completely naked in every sense of the word.

“Get some rest,” he says before standing up.

He’s leaving.

“Where are you going?” you ask, instinctively.

“Downstairs.”

You do not want to say it. The fear of rejection is too strong, but so is the sudden urge to cry. Holding back tears is a strength of yours, though, so Joel never sees them. Somehow, after doing one of the most adult things, you feel like a baby in the wake of it. You are supposed to be taking care of him, and you are failing.

“What?” is his response to your refusal to meet his eyes.

“I just assumed you were going to stay. That’s all.”

“I can. If that’s what you need me to do.”

You don’t say anything. He climbs into bed anyway after picking up your underwear and handing it to you.

He doesn’t hold you but he doesn’t leave either. What he does do is kiss you on the forehead when he thinks you’re already asleep. It’s a compromise between your fear and your desire.

It isn’t as weird as one might think it would be — acting as if you’ve never done anything remotely sexual with one another. It’s easier because you don’t have to go back to being friends. You never really were. It was always awkward. What’s new? Only your knowledge that at least some of your feelings are mutual. Only the fact that you think about having sex with him every time he’s in front of you. It’s really just out of curiosity sometimes. What would he be like in bed? Does he want it too? How would you even broach the subject?

Sometimes, it’s not just curiosity. Those days are harder to navigate. You have to pretend like every little touch — most of them accidental — fuels the fire. It’s not the sensation itself. It’s just the acute awareness of his body, how close it is to yours, how easily you could reach out and touch him, that enters your mind.

“You’re staring.” Joel says from the other side of the couch.

“Sorry. I zoned out.”

“Got something’ on your mind?”

“Not really.”

“C’mon, what is it?”

“Why do you suddenly care about my thoughts?” About me.

“You think I didn’t care about you before? You’ve been in my house everyday for months now.”

“So?”

“And, I haven’t tried to kick you out yet.”

“You’re not allowed to kick me out. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Okay. How ‘bout this: I’m down here sitting with you because I know you don’t like to be alone.”

“So you pity me?”

“No, if I pitied you, I’d have told Tommy to give you a new job.”

“Okay, so, you expect me to believe you care but you refuse to talk to me half the time.”

“I’m not much of a talker. But, now that I’m trying to talk to you, you’re shutting me out.”

“I’m not— It’s just not a big deal. I don’t even remember what I was thinking about anyway.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“I said, that’s bullshit.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll talk.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, one long enough that he gestures for you to go on.

“I was just thinking about what it would be like if we had sex.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, since we, you know, we did that stuff… it’s not like it’s a totally crazy thought.”

“‘That stuff’? Be more specific, honey.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“I do, but you can’t be thinking about having sex with me when you can’t even use big girl words when you’re talking about it.”

“It doesn’t even matter.” Your face is burning. It so, totally, does matter. “I was just curious.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Mm-hmm. Go on thinking, I’ll get back to reading.”

“Wait, what? You just made me tell you that to make me embarrassed? You’re not even gonna—”

“What? Gonna fuck you?”

The word slips out of his mouth so easily.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Well, I’m not.”

Truth is: he’s been thinking about you every day since. He only caught you staring because he was doing the same. He tries to restrain himself because it feels like the right thing to do.

But he still, he acquiesces and takes you upstairs to his bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed and undresses you slowly like you’re a gift and he doesn’t want to tear the paper. He places your clothes atop the dresser, but leaves his strewn across the floor.

Wonder fills your eyes as he reveals his naked body. Hesitation and awe wrapped up in one.

“Wow,” you say, breaking the silence, “it’s, um, you know— do you think it’ll fit?”

It’s not the first time he’s heard that. It no longer brings him that bashful pride that it did when he was younger. It’s just a fact. A nuisance sometimes.

“Not if we don’t get you ready first.”

“Do you need to get ready first too?”

He looks down at his cock, rock-hard and eager.

“No, baby, just looking at you is enough to get me ready.”

A thought crosses his mind — one he thought he’d left in his teenage years — what if he comes too quickly?

He lies back on the bed next to you and reaches for you, waits for you to let him maneuver you.

“Come here,” he says.

You sit up and face him, slowly inch towards his arms that beckon you.

You’re fairly sure you know what he wants you to do. Sit on his face. But god, something about it seems awkward in the amount of control you simultaneously give up and are given in turn.

“You trust me, right?” he asks.

“Of course.”

An answer you wouldn’t have ever thought you’d give back when you first met.

“Then, come sit on my face.”

You swing your leg over him and steady yourself above his face.

He grips your thighs to guide you. You grip the headboard to save yourself from passing out the moment Joel’s mouth meets your skin.

Joel wouldn’t be the man you’d have thought would have such a talented tongue based on how little he uses it. You can’t blame him for not talking right now. Your moans echo off his bedroom walls and permeate the balmy summer air. The windows are closed and the curtains shield your naked bodies from the neighbors but even if you’d left them open, you wouldn’t have the sense to care.

You’re an incoherent mess of moans and half-words, trembling thighs and sweat. Your orgasm comes on strong, and if your eyes weren’t screwed shut, maybe you’d see the gates of heaven.

It’s been a while since he’s done this. Tess never liked it like this and the last woman before her was one from another lifetime, pre-outbreak, an inconceivable world despite having once called it home.

He’s not really thinking about that, though, in this moment, all Joel can think of is you. Your skin, your sweat, your heat, and the pretty noises you make. At one point, he swears he hears his name though your thighs are covering his ears. And he doesn’t mind it one bit.

“I’m gonna pass out,” he hears from above him.

“No, you’re not. I’ve got you,” he tries to say, though surely his words are muffled.

“Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t. He carefully helps you lie back on the bed. When he meets your gaze, he swears he’s never seen adoration like that in anyone’s eyes before. At least, not in a long time.

It terrifies him, but in spite of his hesitation, he holds you close.

A blanket of peaceful silence settles over your bare bodies.

You speak quietly, trying not to awaken Joel’s senses. The ones that pull him away from you. The moment feels like glass in your hands.

“Are we going to have sex?”

“Hm?”

“We were going to, right? You were getting me ready for it.”

“I thought I wore you out.”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I want to stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’d tell you if you were.”

He hesitates.

“I’ll be good. I promise.”

Those are the words that awaken his arousal. In an instant, you find his body looming above yours. He kisses you until your lips are red and puffy. He doesn’t break your gaze as he positions his cock at your entrance. Your green light is your needy hips begging him to fuck you.

He starts slow, even the head is a stretch. You scrunch up your face and hold back the urge to squirm.

“It’s gonna be a little uncomfortable at first, baby, and that’s why we’re gonna take it slow.”

Slow is an understatement. It takes ages for him to give you another inch — or maybe you’re just antsy. This one makes you whimper, makes you clamp down around him.

“It’s okay, baby. You’re gonna be fine.”

Joel’s voice is tender and sweet, and it gives you enough hope to ask for something you think he’d usually deny you.

“Can you hold my hand?”

He interlocks his fingers with yours. It feels oddly natural. He doubts he’s heard someone ask to hold his hand since— not now, he’ll go soft if he thinks about her. He’ll close in on himself and you need him — in more ways than one.

He continues slowly as he promised he would until he hears your moans of pleasure and your pleas for more, more, more. More is a little bit faster, a little bit harder, as deep as you can take it, and most importantly, his thumb tracing circles on your clit.

You squeeze his hand with yours as your inner walls clamp down around him.

“Just let it happen. It’s okay. I’m right here.”

When you come, he does too — the most blissful mistake he’s ever made.

Curses fly out of his mouth through his orgasm, stopping briefly as he catches his breath, and resuming when he pulls out and watches as his come drips out of you.

“Fuck. Shit. Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you insist. “I liked it.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” Because I fucking loved it. “But, it’s dangerous. We’ve gotta be more careful.”

In the future — it’s implied. Another time is nothing when the lines have all been crossed and when the other side brings him a warmth the hot summer never could.

You have more power over him than the sun.

It becomes a routine — briefly — and you are more careful. You discreetly buy condoms, but when your next period doesn’t come, you fear it might be too late.

You don’t tell Joel, not at first. Sometimes, they’re irregular, and you don’t want to give the man a heart attack. But then a week passes, another week passes, and eventually you have to — especially when you’re beginning to feel a bit nauseous and have no other explanation for it. It’s better to say something before he asks.

“Joel,” you say, “I haven’t gotten my period yet.”

A look of horror crosses his face before he asks, “How late is it?”

You take a breath before admitting, “A few weeks.”

“How many?”

“Almost three.”

“Fuck.” He sighs in preemptive defeat. “Have you taken a test?”

“No, I thought it would come so I didn’t want to overreact.”

“We’re going to go get one.”

He stands up immediately and turns towards the door.

“Wait,” you say, stopping him in his tracks.

“I should probably get it. It’ll look less suspicious.”

No, it won’t. Those who suspect something is up with you, will have their suspicions, and those who don’t, won’t think to pay attention.

They recommend taking multiple because false negatives are common.

The first one is a clear positive, so clear you think it might be a false positive, so you wait to freak out until you see two lines come up on the second test.

Joel is silent, even when you hand him the test.

But, so are you, because what more is there to say? The tests say it all.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to,” he says, and you’re surprised until he clarifies.

“I doubt they’ll make you pay for the pill or the procedure — however they do it, but I’ll take care of you while you’re recovering. I’ll be there through it all. Promise.”

The pill or the procedure. The abortion that he expects you to have. Truth be told, you hadn’t really thought about what you’d do until now. It’s probably the right decision. Do you really want to bring a baby into this world? Can you even take care of one?

“Okay,” you say. “I’ll make an appointment.”

You save your tears for Maria. She approaches you in the clinic. You’d be delighted to see her at any other moment.

“Making an appointment?” she asks.

“Yeah, just a checkup,” you lie.

The woman at the counter clarifies with you. “Just a checkup? Is that what you’d prefer?”

You turn back and forth between her and Maria.

“Um, no,” you say, “keep it as is.”

Maria raises an eyebrow and there is nowhere left to hide. You might be able to outrun her, but she knows where you live and isn’t afraid to confront you at your doorstep.

She saves you some of your dignity when she whispers, “How about a chat at my place? I have some tea that helps with nausea.”

The tea is persuasive but you’d have to go anyway. You don’t speak on the walk to Maria’s. She brews the tea and you sit across from each other in the kitchen before she finally speaks.

“What’s the appointment for?” she asks. “And I’m not here to judge you, I just want the truth.”

You’re not my mom, you could say, but she’s the closest thing you’ve had to one since your own passed.

“An abortion,” you say quietly, looking down at the table, at your hands around the mug.

“Okay,” she says, gently. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”

You try to reply but all the comes out is a sob.

Eventually, she pries the truth out of you. You explain what happened when you told Joel the news.

“So, he made the decision, and then told you he’d be there for you if he did what you wanted?”

“I guess. But, I think it might be the right choice. I mean, it'd be hard to raise a child in this world…” You cut yourself off when you look at her bump. She’s gonna be a mom, a good mom. And, stupidly, you’re jealous.

Even though it’s not there yet, you swear you can see a high chair in your periphery. You could be holding a warm bottle instead of a hot mug of tea. Maria could be feeding her child his first bite of baby food next to you.

“Let me ask you something, and I want you to really think about it, and be honest with me.”

You nod and wait for her question.

“If Joel had said he’d support you no matter what, even if you wanted to keep the child, if he said he’d step up as a father, would you have made the appointment?”

“I don’t know.” Oh, but you do. Maria waits for you to come to a conclusion, for you to spit it out.

“I like the idea of having a kid. I love kids, and I sometimes think about what it would be like being a mom, but I know that I can’t be one. Not right now.”

If there is one thing Joel can’t be, it’s a father. Not again. He’s too old, too grouchy, too cynical. He’s not the man he used to be. He was never good at it anyway. He couldn’t save his own kid. He’s already a failed father — once, if not, twice.

You’d be a great mother, and that’s the greatest tragedy. He’s failed you already. He’s not good at the kinder things of life. He shouldn’t have indulged in you, in the love you gave him when he cannot give it back. There are a lot of things Joel can’t quite get right — being a lover, a father, a good man.

Every night since the outbreak began, he’s watched Sarah bleed out in his arms. Sometimes he sees Tess, Sam and Henry, Bill, even Tommy which feels like an augury. Ellie is there almost every night, losing consciousness. Only sometimes is she in that hospital bed, often, she’s lying in the show, with blue lips and almost no pulse. Now, you’ve begun to enter his subconscious. You’re always too far out of reach, screaming his name until he’s shot dead, and the last thing he hears is you shriek as you watch him die in front of you.

Another person is another tragedy once they have the misfortune of coming into his life. There cannot be another person, especially not a child.

You should be back by now, he thinks as he splashes water on his face for the umpteenth time, hoping it’ll wash away all the mistakes he’s made.

He can tell it’s Maria by the way her knuckles rap on his front door. He can tell she’s pissed too.

When he opens the door, he sees you in standing behind her, like you’re afraid of him.

“Unless you want to have this discussion on your doorstep, I suggest you let me — us — inside.”

He does, reluctantly.

“Joel Miller, when do you plan on becoming a man?”

“What?”

“You just told her to make an appointment, didn’t even give her a chance to think about it? You managed to run away from your problems while you’re on house arrest. Impressive.”

“I thought that was what we both wanted,” he says, looking past her, to you.

“I guess, maybe,” you shrug.

The one thing he’s grateful for is Maria’s suggestion that you talk privately.

You sit further from him than usual, you refuse to meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I thought I was making the right choice.”

“It’s okay. I don’t even know what I want.”

But the tears suggest otherwise.

“Do you want to keep the baby?”

“Maybe, but I can’t. It’s not a good idea.”

“That’s what I think, but Maria’s right, it’s your choice.”

“But I don’t know how to make that choice.”

“You’ve got a good heart. Follow it.”

You spend a lot of time thinking, remembering, and trying to convince yourself that there is no part of you that wants to be a mother. But, in your bedside drawer, there is a handful of photos — all from before the outbreak. You see your mom as a child on a swing set, and as a teen blowing out candles on her birthday. Her mom is in that one too, sitting next to her, smiling. You wish more than anything to have pictures of you and your mom.

You think about the little girl who pretended a ratty old stuffed bear was her baby. You can hear your mom telling you that you’re doing a good job, how you’ll be good at this one day. Your bedtime stories were never about fairy princesses, but about your family, the ones you didn’t get to meet.

“I wish I could have that,” you’d say.

“One day, you might be able to — the world is scary right now, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be like this forever,” she’d insist.

In retrospect, you wonder if she really believed that, if she really believed that teddy bear would one day be a baby that you’d be the one carrying, and she’d be the proud grandmother.

“I told her I wanted to be a mom like her,” you explain to Joel, and he understands.

You know about Ellie, but not about Sarah. Joel never brings either of them up to you. Until now. It’s a fair trade, he tells himself. Photos for photos, info for info. But it’s more than that.

“Hold on for one minute, I’m gonna go get something, and I’ll be right back.”

It’ll only take him a second to grab the pictures, but he’ll need a moment to compose himself.

“This is Sarah,” he says, pointing to the little girl in the photo. “My daughter.”

You’re silent for a moment, gazing at the photo, at a younger Joel you’ve never met.

You’re the first person not to tell him that you’re sorry for his loss, and he is relieved not to hear the empty sympathies once more.

“What was she like?” you ask.

It’s hard to explain, and for that reason, he talks for at least a half hour about Sarah. All her likes and dislikes, all his favorite moments from the day she was born until the day she died. He tells the story of that too.

When you try to tell him that he sounds like he was a good dad, he has to explain why he wasn’t.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says.

“I couldn’t save her either,” you say, pointing to your mother in one of the photos.

“You were just a child,” he says. “It’s not your fault.”

“And, you were just a man,” you say. “It’s not your fault.”

“A grown man.”

“Doing the best that you could.”

And you’re right. He did try his best. He stops arguing not because he’ll ever concede but because the weight of the present falls upon him all at once as he meets your eyes and remembers why you’re here.

He can’t have Sarah back, he can’t have Ellie back, but you’re right in front of him — and he loves you. It’s too late to turn back and kick you out on your first day, it’s too late to never speak to you, it’s too late to not love you.

It’s not too late to fail you like he’s failed everyone else. It’s not too late to do the opposite either.

You tell him your decision, and wait for his disagreement, for him to dissuade you. But, he doesn’t.

“Okay,” he says.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try my best.”

You cancel the appointment and make the final decision, but it doesn’t feel real until Joel finishes building the crib in the spare bedroom. The most unexpected part is how excited you feel even when you’re nauseous, even when your feet are bloated, even when your back is killing you.

You’re also terrified, particularly when you hear Maria’s account of her labor and delivery. For someone describing how painful it was, she seems oddly unfazed, happy even. She’s too focused on her baby boy, and you get it — he is pretty cute.

When the day comes, you find that you’ve underestimated the pain entirely. The wounds you’ve gotten in combat are nothing compared to this. Every hour that goes by feels like a full day for you. Every time the doctor checks your dilation it’s still not yet time.

Until it is. And everything becomes a million times more chaotic. You swear the only thing keeping you sane is Joel’s hand in yours. (You have to apologize later for squeezing it so tightly.)

Finally, the telltale cry comes, and it feels like you’ve run a marathon by how exhausted you are and by how proud you are of yourself for doing it. This will go down as the greatest feat of your life and you are more than satisfied with that fact.

The doctor announces that it’s a boy and though he said he’d be fine with either gender, Joel’s smile is wider than you’ve ever seen it. You’re smiling almost as big. It hurts your cheek muscles but you can’t stop, especially when they hand you your baby boy. Though he doesn’t know how to speak, his hand wrapped around your finger tells you that it’s going to be okay.

There is so much pain in this world, but not in this room.

[bitchface24-7]

The old man cravings are at it again- (Not like they ever left) I just can't get enough about Silco. ESPECIALLY WITH YOUR LAST POST OMFGG AMAZING!

You already know how I feel about that man and like omg im already foaming at the mouth thinking about him but like- Silco x Chubby/Bigger girl.. Im on my knees and I (NOT TO VENT) could use a little something to believe my favs would love me and my body :3

Thank you and I hope you are doing well! Glad to see you writing and posting again. You always cook!

THE QUEEN OF ZAUN - SILCO X READER

synopsis: you’ve known Silco for quite some time now. You were a Sister of Zaun, you were there when everything went wrong, you were the one to patch Silco up, and you were by his side when he took over the Lanes. Who better to be the one on his arm? His confidant, his companion, his partner… His Queen.

warnings: non-descriptive violence, mentions of the bridge bombing and betrayal, fluff, suggestiveness, pre-established relationship, grinding, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, creampie, squirting, getting caught, Grammarly as my beta

genre: m/f

p.s. Why'd they make this old man hot??? Everyone enjoys his character now but I was in the trenches back when we only had S1 and EVERYONE HATED HIM 😭😭 LIKE WHERE WERE YALL BEFORE???? Anyways hope y'all enjoy it!

You've been by Silco’s side for as long as you can remember. He's a few years older than you, and you thought he was the coolest guy ever. Especially when he kind of took you under his wing as a Freedom Fighter for Zaun. You all called each other brothers and sisters, it was a found family that you'd kill for. That you'd die for.

Then the bridge explosion happened.

Countless of brothers and sisters dead. Either by the bomb, or by the relentless enforcers. There was so much smoke, so much blood.

It still haunts your nightmares.

What came after was even worse.

You remember being distraught over how you found Silco. His wavy dark hair drenched in toxic water, clinging to his sculpted face. Bruises around his neck and arms, a nasty laceration on his face— blinding one of his teal eyes.

The wound was raw, red, and looked painful. It oozed pus— infected due to the dirty water he was submerged in.

Silco was quiet. His confident, chatty, sarcastic nature no where to be found. His one clear eye was dark, an anger you've never seen before surfacing on his pretty face.

You asked what happened. What did this? Who did this? He only said one word that explained everything. That one word also broke your heart.

“Vander.”

With that, you cared for Silco to the best of your abilities. He's treasured that care, and he will continue to treasure that care till the day he dies.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

That was a little over a decade ago, the two of you in your early twenties. Now you've grown. Physically, mentally, emotionally. The two of you aren't the same people you were back then.

Silco is much colder. He's manipulative, he uses his charms to get what he wants by any means necessary. He's got the Lanes wrapped around his pinky finger.

But you've got him wrapped around yours.

You're not as naive anymore. Not as kind or generous. These past few years have hardened you, and have shown you that loyalty and respect are earned; not given.

Gone are the two young dreamers who wore stitched-together clothing, wild hair and even wilder eyes.

Silco dawns form-fitting suits, jackets, and polished shoes. Expensive accessories and even more expensive cigars.

You have been gifted a multitude of fancy gifts. Each one more expensive than the last.

Now, you match Silco to a T. A black slinky dress dawns your curvaceous figure, sharp black stiletto heels, dark red nails with a matching dark red lip, a massive rock on your ring finger, and a two-toned fur coat.

Only the best for his wife.

You're one of his soft spots, Jinx, your adopted daughter being the second.

Many have tried to get in Silco’s good books. Very very few succeed.

Men with too much lip and not enough action.

Women who try to warm his bed, stating they're better than you. They're thinner, more “beautiful”, they're the ones who should be seen on his arm.

Silco can’t help but roll his eye at that. He’ll scoff and look down his nose at them with a dark, “She’s a goddess among men. You're a cheap, fake rendition trying desperately to cling to a station not meant for you. Now leave, before you make it so that today is your last day.”

They always leave the office in tears. Bottom lip wobbling as mascara streaks down their cheeks. You can't help but smirk as they shoot you nasty glares. Your perfectly painted lips are full of smug venom, your wedding ring sparkling as you sarcastically wiggle your fingers goodbye.

The woman always huff, crying a bit harder as they leave.

Pathetic.

You casually sashay into the office and see your love sitting at his desk, one hand rubbing his temple as the other swirls his bourbon.

“Hello darling.”

At your voice, Silco’s head jolts up. A rare smile graces his handsome face. You close the door behind you and lock it.

No need for anymore interruptions.

“Sweetheart, it's nice to finally see you. You've been hiding away all day.”

You sigh jokingly, sitting atop Silco’s desk. Your fur coat slides down your arms and rests in the crook of your elbow, showing off your upper body. Your neck, shoulders, chest, cleavage and upper back are devoured by Silco’s hungry gaze.

“I didn't want to intrude. It seems like you had some... Company while I was away.”

Silco scoffs, messing up his usually perfect hair and takes a big swig of his bourbon, “Unwanted company sweetness. They keep trying, those idiots.”

You laugh, fully dropping your coat onto his desk and sitting in his lap. Silco's hands rest against your full hips as you settle down comfortably.

Your tone is saccharine and purr-like as you play with Silco’s hair and trace his sharp features, “Well… you are the most powerful man in Zaun, and the most attractive. I can understand why they want you so desperately.”

Silco’s smirk makes you shiver lightly, “And how would you know that?”

“Because I was just as desperate a decade ago.”

Silco chuckles, a deep grumbly sound emitting from his chest, it makes your panties damp, “I remember. You following me like a lost little duckling. All doe-eyed and bitten-lipped.”

You pull Silco close by the nape of the neck, and kiss his scarred cheek slowly, leaving behind a perfect red imprint, “Well it worked out in my favour didn't it? I remember finally getting you where I desperately desired. How I rubbed it in to the other Sisters of Zaun.” your tone full of smug satisfaction.

“Yes, we fucked desperately inside a random storage closet, like most young adults do.”

Your laugh is loud, and full of joy. It causes a smile to overtake Silco's face.

“There's one thing I miss from all those years ago.”

“And what's that, sweetheart?”

“Your longer hair… and eyeliner. I miss pulling on it when you ate me out and fucked me. Seeing the eyeliner roll down those high cheekbones was just a bonus.”

Silco lunges forward and kisses you, you swear your lips will be all puffy due to the force used. The kiss becomes messy, as the two of you grind against one another, eventually you pull back and see red all over Silco's face.

His cheeks are flushed red, his face has perfect lip marks, his lips are the same red yours are, and his hair's a mess.

God he looks so good.

“I’ll grow it out again, just for you.”

You devilishly smirk as you kiss him once more, your panties sticking desperately to your messy cunt as you frot against the large bulge inside his pants.

Without breaking the kiss, you unbutton and pull down Silco's pants, and he pushes your dress up and pulls your panties to the side, slipping his hard cock in with no problems. Your drenched pussy welcoming him in gladly.

There's no adjustment period, you start bouncing desperately and Silco fucks up into you simultaneously. It's amazing. His cock hits every sweet spot you have.

It’s a bruising pace, his cockhead keeps squishing not only your g-spot but your cervix as well. It makes your eyes roll to the back of your head as you gasp out in pure bliss.

The coiling in your lower belly is wounding up each second you bounce on your lover's cock. Fuck, he's moulded your pussy to his cock. No other will ever satisfy you the way his does.

It’s over for you when he rubs your engorged clit in a smooth circle, your juices making every movement easier. You cum, moaning loudly. Your pussy clenches desperately onto the big, thick cock inside you, and a small amount of juice spills out. Soaking Silcos’s lap and staining his pants.

He continues to fuck up into you, even though you're slouched into his neck and whining at the overstimulation. He's using you like his very own pocket pussy.

And you are.

One, two, three thrusts later he's balls deep inside you, cockhead kissing your cervix as he cums viciously inside you. You can feel each pump of his cock as your belly warms up. God, you aren't sure you can get off his lap without a nice stream of cum oozing out of you.

The two of you pant, satiated. You indulge in your after-glow until it's interrupted by a noise in the rafters above you two. A few minutes later you hear, “I’m assuming I’m getting a sibling in the upcoming months?”

You and Silco look to one another before shouting in tandem,

“JINX!”

Whoops. At least she didn't see you two going at it. Small blessings, huh?

😏😏😏

Hope y'all enjoyed this. Idk what came over me, I wasn't originally going to write smut yet… here we are!

[multifandomgirl08]

A Year to Celebrate [Mini Verstappen Series]

Dad!Max Verstappen x Mother!Reader (Established Relationship)

Photo Credit: Pinterest

Format: Social Media

A/N: This is the last Social Media AU I have planned for now when it comes to Mini Verstappen. More may eventually get posted.

Previous Part → Next Part Mini Verstappen Masterlist

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, victoriaverstappen, and 294,186 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Birthday, my love. Another year older, and you grow more beautiful by the day.

View all 835 comments

fan17 Why do I feel like Nico had a hand in designing Y/N's cake?

fan42 Max, please stop simping on main... we get it!

fan87 Does she age at all? Seriously, I don't think she's aged a day since we've been getting pictures of her.

maxverstappen1

Liked by ynverstappen, danielricciardo and 756,457 others

tagged: ynverstappen

maxverstappen1 Happy Anniversary, mijn leeuwin. Married for three years and together for 7. We have shared and been through so much in that time. You becoming a mom to our boys, always being able to support each other in whatever we accomplish, and loving me through everything that comes our way.

ynverstappen Love you, mijn leeuw ☺️❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

fan42 New fan here. They've only been together how long??

fan78 Wow, time really does fly by. I still remember when Max first started posting pictures of Y/N to his instagram stories.

fan17 Look at Y/N practicing her dutch!

Feb 2, 2028

ynverstappen

Liked by danielricciardo, victoriaverstappen, and 578,231 others

ynverstappen Going through this beautiful journey one last time

kimi.antonelli When you are no long Mum's youngest child... 😭

View all 452 comments

fan52 Her nails are pink. Does that mean that they're having a girl?

fan28 I would die if they are finally having a girl.

fan37 Is that Max ducking out of the first picture?

fan93 Dude, we know it’s you who got her pregnant. There’s no need to hide.

fan75 Are we just going to pretend not to see what Kimi posted as a comment? When did Max and Y/N adopt him?

July 3, 2028

maxverstappen1

Liked by sophiekumpen, charles_leclerc, sebastianvettel, and 625,095 others

maxverstappen1 I've grown up with so many amazing women in my life. From my mom, my sister, to my wife, and now my daughter. My life wouldn't be the same without these women in it.

danielricciardo Whoever owes me money, pay up! I told you all!!!

pierregasly No! You were supposed to have another boy. alex_albon Pretty sure that's not how conception works. You can't just choose whether you have a boy or a girl. landonorris Can I mail you your winnings?? Or do you take Cash App?

View all 1,382 comments

fan38 Max is FINALLY A GIRL DAD!!!!

fan57 Confirmation that all of Max's kids have Nic/k names?

fan92 As much as I’m here for Max finally being a girl dad… Y/N finally no longer being the only woman in the house. Now that’s something I can get behind.

fan76 Sophie must be so happy to finally have a granddaughter.

fan20 I hope we get some pics of Max having a tea party with his daughter when she's older. I demand to see photos of Max staring the camera down in a tiara.

fan45 Is Max trying to beat Checo in having children as well?

Nov 20, 2028

Mini Verstappen taglist: @karmabyfernando, @barcagirly, @sachaa-ff, @iamahallucinationnn, @glow-ish, @nonsensical-nonsence, @champomiel, @gothicwidowsworld, @lighttsoutlewis, @itsalwaysgay, @minkyungseokie, @mynameisangeloflife, @ursforever129, @aundercover, @bborra, @mindless-rock, @cixrosie, @barcelonaloverf1life, @taylorslovesswifties13, @konsti081, @mellowarcadefun, @smnthnclj, @brekkers-whore, @thedecalcomania-blog, @xoscar03, @em-gvf01, @haikyuen, @shelbyteller , @geniusalpaca, @princessria127, @mysticalnightenthusiast, @green-thots, @leah-also-known-as-creatoronwp, @ellelabelle, @lilypat, @dreamercrowd

[ghostofbambifanfiction]

CYOA 69 sneak peak

Since I'm not going to manage to finish the chapter before I go on vacation, rather than gif hints, I've decided to post the opening scene of the chapter beneath the cut. Surprise?

Private WhatsApp Chat Resumed: Monday 28th March, 2022, 00:00 Members: Lily Evans, James Potter

================================

Lily Evans: You're still out, right? For the rest of the day?

James Potter: yeah we got out of the first room early, so i say we, sirius did most of the heavy lifting because i've been completely out of it just waiting for the next one to be ready they said it would take about 25 minutes

Lily Evans: So I suppose I don't have much time to talk to you?

James Potter: that seems to be today's recurring theme

Lily Evans: I KNOW And I'd wanted SO much to have a properly long conversation with you earlier.

James Potter: so did i, but it's alright hey, lily?

Lily Evans: Yeah?

James Potter: are we okay?

Lily Evans: What?

James Potter: it's just that i feel like we might not be, so i wanted to check

Lily Evans: Wait, what? Why wouldn't we be okay?

James Potter: because of what happened earlier

Lily Evans: You're upset about that?

James Potter: no, but i mean, sort of not because it wasn't the best thing that's ever happened to me, because it was but we had an agreement, you made it really clear that you had this boundary in place and that we shouldn't move too fast, except then we did, and i'm worried that i've made you do something that you weren't ready for which i'm so sorry about, if i have

Lily Evans: Have you been worrying about this since we hung up?

James Potter: yeah well not initially because i was still, y'know heaven

Lily Evans: Right

James Potter: but then i started to really think about what it meant and i feel like i got carried away and cocked up, and i owe you an apology

Lily Evans: No you don't!

James Potter: but i do though, we said we weren't going to do this and now we have because i brought up your friend's brother and asked you to tell me you wanted me when i could have not done those things so i don't want you to feel like this is something you have to keep up just for my sake if you need to take a few steps back now, please tell me and we can do that

Lily Evans: JAMES

James Potter: i just don't want to lose you, i don't want to fuck this up Lily Evans: You're NOT going to lose me, okay?? And I really need you to know that I don't want to lose you, either. Yes, I freaked out earlier when you brought up Aaron because I'd been so sure that you KNEW there wasn't a chance I'd be interested in somebody else and then suddenly it dawned on me that things from your end must have seemed more one-sided than they were, so I told you all of that stuff in a rush, but if the trains hadn't been cancelled and I hadn't gotten home so late I would have said it all anyway, James. I would have said it earlier. Only I'd have said it in the way I'd planned to last night, and it would have made me sound a lot less like a maniac. So PLEASE, don't worry about me and my boundaries right now, because I feel really good about what happened.

James Potter: you'd planned to say that stuff today?

Lily Evans: Yes.

James Potter: because of my birthday??

Lily Evans: Not because it was your birthday, obviously it BEING your birthday made it more of an ideal time, but no. I wanted to say it to you because honestly, James, I think we should just go for it.

James Potter: what do you mean?

Lily Evans: I mean IT As in you and me. As in us. I think we should actually BE an us.

James Potter: you mean be a couple?

Lily Evans: Yes, a couple. Let's be a couple. That's what I want. Is that what you want?

James Potter: lily are you sure? are you REALLY sure?

Lily Evans: Yes, I'm sure.

James Potter: because i don't want you to rush into anything you're not ready for i meant it when i said i was happy to wait

Lily Evans: I know, and I appreciate you so much for that but I promise you, I'm ready. I'm there. I am. I am mad about you, I want us to be together, and I'm SO sick of only being able to half-acknowledge it when all I want to do every minute of every day is let you know it. I said I was frightened and I wasn't lying, but I'm also sick of letting my life be dictated by a bunch of fears and insecurities that aren't going to go away if I wait patiently for them to leave. I have to actually DO something to confront them. So I want us to go for it. I can't be just friends anymore.

James Potter: right

Lily Evans: Unless this isn't sounding good to you and I've completely misread the situation?

James Potter: GOD NO LILY you haven't misread AT ALL i'm just stunned

Lily Evans: Oh. Okay.

James Potter: because i wasn't expecting this i was expecting the opposite after this morning, honestly i thought i'd fucked up somehow i'd thought you were going to want to take a step back

Lily Evans: No, I don't, I really don't, I'm so tired of taking steps back, James. I want to move forward. I want to move forward with you, because I trust you and I know how much you care about me, and I care SO much about you, and I think we could be really great together, you know? I think we could make each other really happy.

James Potter: lily we ARE great together

Lily Evans: WE ARE

James Potter: I KNOW

Lily Evans: WE ALWAYS HAVE BEEN

James Potter: from day one i've always said it i mean, not to you, i was terrified to say it to you but remus and sirius have heard a LOT about it

Lily Evans: Well, I want you to say it to me now, please. Because, you know, if there's a full James Potter experience that I've been missing out on while we've been just friends for the past year and a bit, I want in as soon as possible.

James Potter: oh, there's an experience

Lily Evans: I thought so.

James Potter: very exclusive though

Lily Evans: I should bloody well hope it is, I'm not sharing you with anyone else.

James Potter: there's a single entrant limit, what do you take me for?

Lily Evans: There's not a dress code, is there?

James Potter: dress code is wear whatever you want or wear nothing

Lily Evans: And I can alternate between both?

James Potter: don't let my personal preferences dissuade you from putting on clothes

Lily Evans: I kind of have to if I want to keep my job, right?

James Potter: right so we're together then? properly together? you and me?

Lily Evans: That's what I want, more than anything. I mean that. So if that's what you want too, then yes. Please.

James Potter: OF COURSE THAT'S WHAT I WANT

Lily Evans: Unless you'd rather not share our anniversary with your birthday?? I don't know how you feel about that. Although it is after midnight HERE.

James Potter: you're talking about anniversaries you're talking about OUR anniversary lily LILY

Lily Evans: I mean, yeah? I just assumed. Are you okay with that?

James Potter: AM I OKAY WITH IT LILY LILY EVANS

Lily Evans: ????

James Potter: i'm sitting here in a waiting room trying to look like i'm not having a heart attack while you tell me that all my dreams are coming true and you're wondering if i'm OKAY with it?

Lily Evans: You have dreams that are unrelated to me!

James Potter: ALL MY DREAMS, LILY i can't believe this is happening this isn't real i'm going to wake up any second, aren't i? i passed out on my bed or something. this can't be real it can't be you're SURE?

Lily Evans: YES I'M SURE

James Potter: you're not worried about rushing into anything??

Lily Evans: No, honestly, I've been thinking about that, and would it even BE rushing into anything when you're still travelling until July and we'll have already been together for a solid three months, long distance, by the time you get back?

James Potter: right yeah so you're cool with that? with the distance?

Lily Evans: Yes, of course, we've been apart this whole time and it hasn't done a thing to get in the way of us becoming as close as we have. And I trust you. I trust you SO much. I just don't want to keep holding things back.

James Potter: you mean everything to me, lil everything in the world you're it for me, you always have been if i tell you that i would do anything for you, i'm not exaggerating, because i really really would i'm sorry if that's too much, it's true though, that's how i feel

Lily Evans: It's not. It's not too much at all, I feel the exact same way. You're it for me too. You really are.

James Potter: and i'm going to do everything in my power to make you happy, alright? i promise i promise that i'm never going to take you for granted for fuck's SAKE they want us in the room now i literally just went and hid in the toilet twenty seconds ago but now sirius is banging on the door one sec, i'm going to tell them that something's come up and i can't do it

Lily Evans: No, it's okay! Do it, it's fine! Sirius has a bunch of genuinely cool plans for your birthday that you deserve to enjoy and I really need to go to bed anyway, hell week starts in the morning and I'm going to need SOME sleep to get through it.

James Potter: lily i will tell everyone in this building to fuck off right now if you want me to, it's fine

Lily Evans: No really, don't! Last night I was convinced that I wanted to have this perfect, planned, lengthy conversation about us, but honestly it really doesn't matter how it happened, I'm just so happy that it did.

James Potter: i'm crazy about you, do you know that?

Lily Evans: I'm crazy about you! You're all I bloody think about!

James Potter: YOU'RE ALL I THINK ABOUT TOO HENCE THE CAPS FOR EMPHASIS

Lily Evans: Okay so GO HAVE FUN and I'm going to go to bed and try to sleep and I'll text you in the morning and we'll sort out a time to talk PROPERLY and figure all this out, okay?

James Potter: okay okay okay jesus, my heart's beating so fast i might collapse

Lily Evans: Lol mine too, I'm going to need the blue Nytol to sleep tonight.

James Potter: i'm going to need a mallet to the head

Lily Evans: Tire yourself out having THE BEST time tonight and you'll be alright. Now get out of the loo and escape the room, I adore you.

James Potter: i adore you too, you goddess of a woman

Lily Evans: Okay I'm GOING TO BED or else you're never going to leave that bathroom and I'm going to be a zombie with eye bags at work tomorrow.

James Potter: you could not sleep for a week and still be beautiful

Lily Evans: STOP

James Potter: NO I WILL NOT STOP, IT'S LITERALLY MY JOB TO TELL YOU THAT NOW

Lily Evans: OKAY DON'T STOP BUT LEAVE THE LOO, OKAY?

James Potter: I'M LEAVING NOW

Lily Evans: Okay GOODNIGHT, I miss you already x

James Potter: GOODNIGHT i miss you too x

[luvhughes43]

i go back to you everytime | quinn hughes

[luvhughes43 masterlist☁️]

note: again... something in my drafts from last year. this was supposed to be an au that i never got around to starting / posting. this is insta edits + fic

summary: quinn hughes and his ex, singer yn, cant seem to stay away from each other.

ynoffical

liked by _quinnhughes, arianagrande, madisonbeer, and 3.7M others

ynoffical smallll break in london

view all comments

trevorzegras can u hook a friend up with some tickets?

ynoffical to my show? no

user08 STAY STRONG MOTHER STAY STRONG

user11 what?

user08 quinn just posted wimbledon on his story and i dont wanna take ANY chances of a reunion

user32 theyre so cute together tho

user08 i just dont want yn to hide away again like when they were dating idk! i like when she feeds us

user56 its been less than a week and im already missing tour

liked by ynoffical

"quinn, we can't do this," you say, kissing your ex boyfriends lips as he backs you further into your hotel room.

he pulls away from you, trailing his lips from your mouth to your chin, then attaching himself to your neck. you moan from the pleasure, pulling his now overgrown hair with your long fingers. it felt like things used to. like you wern't in paris touring and instead were cooped up in quinn's apartment in vancouver.

"what's stopping us?" he breathes out, moving to your ear lobe where he presses light kisses to your skin. you shiver.

you sigh, wanting nothing more than to sink into the feeling of him. but you cant, we cant. last time you accepted this you got your heart broken because at the end of the day, quinn would never be ready to live a life with you and the visibility your career brought.

while he continues his demonstrations on your neck and beyond, you imagine what truly having quinn hughes would be like. his blushes when the cameras start flashing, him waiting for you backstage after your shows... countless dinners in different countries and cities while youre on tour and hes playing hockey. you want it all so bad, it makes your body ache.

"because you don't want all of me," you whisper, closing your eyes so you dont have to see quinns reaction. he'll try to scoff, or worse, try and deny your words.

"baby-"

"i'm not your baby," you say firmly, resolve building as you push quinn away from you and drop down onto your bed. youre staring up at him now, and you can tell that he's contemplating his next words carefully.

"we dont have to have this conversation again. you know what i want" quinn says, and you lay down on your back and cover your face with your hands. he doesn't get it.

"you don't want me. if you did, we wouldnt be in this mess in the first place"

the bed dips beside you. "i want to commit to you"

you sigh again, "you just broke up with your girlfriend,"

"i thought you wanted me to do that?" he tries to joke, referring to one of your most recent songs - break up with your girlfriend, im bored. you let my hands drop to your side, turning your head so you can look at quinn who's already looking at you.

"it's not funny"

"i'm sorry."

you stare at each other in silence for a minute.

"i hate you," you mumble, shocking quinn as you sit up and swing one of your legs over his lap, effectively straddling him. he sits up quickly, and his hands immediately find their place your my waist. he squeezes, and you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

"i love you," he whispers.

"shut up.." you whisper back, placing your lips over his as you resume what you started a long... long time ago.

ynoffical

liked by sabrinacarpenter, sukiwaterhouse, and 3.2M others

ynoffical annddd the honeymoon tour is back! see you tomorrow night paris 🌙

"fuck, you looked so hot in your little outfit tonight" quinn groaned.

"which one?" you smirk but its quickly replaced by a gasp as quinn pull your hips flush against his.

"the black one? the pink one? youre so sexy in all of them. i'm almost jealous that your fans get to see you wear them every night"

"mm well they don't get to see me in all the little - ahh, that you do" you gasp again as your legs hit the edge of the bed. quinn pushes you down onto it, and you watch as he quickly pulls off his shirt and starts undoing his belt.

"i need you so bad" you whimper, completely missing this feeling. you quickly pull your top off, and watch as it slides across the hotel room floor.

when quinns just in his boxes, he moves over to you and directs you to move up in bed which you easily do. "i missed you" quinn says, slinking across the bed as he settles beside you. sitting up, you trace one of your fingertips over his defined arm.

you lean in to kiss him, and your lips meet in a passionate embrace. it feels like home, and summer, and quinn.

"i missed you too," you breathe heavily when you pull apart. you feel so consumed by him, and yet it's never enough.

you start kissing again, and touching again, and you jump through every loop and obstacle that youve ever had to face with quinn and then mentally burn them all to the ground. because really, what's love without pain and suffering? you dont know.

-

-

-

[king-candybug-backup]

Kill Switch: Part Eleven

“Watcha said about Sinistar– How couldja say somethin’ like that?!” She ranted on, tears welling up in her eyes, “You know h-how scared I’ve–” The more she tried to talk, the more choked up she got, and she had to cut herself off to stop from full-on crying. Instead, she turned away from him, indignantly wiping at her face with her sleeves. Whether she’d been hiding her face out of anger, or simply embarrassment to be crying in the first place, he couldn’t quite tell. If anything, King Candy was mostly just baffled that she was this upset over what was, to him, something so trivial. To him, it had been nothing more than an impulsive comment made in irritation. It hadn’t meant anything. … But, to her, he had just dangled the possibility of throwing her safety away on a petty whim. As annoyed as he was at how seriously she was taking such an offhand remark of his, could he really be surprised that a stupid child would be so overdramatic about such things? He took in a shallow breath, careful not to let his annoyance show in the sigh that soon followed. “I didn’t mean it, glitch.” Vanellope still wouldn’t look at him, the smallest hint of anger in her voice when she muttered “Then why’d you say it?” That question had him hesitating to respond truthfully, for the answer was as simple as it was cruel.  He wanted to hurt Felix. In that moment, all he could think about was hurting Felix.  Unfortunately for King Candy, Vanellope had been caught in that vitriolic crossfire the second she had tried to defend his actual target. For that crime, did she not deserve to face some of his ire? If she had just minded her own business, this wouldn’t be a problem… but, ‘minding her business’ wasn’t in her nature. Nor would she take very kindly to his less-than-amicable reasoning, he was sure. “... I don’t know.” He chose to say instead. “But I didn’t mean it.”

Read the full chapter on AO3!

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten

AAAGGGGHHHH I CAN'T THANK YOU GUYS ENOUGH FOR ALL THE AWESOME FAN-ART YOU'VE SENT OMFGGG!!! 💖💖💖 I've got a LOT of posts to shout out, please go give them tons of love if you haven't already!!! <333 Sorry for making y'all wait so long btw xskdjsdjjd

As usual, we've got @starryside-1's absolutely LOVELY art, both with these drawings of chapter 10, and this post with KCB teasing Ralph lmao

We've also got @caleeeeee and their HILARIOUS videos, this one with KCB and Vanny being silly goobers and this one of KCB and Sinistar and also this lil comic of them, too!

And then there's @cathirae and their absolutely ADORABLE fan-art of the Uno scene HGFDSHDFGCVHG

We also have a few fan-arts of chapter one where Vanny's dealing with injured Candybug and they're all AMAZINGGG, we've got this one by @its-lara, this one by @noirdenwa, and this one by @space-kardi!

Also there's this cool-ass art of Candybug, also featuring Vanellope holding up her silly lil' drawing of him by @amberqueen01!

Next up we have some more epic Sinistar fan-art, this one by @sweet-treat, this one by @space-kardi and this one by @sp1derf1ll3dc0ffin! There's also this awesome art of Sinistar and KCB duking it out by @falconsdump!

And then there's these two INSANELY funny animatics with Vanny and KCB, one with a Game Grumps audio by @aritheunicorn and another one with Llamas With Hats audio by @vinegar-rights! YOU GUYS HAVE NO IDEA HOW MANY TIMES I'VE REWATCHED THESE 😭

We also have a couple of AU crossover fan-arts of other people's AU Turbo/King Candy meeting KillSwitch!Candybug lol, this one by @danisha-tdh and this one by @quinnstirrsworld! (I'M SO SORRY AGAIN FOR NOT SEEING THE SECOND POST SOONER AAAA PLEASE KNOW THAT I LOVE IT VERY MUCH I PROMISE 😭💖)

Then there's this awesome art page of some chapter 2 + 3 stuff (LIKE GET A LOAD OF THAT CAGE SHOT C'MON), as well as KCB and Ralph being catty as usual by @peregrinethegryphon!

And last but certainly not least, this hilarious meme redraw with Vanny and KCB by @tofuto-art!

THANK YOU ALL AGAIN SOOO FREAKING MUCH, YOU'RE ALL SO TALENTED AND HILARIOUS AND AMAZING AND I NEED YOU ALL TO KNOW THAT I'M CONSTANTLY GOING BACK TO LOOK AT ALL THE BEAUTIFUL ART YOU'VE BLESSED ME WITH 💖💖💖💖💖

[pupyuj]

→ “favorite pastime.” || ahn yujin x jang wonyoung fic.

— despite being in the same group, it was hard for yujin and wonyoung to find time to be normal girlfriends in the middle of a world tour, so when they are finally granted a break, they decide to make the most of it...

word count: 4.7k.

dynamic: dom!vers!ahn yujin x sub!vers!jang wonyoung.

warnings: established relationship, fingering, clit play, scissoring, body worship, ya'll why is there like no other tags here hello, this fic is EMPTYYYY, this actually started out with more tags AND IT WAS GONNA BE FREAKYYYY, but it just got soft LMAO.

requested?: nope.

a/n: a little treat before the long trek that is the witch liz fic💕 i made this doc around the time they were still on the swih tour so that's why the setting is the way it is 😭 and i've been kind of writing it in the background while i worked on other, bigger stuff so no, i didn't take this long to create something so short! 😤 personally, this is like my one of the favorite things i've written 🥺 idk why i cooked so hard for annyeongz out of all things but ykw i'll take it! enough yapping, I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKE THIS 💖💖

1:37 am.

jang wonyoung had no business being up this late when she, as well as her group members, finally had the luxury to sleep to her heart’s content and not worry about being late to rehearsals and soundchecks. today’s show was the last one until a long while, which means the members of ive have the time to explore the current city they’re visiting or relax in their lavish hotel rooms for the next few days before they fly back to south korea and do some real relaxing there. wonyoung already had her next day planned out, as she always does, and thus had nothing much to think about in her mind.

except the fact that she was up at an ungodly hour brushing through her beautiful locks with her favored hairbrush in front of a vanity mirror. her doe eyes glancing at the clock each minute, getting increasingly impatient and disappointed whenever her gaze turns to the empty and cold queen-sized bed behind her. wonyoung had already done all of her post-concert routines and was more than ready to hit the sheets and sleep until nine in the morning, maybe even ten! but what was the point of resting if she didn’t rest well?

to put it simply, jang wonyoung needs only one important thing to complete her night, and that came in the form of ahn yujin, who was currently not in their shared hotel room.

pouting, wonyoung took a glance at her phone. no recent calls or texts from her dear girlfriend. before leaving the room in a hurry, yujin informed wonyoung that the managers needed to have a talk with her ‘for a bit’, but exactly three hours had passed since! it worried wonyoung, to be frank. why weren’t the other members talked to? was yujin in trouble? were they all in trouble and it was so serious that the managers needed to talk to only the leader about it? wonyoung knew in the back of her head that it was probably just company gibberish that even yujin doesn’t have all the energy to actually talk about, but wonyoung being wonyoung—being yujin’s girlfriend—she still can’t help but be concerned!

now don’t get her wrong! most of the time, wonyoung can sleep without cuddling with or even when she’s not with yujin! it’s just… she thought tonight was going to be special for the two of them. maybe they were going to spend the entire night talking about the show, how fun it was, how great they all did, and how they can’t wait for the next ones. maybe they were going to bundle up in the blankets and cuddle each other to keep warm while watching movies until they fell asleep. maybe they were going to share small and funny anecdotes about their own personal adventures in every city they’ve been in! whatever it may have been, wonyoung would’ve loved it.

she missed yujin, so much. yes, they’re together for literally every second they’re alive because duh, they’re in the same group, but wonyoung misses her in a… girlfriend kind of way. she misses their talks, their jokes, their staring competitions, their hands holding, their lips locking—she misses everything about her relationship. truthfully, wonyoung might just be a little bit dramatic because it’s not like yujin went to war or something but can anyone really blame a girl in love!?

wonyoung sighs, putting down her hairbrush and fixing her bangs with her hands. she felt (and is!!) so pretty but yujin wasn’t even around to ogle at her! she stands up, grabs her phone and pulls up yujin’s contact from her long list. she was about to press the ‘call’ button until the hotel door clicked and swung open, and entered a very smiley ahn yujin in her charming oversized flannel shirt, thick-framed glasses, and her favorite bottoms to wear lately, some… jorts.

yup, this is the girl jang wonyoung is down terrible for. a loser.

“honey, i’m home—oof!” yujin nearly gets knocked back out of the door after wonyoung tackled her for a hug. in a fit of laughter, yujin embraces her girlfriend tightly, giving her quick kisses on the side of her head in the process. yujin uses her leg to close the door shut behind the two of them before awkwardly shuffling further inside the room while still hugging wonyoung, who just refused to remove her head from the crook of yujin’s neck. the older girl wasn’t about to start complaining though—wonyoung was usually so reserved and, well, classy. only behind doors does wonyoung become this clingy, adorable creature that is always seemingly shooting hearts from her eyes while looking at yujin.

lately, they haven’t been given a lot of privacy so yujin missed her cute, loving girlfriend too! the two of them collapse slowly on the bed, where yujin immediately peppers wonyoung’s face with kisses while the younger girl laughs at the way it all tickles. eventually, yujin’s lips landed on wonyoung’s own and the latter made sure it stays there! taking yujin’s face in her hands and keeping her still, gently locking their lips in a soft, warm kiss that even makes yujin melt so quickly that she kisses back earnestly.

it was pretty easy to get lost in a searing kiss for the two of them. eventually only the smacks of their lips and their hums were heard in the room, with the occasional shuffling of the mattress underneath wonyoung and the sweet sounds that left her mouth. with the younger girl’s top slightly lifted, yujin had no problems putting her hand on wonyoung’s toned stomach and slowly dragging it upward to where wonyoung obviously wanted to touch her the second most.

“hmn.. ah, yujinnie…” how cute. yujin already had her moaning like that. yujin slides both of her hands further up until she was cupping wonyoung’s soft breasts and at the same time, she slots a knee in between the younger girl’s legs and pressed it lightly against her clothed pussy. wonyoung, being so desperate to feel yujin, starts to grind on the older girl’s knee, moaning softly at the added sensation of yujin toying with her nipples underneath her shirt.

wonyoung allows yujin to slip her tongue inside her mouth—an act that was always messy but did wonyoung ever care? of course not, not even when there was drool running down the side of her mouth. the messier the better, and wonyoung hoped that it gets worse from here because they both deserve this.

it wasn’t long before wonyoung was practically humping on her girlfriend’s thigh. her needy moans only intensified the longer yujin took to just rip her clothes off and make her see the stars. the older girl was adamant on keeping their clothes on, only merely pulling up wonyoung’s top to expose her pretty tits but never actually taking it off. and at this point, wonyoung had successfully popped open four of the buttons on yujin’s flannel shirt and was only slightly disappointed to see that yujin had been wearing a tank top and a bra underneath. but that still didn’t stop wonyoung from trying to feel yujin’s skin on her own.

“someone really missed me, huh?” yujin chuckles, watching as wonyoung struggled to open the rest of the buttons on her shirt. wonyoung ignores her teasing, however, and tugs impatiently on yujin’s shirt. and if yujin wasn’t completely smitten and head-over-heels for her girlfriend, she wouldn’t be yujin at all! so, yujin slips out of her shirt, as well as her tank top like wonyoung whined to her about, and smirks at how the younger girl seemed to be at a loss for words. still though, wonyoung finds enough control in herself to carefully and gently run her hands all over yujin’s chiseled features. everybody knows yujin works hard to shape her body to perfection, but wonyoung still finds herself in sheer awe every time she sees the results.

yujin working out was always a sight that wonyoung constantly looked back to and secretly admired. and even though they’re dating, wonyoung is still a bit too bashful to admit that even just the slightest glimpse of yujin’s muscles can make her crumble as her members always teased her about it to the point it would reach yujin’s ears, and then yujin would tease her and it would just be a lovely mess wonyoung would rather avoid. but at least right now they were in their own world, wonyoung has nothing to be ashamed about here. delicately, wonyoung pushed yujin back until the latter was standing up properly and wonyoung herself was sitting up on the bed.

wonyoung, looking up at her girlfriend whose eyes were riddled with curiosity, places her hands on yujin’s hips and pulls her closer and closer until her lips were touching yujin’s abdomen. for the next few minutes, ahn yujin finds herself feeling… shy as she watches her girlfriend leave soft, loving kisses all over the exposed skin on her stomach. why, wonyoung had to appreciate all the effort yujin puts into working out! what better way than this? kissing her firm abs, feeling and making random shapes on the other well-defined muscles on her back… hearing yujin’s soft laughs was a bonus, too.

“hey… i’m supposed to take care of you.” yujin runs her fingers through wonyoung’s hair, taking note of how smooth and soft it was and noticing that the chair in front of the vanity mirror was in slight disarray. now she knows wonyoung had been patiently—well, impatiently—waiting for her to finally join her in the night while looking all pretty for her.

“we can take turns.” wonyoung whispers softly. her kisses continued on rising and soon enough, her lips were on yujin’s chest. it was hard for the older girl to not melt on the spot when wonyoung looks up at her with pleading eyes—sure, there has never been a moment where yujin was able to resist those eyes, but something about this night was making her just a tad bit more vulnerable to them than usual. or perhaps it was just her immense love for wonyoung that made her so freaking soft. reaching behind, yujin unclasps her bra and allows it to fall to the ground, smirking slightly at the way wonyoung blushes at the sight of her bare breasts.

wonyoung leaned back, propping her hands up behind her to get a good look at her girlfriend who was now completely topless. “you’re so pretty, unnie…” she said, and even in the softness of her voice, yujin could hear her desire and it only adds up to the excitement of it all. wonyoung watches with anticipation as yujin takes off her shorts, failing to fight back the urge to bite her lip because good god did her girlfriend look amazing wearing only a pair of dark blue-colored panties, and how could she even pretend to not notice that wet spot on the fabric? wonyoung was delighted to know that she has such an effect, it makes her heart swell with pride… and she could tease yujin about it, see that deep blush on the older girl’s face that always looked so cute on her, but the only thing wonyoung wanted to do right now was feel her.

but wonyoung has been disciplined well enough to know she can’t do that until she has yujin’s permission, and so she watches as the older girl lays down on the bed. it wasn’t until yujin beckoned wonyoung over that the latter finally moved, crawling over on top of yujin quite eagerly.

“you want to take care of me, hm?” yujin tucks a strand of hair behind wonyoung’s ear.

jang wonyoung—the idol that everyone knows to be perfect, reserved, and elegant beyond comprehension. who would have thought that she would have such an astonishingly different side to her behind closed doors? in the outside world, wonyoung would not be caught having an expression that did not scream her genuine compassion and kindness but here she was on top of her group leader, her best friend, the love of her life, looking like she wanted to eat her whole. yujin wasn’t shy to admit that the way wonyoung carried herself right now only made that pool in between her legs get worse, but at least she had the fastest way to relieve herself of that ache right in front of her.

“go on then.”

ahn yujin—ive’s strong-willed leader that can do anything and everything except one: give up control. even right now, when her girlfriend is right on top of her, giving her neck spine-chilling open-mouthed kisses and sucking on her skin enough to leave a trail of quickly-blooming marks from her jawline down to her collarbone, she refuses to relax and actually allow wonyoung to take care of her. she keeps her hand buried on wonyoung’s beautiful locks, tugging slightly every time she feels something that makes her thighs twitch and her core beg for much-needed attention. but that was all okay to wonyoung; there was nothing more she loved than being bossed around and told what to do by her leader.

finally, after what seemed like forever, yujin feels wonyoung’s tongue on her hard nipple before she feels her warm mouth wrap around it, eliciting a beautiful moan that stirs something inside wonyoung. the latter reaches down and slides her hand inside yujin’s panties, palming her wet cunt and pressing her thumb against her clit.

again, yujin moans loudly and struggles to keep her composure. but still, she finds her ways. “g-good girl… oh, fuck… you always know know how to make me… f-feel good, hm?” she knew that the smallest of praises was enough to dumb wonyoung down into her personal pleasure toy that she can play with to do whatever she wants her to do—and her praises were not short of effect, as usual. wonyoung’s whines are muffled with her mouth around yujin’s nipple, her tongue too busy swirling and playing with the hardened bud to push out some words. she feels her own pussy creating a mess in her underwear, but yujin’s voice silences her needs.

“hmmn.. ngh… ahh—” every gasp, every hiss, and every little sound yujin made as wonyoung pinched, pressed on, and toyed with her clit reverberates through the younger girl’s fogged up brain and feeds her all the energy she needs to make her lover feel even better. “god… just fill me up, princess…” and that pet name was the icing on the cake.

impatiently, wonyoung rips off yujin’s panties with haste and throws it off to the side. her mouth finally leaves yujin’s nipple, which allows yujin to easily pull her back up and kiss her, hungrily and possessively. completely different from the sweet kisses they usually shared in secret rooms, behind the privacy of some curtains, in the dark corners of a set, and amidst unsuspecting eyes. and thank god for the kiss, because the room next to them surely would have heard the sound yujin made upon getting stuffed full with two fingers if her mouth hadn’t been busy being on wonyoung’s.

a loud whine from wonyoung manages to escape their locked lips when yujin pulls on her hair harshly, controlling the kiss as she pleases while simultaneously bucking her hips up to meet wonyoung’s thrusts. god knows how much she needed this. months long of touring, rehearsing, endless vocal warmups, and being on-the-go for hours on end… ahn yujin deserved the utmost care right now, and luckily for her wonyoung was more than willing to give her just that.

wonyoung’s pace increases, making yujin throw her head back in pleasure as her hips struggle to keep up. her moans were now loud and free with only wonyoung’s lips silencing her every now and again but even then, the latter was too busy leaving more marks on her leader’s neck. mine, she wants everyone to know even when they shouldn’t. wonyoung bites on yujin’s collarbone, and the older girl’s free hand clutches her shoulder, nearly piercing her skin. mine, she wants everyone who thinks they can win over yujin’s heart to know that she belongs with someone else already. her.

but now that yujin thought about it… wonyoung herself worked hard all tour long too, and what kind of girlfriend would yujin be if she didn’t make her feel good in return?

yujin tugs on the waistband of wonyoung’s shorts, “i wanna.. hah… feel you too, baby… take this off.” of course, wonyoung obeys her almost immediately. it was something about her that yujin always loved: whether she’s talking to her as her group leader or as her girlfriend, wonyoung will always listen to her and do what needs to be done at the drop of a hat. and before yujin could even think to open her eyes and take her mind off of the sensation of wonyoung’s fingers inside her, the younger girl has already taken off her shorts as well as her underwear.

wonyoung stares at yujin for a good minute—taking in every single one of her facial features as if she doesn’t already do just that every night they’re together. she then decided that her lips were feeling a bit too cold, so she paused her actions and leaned down to kiss yujin. the latter didn’t seem to mind prolonging her climax. even going as far as to allow wonyoung to pull her fingers out of the older girl’s cunt just so she can hold her face as they kissed. yujin could feel her cheek getting wet with her own slick but she didn’t exactly care when her heart felt like it was going to explode with the sheer amount of affection she was feeling for her lover.

and for a while, they got lost in each other’s lips and even forgot that they were in the middle of something. yujin holds wonyoung softly, both hands firmly but gently holding the latter’s waist as she takes control of the kiss. with their lips still locked, yujin flips their position and now that she was on top, she can truly show wonyoung how much she missed her. especially during these last few hours that she had to endure listening to her managers talk on and on about the precautions the girls should take before walking around the city and whatnot.

all yujin wanted to do at that time was to melt in her girlfriend’s arms and hold each other until the next afternoon. but unfortunately, a few minutes became a few hours. frankly, yujin felt bad that wonyoung had to stay up so late waiting for her. she should have been sleeping considering that it was quite the long and tiring show that they had that day, but she really waited for her. it was impossible for yujin to express her appreciation with just words… and actions, really, but she’ll for sure try her damn best.

“you can relax now, princess… it’s my turn to take care of you.” yujin says, giving the younger girl a last peck on the lips before leaning back. while she got herself situated, yujin smiles briefly at wonyoung, who blushed as she just sat there watching her girlfriend. it was stupid how she still sometimes felt like she was crushing on this ‘cool, funny unnie’ because for the longest time, that was really the farthest wonyoung got with her feelings.

some people like to tell her that it was actually quite cute how wonyoung still behaves like a high school girl who was in love for the first time and to that she thinks: sure, it could be cute… if it wasn’t so embarrassing at the same time! because come on, she was swooning over her girlfriend looking so handsome on top of her!

upon the realization that she looked quite stupid being flustered over literally nothing, wonyoung covers up her warm face with her hands, opting to only look at the older girl from behind the gaps between her fingers. yujin, unfazed, grins at her cute girlfriend, taking a mental note to tease her all about it tomorrow. it’s what she always does the morning after having sex! wonyoung has gotten used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean that she doesn’t get embarrassed whenever yujin starts to lay out whatever details she remembers from the night before.

“let me see you, wonyoung-ah,” yujin takes her girlfriend’s hands and holds onto them tightly. she laughs seeing wonyoung’s tomato-colored cheeks and ears. “you’re so red! are you okay?” adorable. wonyoung was never not going to be the cutest thing in yujin’s eyes, that’s for sure.

suddenly, those three simple words that she has gotten used to saying all these years have become so difficult to push out of her mouth. not because wonyoung didn’t want to say them, but because even she herself could make fun of just how much she means them. “i love you, yujin-unnie…” wonyoung managed to blurt out. her eyes were everywhere except on yujin’s own, afraid of getting teased to hell by the older girl and wonyoung always knew exactly when the teasing would come. yujin would usually slowly start giggling before she was full-on throwing her head back from laughter, and then she would pinch wonyoung’s cheeks and fawn over how adorable she was.

wonyoung was waiting for it. she was waiting for yujin’s soft laughs, waiting until her face was being peppered with kisses once again, and until the leader completely disregarded the situation the two of them were in and just flatter her until dawn… but strangely enough, none of it ever came. so, wonyoung finally looked yujin in the eyes and found her girlfriend blushing just as wildly as she had been.

well, that was certainly a brand new sight.

“i love you too… so much.” yujin replied rather breathlessly. it might be cheesy as fuck, but she feels her heart growing twice its size the longer she stared at wonyoung, who smiled so adoringly at her that she thought she would melt. it was at this moment that yujin decided she was willing to endure all the exhaustion that came with being on tour for almost an entire year four times over if at the end of everything, she would come home to wonyoung’s warmth. 

she realizes now that that was made the long, long nights of working so worth it to put up with. she was never going to take fleeting moments such as this, where they are able to just be them, for granted ever again.

yujin leans forward, slowly, and holds back a chuckle upon seeing wonyoung close her eyes immediately, knowing full well what was coming. god, yujin could swoon. she technically was! deep inside! but she had to pull herself together—wonyoung had needs too and it was about damn time yujin fulfilled one of her many duties as her loving girlfriend. yujin puts one leg over wonyoung’s and gets real close until she able to catch her lover’s lips with her own, and simultaneously, she rocks her hips forward, giving both herself and wonyoung the absolute pleasure that was the feeling of their clits clashing against one another.

“oh…! gosh—” wonyoung takes a hold of yujin’s arm with one hand and a fistful of the white sheets below with the other hand, clutching both with an iron grip as the older girl continues on. her whines were muffled by yujin’s lips, the very same trick that she had pulled on her earlier when their positions were switched. yujin puts her hand on the back of wonyoung’s thigh, pushing her leg upwards slightly to give herself more room as her thrusts get faster.

wonyoung starts doing her own work as well, using her hips accordingly and still taking such good care of yujin even though it was ‘her turn’ to be coddled. wonyoung just couldn’t help it. every time there was a surge of love coursing through her veins, she just had to pour it all over yujin. and this was only one of her many methods of doing so.

“good… yes…!” yujin cries out. her eyes were shut tight, one hand almost piercing through her lover’s skin and the other practically nearly tearing the sheets off the bed. wonyoung, despite her hazed mind, takes yujin’s free hand in hers and holds it tight. it helps both of them a lot. that, they know.

“god… if only… we had a strap, huh?” yujin says with a big, stupid grin. wonyoung must not reveal to yujin that she had intended to bring one but ended up forgetting due to the million other problems she had to sort out. she would never hear the end of it… and yujin might just end up visiting a sex store in the city the next morning!

the younger girl fought the greatest urge to break into a smile, but ultimately failed. “s-stop joking around… just fuck me… p-please, unnie…!” wonyoung pleaded. and she didn’t have to tell yujin twice. the older girl decided to shut up then, and pins wonyoung’s hand above her hand, thrusting faster than ever with only one objective in mind. 

now they were really going to get complaints from the next couple of rooms. poor gaeul, who had actually been staying in the room directly next to theirs, probably won’t be able to even stand next to them tomorrow! neither of them could suppress their sounds—merely a chorus of whines and each other’s names left their mouths until finally, yujin’s hips come to a stutter as she came. wonyoung followed soon after, with a single tear rolling down her cheek as a mere proof of yujin’s very successful efforts.

the exhausted older girl collapses on wonyoung’s chest, gathering the very little strength left in her body to stay awake. wonyoung held her girlfriend tenderly, fixing the mess that was her hair while simultaneously getting themselves into a more comfortable position on the bed. yujin laid somewhat on top of wonyoung still, but a lot of her weight rested on the soft mattress of the bed as well.

not a lot of words were shared between the two of them as they laid there catching their breath. in fact, wonyoung thought that yujin had fallen asleep until she felt the hem of her shirt being tugged. the leader raises her head and stares at the oddly familiar graphic tee wonyoung was wearing, and then she smirks.

“my love… is this the shirt that has gone missing from my luggage for the past two weeks?” yujin asked, stifling a giggle.

“i-i didn’t think it was a big deal—i mean, you have so many shirts! a-and… i really like this one,” wonyoung, cheeks as red as a blood moon, takes the collar of ‘her’ shirt and sniffs. “it smells a lot like you too. i just… miss you a lot these days.”

yujin takes wonyoung’s hand and plants a kiss on her knuckles, “i don’t mind, baby. and i miss you too.” and every time those exact words are said, wonyoung will never not feel giddy.

the younger girl manages to compose her heart and says, “we’re lucky we get to be normal people for a while then! i have a lot planned for us, and the girls too.” wonyoung exclaims rather excitedly. while yujin had been busy being held up by the managers a few hours before, wonyoung spent all of that time making a list of all the worthwhile things they could do in this foreign city once the sun comes up. she had been wanting a chance to feel like a group of friends with her members as well, and now that she was able to be lovers with yujin for a night, who’s to say she won’t have just as much of a fun time being normal with her members too?

yujin lays there, utterly speechless at how she was actively still falling in love with wonyoung’s smile after all these years. still, she gets a hold of herself and kisses the younger girl’s hand again, “really? tell me all about it! but um… do make room for another night like this, hm?” she joked.

wonyoung pinches the bridge of yujin’s nose, laughing when the latter whines about it. she quickly kisses her forehead as compensation, “don’t worry, unnie. we have lots and lots of time just for the two of us.”

“good,” yujin hums. she places her head on her girlfriend’s chest, listening to her heart. it was the most comforting sound in the world, even more so when she knows that it beats solely for her. “you and me—my favorite pastime.”

[daengtokki]

hey its me again who checks on ur account and notices that mother Tokki wanna go back to writing smut? lol um AM I EVEN READY FOR A SUBBY SEUNGMIN COMEBACK? SUBBY SEUNGMIN X NOONA CHANGED LIVES 🔥🔥🔥

Please forgive my desperate ass

co-worker!Kim Seungmin/noona!reader

WC: 4.1k RATING: fluff/smut contains: soft needy seungmin, sub!seungmin/dom!seungmin, lots of praise, nicknames (pup/puppy), teasing, unprotected sex COMMENT: I've been sitting on most of this story for a very long time, but I finally decided to find a nice ending to this part (though not the entire thing). Part two was posted over a year ago. I’m sorry it took so long 😭

part one part two MASTERLIST

The muffled sounds coming from the break room carry all the way to where you stand, right outside the bathroom door. You recognize Seungmin’s voice, of course, and Changbin’s, but it’s a little more high pitched than usual—his laugh is probably reaching the front of the store. A few more people are in there, too...likely the entirety of Changbin’s jerk friend group. You can’t make out what they’re talking about, though.

You jump when your senior manager clicks the bathroom door open.

“God, they can be obnoxious,” she says, and rolls her eyes as she walks by. But then she stops and turns on her heel. “How have you been doing? Getting along with everyone?”

It’s the first time since you’ve started that anyone cared to ask. Aside from Seungmin. “Yes, everything is fine. Everyone has been helpful when I needed them.”

“Good. I…well, we probably shouldn’t talk here, but, I did notice you’ve been spending a lot of time around one employee in particular.”

Your heart races. Of course, it’s obvious. This was bound to happen. You’ve been careless for the most part, and it’s likely someone saw you grab his ass earlier. Now you get to start looking for a new job. “I am?” Feigning stupidity might work.

“I don’t like spreading rumors, even if maybe they're not rumors, but he seems to have a bit of a reputation around here. I don’t want anyone to think something is happening between manager and employee, because one of you would suffer. Maybe both of you.”

Well, at least she gets right to the point.

“Sorry, but are we both talking about Min…uh, Seungmin? Kim Seungmin?”

“Yes. The quiet, innocent looking one.”

You smile without realizing it, thinking about his sweet, handsome face, but quickly correct yourself when she gives you a look.

“He’s apparently gone after his female coworkers…customers. Don’t misunderstand, he is great at his job and he’s reliable as hell, but he doesn’t seem to know how to stop when it comes to flirting and chasing. He’s a…well…” her head moves like a metronome as she thinks.

“Slut?”

A nod and a smile, then she’s gone, and you’re left thinking of poor Seungmin and the reputation he accidentally made for himself. All because of his stupid friends. At least that’s what you hope. There’s always the possibility that Seungmin did lie about his experience, and his reputation is actually real, but you don’t think so. You took him home with every intention of sleeping with him, and he knows that, slut or not. There was no reason for him to make up a story this morning.

The breakroom door opens and clicks shut, and a moment later, Seungmin is coming around the corner. Head down, hair in his eyes…he doesn’t even see you until you throw a soft pup at him.

He stops immediately and smiles at you.

“Everything okay? You look distracted.”

“I’m okay, just…tired I guess.”

“It’s alright if you cancel on me, I’ll understand.

Seungmin shakes his head, “I’ll meet you across the street in...” he looks at his phone, “one hour.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

You were extra careful and extra paranoid for that last hour, eyes constantly moving between where Seungmin was in relation to the other manager. He was good, though, and he kept his distance. He has a big smile and a coffee waiting you when you finally make it to him.

“Do we know anybody in here right now?”

“What’s wrong?” Seungmin looks around, “no, I don’t recognize anyone from work.”

You bend down and place a kiss on his lips. It’s much too romantic, which you didn’t intend, but you did need to kiss him as soon as you walked through the door. Seungmin kisses back, so softly and sweetly that it doesn’t belong out in public, around prying eyes. Your head swims and your body aches with need, but you somehow pull away.

“I think we’re getting dirty looks,” Seungmin blushes and keeps his eyes on yours.

“We should take it somewhere else.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Seungmin is excited and chatty on the ride to his apartment, and luckily he still isn’t too concerned with the reputation he mistakenly made for himself, “if it doesn’t get me fired, it’s okay. And if it does, that just means we can, uhm…” he didn’t finish that thought, but you could figure it out on your own. You think.

He’s quiet on the ride back, but when you’re almost home, he reaches out and sets his hand over yours. It’s a romantic gesture to match the kiss from earlier, and you find yourself enjoying it more than you’d like. As sweet as Seungmin is, and as enamored he obviously is with you, jumping in feet first the way you keep imagining is still difficult.

“Seungmin?”

The jump of his hand makes your stomach drop, because you think he’s pulling away. But he doesn’t. And then he does, just a little. “Yeah?”

“Minnie…uh, uhm…” You had the words, and now they’re slowly falling apart in your head. You have a chance to look at him—the smile on his face is hesitant, and when he bites down on his lip, it drops completely. “Nothing, it’s nothing.” You can’t stand the unsure look on his face, so you reach for his hand again and squeeze, and you hope his smile comes back when you have to turn away. “What are you hungry for?”

"I'm not picky."

You can’t tell from his voice. “Whatever you’d like. What’s your favorite?”

“Kimchi stew. Is that too boring?”

“Boring? No, not at all. We’ll have that, and something sweet if you’d like.”

He laughs, and it’s music to your ears. “Yes, sweet is always good.

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

Seungmin sits on the far side of the couch with a shy smile on his face—patient and quiet, shoulders slumped a little. He looks small sitting there, but he’s not, and he looks shy tonight, but you don’t think that’s what it is. Seungmin is hiding a lot behind his soft exterior. You wonder if his friends bothered him today, or if Changbin continued teasing about the marks he left n your neck. The senior manager not noticing them (or just not mentioning it) is surprising. But who knows...maybe that influenced her little meeting with you today.

It was you that got things started last night, and you’re thinking that might be the case again tonight, which is fine—you like it like that, that’s how you usually do things. But he also took control a few times, and you liked that as well. Part of you wants him to initiate and take over again, but the other part, the one that’s hungry for him and craving dominance, is going to win soon.

“Seungmin?”

“Hm?” He perks up and lets his smile spread across his face, “yeah?”

Instead of starting anything, you get up and walk toward the bedroom. How you forgot this, you’re not sure, but a vision of the little black box sitting on the edge of your bed popped up just in time. The sound of slow footsteps follows behind you, luckily. You don’t have to call him in, and you don’t have to start things on the couch.

“Wow…this is nice,” he leans against the door jamb and watches, looks around your not-so-spacious bedroom. “Big bed, looks very, very comfortable.”

“Come sit”

Not only does he listen to you, but he goes for it and touches your hip. Both hands grab softy and pull until his lips graze against your shirt, and you get butterflies—of course you get butterflies. Seungmin has you on your knees and he doesn't even realize it. You run a hand down the back of his head and to his neck, squeeze, get a content groan out of him.

“I hope you like it”

You really do hope he likes it, because you paid extra to have it made just the way you envisioned it: deep red leather, gold chain looped across the middle. Hanging off the chain is a small, heart shaped tag. You pull it out and Seungmin squeezes tighter when he sees it, and he reaches for it.

“Oh…can I?”

His fingers run across the soft leather, pull a little on the chain to see how it tightens. Then he goes for the buckle.

“I’ll do that,” you tell him as you undo it and examine his pretty neck, then wrap it around him. His skin is warm—he was cold before, so you turned the heat up; probably too much, but he hasn’t complained. “Is it too warm in here, Minnie?”

“No, it’s nice.” Seungmin reaches back and stops you from slipping it under the buckle. “I think we…” he squeezes, “we should use this next time.”

“Next time?”

Seungmin stands and gently pulls it away, sets it back in its box, then returns to you with a look so heavy, you finally get it. You weren’t expecting this, even though you wanted it, so you wait for his next move. And his next move is a kiss to rival the sweet, slow coffee shop kiss, but his hands close around your neck and his fingers move gently against the nape of your neck. You think he might squeeze a little harder, but he doesn’t—Minnie isn’t there yet, and you know that.

“You don’t wanna be my pup tonight?”

Hands slide down your back, and Seungmin pulls you tight against him. He’s hard, and his cock pushes gently against your stomach.

“I’m always your pup, I hope”

“You are…”

You’re pulled down with him as he sits again, straddling his slender thighs, barely covered by the shorts he changed into. He leans back and watches you look, touch, tug at his shirt until your hands can slide underneath and push it up. And he just sits there and takes it. When you lean in and kiss across his chest, he sighs and falls onto his back, but bucks his hips up to get your attention; to make sure you know where he wants you.

Maybe he will submit, put the collar on, do what you tell him.

“Hey,” Seungmin grabs the back of your neck and holds you steady.

“Hey…” you watch him. He’s thinking—figuring out exactly what he wants, and you’re patient. “I’m all yours.”

Maybe some more encouragement will get him going. You slide your hand down and tuck your fingers beneath his waistband, just short of reaching him. He thrusts up just enough to get to you, and he’s so relieved to feel your touch, he laughs as he moans.

“Let me take care of you, Minnie.” You give in and stroke him as his hips continue to move, “please, pup.”

“No, no…” His hands squeeze your hips. He easily pulls you off of him and flat onto your back. “It’s my turn. Get on your stomach.”

The pounding in your chest is partly the excitement of the moment, but mostly not being prepared for the sharp, brusque sound in his voice. You listen and roll onto your stomach. He pulls down, freeing you of your underwear, and his fingers knead hard into your ass. It’s impossible not to push back against him and get onto your knees, and Seungmin doesn’t seem to mind. He stops for a moment, and you think he might speak. He almost does. Instead, a soft laugh comes out as he strips, positions himself, and you jump when he runs a slow finger from the small of your back to your cunt.

Now you laugh at yourself, and Seungmin giggles again.

“Is that a no touch zone?”

“You can touch wherever you want.”

The sound and feel of him pushing two fingers so smoothly into you makes you whimper, and you find yourself wanting to beg, or encourage…you’re unsure. But he pulls out quickly and slides his wet fingers to your clit. “Minnie…ah,” you whine and spread yourself open even more, “please.”

“You want it?”

His voice is somehow deeper, quieter. So far so good. But maybe he has…no, you shake the thought away. “I want you…”

No response, just his hands spreading you open and coming down to kiss and bite the skin of your hip, then your thigh. He keeps going until his tongue can slide over your cunt, and he licks up the mess his fingers made.

The begging is in your head, please, please… and then it comes out muffled by the sheets, stuffed in your mouth as he wraps his hand around the back of your neck. All of his weight is pushing you down. His cock slides over you and it drives you crazy.

“Seungmin, please”

“Please…please,” he mutters, but he doesn’t tease. He guides himself over your entrance and pushes gently, slides in slowly…out, in, and you know it makes him a little weak in the knees.

But his pace quickens and his thrusts push you down and into the bed even more, forcing you to grip the sheets for some leverage. You look back and catch his gaze—his face is soft and his smile grows as you look at him. Still a puppy.

“I like this,” he sighs and holds your hips tight as he fucks you, but he slows down to reserve himself, to keep going as long as possible. “I…fuck.”

The stutter of his movements, the force of his thrusts when he gets back into the moment, it hits just right. His size stretches you just right, and it feels too good in this position. You lift yourself and push back into his hips, and Seungmin lets you do it a few times before abruptly pulling himself out and leaving you there. “Minnie…no, no.”

It’s quiet, and you can’t see him in the nearly dark room. You don’t get up, though, because you need him to come back, and if he wants to do well for you, he won’t.

“Minnie?”

The bed shifts. He’s there, just watching and waiting.

“Please pup, I’ll do anything you want…please fuck me”

“Yeah?”

The sweetness in his voice is back, but he still doesn’t return. You stick your ass up even higher, turn your head to the opposite side to search, and there he is. Seungmin is watching you, sitting back, completely relaxed as he strokes himself.

“Anything”

“Turn onto your back”

It feels good to stretch out like this, but straightening your back and falling limp onto the bed is even better. “Yes sir.” But he still just stares at you.

“Sir?”

“Mmm…sir…pup”

“Are you teasing me? He tilts his head to one side and crawls closer. “Open up.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” One leg falls open, and then the other.

“I think you are teasing,” his mouth closes around your clit and licks hard, sucks, waits for you to moan, and then he pulls back. “I don’t like being teased.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not teasing…promise.”

But you close your legs, and Seungmin gives you puppy eyes. You can’t help yourself—not being in control of him is harder than you thought it would be. Your legs slowly fall back open. “Promise, Minnie. Please come back.”

He crawls back to you; on top of you, kissing his way up, pulling at your bra and somehow, successfully undoing it. Seungmin kisses softly—long, messy, and wet, tongue pushing in and fighting yours. He loves kissing, and he’s good at it.

“I’m sorry pup, I need you”

“I could just leave you like this, wanting more”

“I’ll be good for you”

“Promise again.” The lightness in his voice contradicts the grip on your thighs as he pulls them apart.

“Promise…I promise”

Your pleading works, and he lifts your hips to his. “That’s better,” he coos, and watches himself slide in so slowly, “much better,” he groans as he pulls out, and his eyes move to yours.

A smile twitches at the corner of his lips, and he can’t help but move faster, and faster. The bed moves with every hard thrust into you, and looking at him like this is so much better. Seeing his face, so full of pleasure, so blissful and so dazed. “Minnie…” you say it desperately between your shallow panting, “Minnie you feel so…aah…”

The smile wins, and it grows with each roll into your hips. “You gonna come for me?” He moves his thumb up and down, touching everywhere he can, and he pulls your hips up until you can wrap your legs around him.

“Spit on me”

“Hmm?” His head tilts innocently to one side again, but he hears you, because he does it, and he rubs it into your clit in fast, soft circles. It’s perfect—his touch, his cock stretching you to your limit. You let it work through you, and you make sure Seungmin knows.

“That’s good…one down.” He slows himself, but keeps going until he’s sure you’ve gotten through it, and when you finally relax and barely catch your breath, his starts again.

Slow and deep, then steadily faster. He’s gripping you and holding so tight and firm, but you’re just a toy for him…finally—you imagined him fucking you like this, daydreamed about it as you walked the aisles at work. His eyes turn glassy and stay fixed on his cock being swallowed over and over, and he holds it together so much longer than you expect. His breathing becomes shallow, and soft whimpers sneak out with each exhale.

“Harder harder, god…I’m gonna come”

“Mm…again?” Seungmin smiles.

You nod and grab his hand, but you don’t have to tell him what to do. As soon as his thumb touches your clit, another orgasm rips through you. His long, drawn out moan turns into a giddy laugh as he follows behind and fills you up.

Thighs tremble, yours and his, as he pulls himself out.

“Fuck”

“Yeah,” he sighs and falls down next to you, laughs again, and pushes his face into your pillow.

It’s quiet for a moment, until the wind picks up outside and pushes against the window. The curtains move a little, and the dim light outside shifts across the bed. Seungmin looks pretty all spread out across the blankets, out of breath and damp with sweat. You roll over until you can run a hand down his back, and gently squeeze his ass.

“You worn out already?”

“Oh, no no. I just need,” he turns his head to find you, “ten minutes.”

“How about five?”

“Five?” He turns a little more and watches you crawl to the edge of the bed and reach, “five minutes,” flips onto his back and closes his eyes, but he feels you come back, and then he feels your hands sliding up his leg, over his knee, his thigh.

Your lips press against his hip, leaving loud, wet kisses all the way up until you reach his throat. “Four.”

Seungmin groans, his eyes open slowly as your thighs press into his sides, and your hands wrap around his neck. He feels the soft, warm leather press against his skin as you buckle it.

“How does that feel?”

He moves his head side to side and swallows. “No bell?”

“You get a bell if you’re a good pup.”

“So I do have a bell?” Proud of himself, and you haven’t even started. He beams up at you and cautiously runs a finger across the chain on his throat. “Feels nice.”

“Good boy. You can have your ten minutes.”

Seungmin meant it when he said he was tired. He slowly dozes off, but the smile on his face sticks. He looks cute when he’s sleeping, arms crossed over his stomach, fingers twitching. The collar looks good against his warm skin, and keeping your hands off of him is more difficult with each passing minute. Ten minutes go by, and then eleven, but instead of waking him, you lie down and wait.

Fifteen minutes, and then twenty…eventually, his eyes flutter open on their own, and he looks at you. “Did I fall asleep? I’m sorry.”

“You did, sleepyhead. How do you feel?”

His fingers close around his chain again, and he pulls until it’s snug around his throat. “Good.” Seungmin keeps his hands off when you straddle him, but he bucks his hips up on purpose. The sight of his cum slowly dripping from you makes his cock twitch, and he whines when he remembers he can’t take over this time.

It’s your turn. You push down and slide yourself onto is new erection. Twenty minutes of rest was plenty for him—his tip is already leaking pre-cum for you, and all you can think about is him filling you up again. He obeys when you tug at his collar; props himself up on his elbows, and licks his lips. He slips in so easily, and makes the sweetest sound when you grind your hips into his. “Good boy, give me a little bit…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah”

Seungmin groans when the collar tightens. His mouth hangs open, and his tongue pokes out as he grinds back, just enough. Your body starts to shake from the pleasure he’s giving you. “So…fuck,” your breath gets caught in your throat, and you let it out in a whimper. “My sweet puppy, you feel so…”

He bites his lip and smirks. Seungmin wants more of your praise. He likes it like this—you on top, his cum leaking as his cock stretches you more and more; the sound of how slick and tight you are around him. Your grip is driving him crazy, but he can last as long as you’re controlling the pace.

“How do you feel, pup?”

“So good…please don’t stop”

“Mmm, we could stay like this all night, but I want to drain you, over and over.” His eyes roll back when you grip his shoulders and pick up your pace. Seungmin’s hips relax. He doesn’t want to come yet no matter how much you want him to, and a tighter pull on his leash doesn’t make him obey. “Fuck me.”

His face turns soft and the puppy eyes come out. “Please.”

“I’m gonna wear you out. Up.” This time, the tug on his collar works. He props himself up on his palms for more leverage, and he whines when he thrusts into you. “Good…good boy.”

“I’m a good boy.”

“You’re mine.”

“I am…”

Another tug, and your lips graze his. This might send him over the edge. Seungmin can’t help but latch onto your mouth and kiss, messy and loud. “What do good boys do for me?”

His timing is perfect. The shake and stutter of his body, and the twitch of his cock as he empties into you puts him on his back again. Muscles in his stomach tighten and relax as he catches his breath, and eventually, he finds the strength to latch onto your thighs and squeeze. “I’m hungry.”

･ ⠄⠂⋆ ･ ⠄

After dinner, Seungmin is sleepy all over again. He doesn’t realize when he opens his eyes to yours that it’s after a long nap, because as soon as his body hit the bed, he was powerless against it. And you let him sleep.

“Hey,” he looks around the dark room, feels for you next to him, and he knows the soft mound he squeezes is you when you squeal. “Sorry, how long was I asleep?”

“About an hour.”

“Was that your ass?”

“Yeah, do it again.”

It tickles, and he likes the laugh he gets from you, so Seungmin crawls closer and does it a third time before moving upward and squeezing your hips, and waist.

You flip onto your back, and you can just make him out in the darkness as he hovers over you. “Are you still tired?”

He shrugs.

“I’ll take that as a yes…c’mere.”

Seungmin doesn’t hesitate. He comes down, buries his face in your neck, and slowly kisses his way up to your mouth. Lazy and wet, across your cheek and back down to your shoulder, his teeth graze over your ribs, and that tickles, too. He laughs when you do. “What if we just slept in all morning and missed work?”

“Both of us call off? Might seem suspicious…but—“

He pops up and stares down at you, “but?”

“One of the other managers noticed how often we’re together.”

“I bet I know which one.”

“Tall, ponytail…glasses that don’t suit her?”

Seungmin nods and mhm’s into another kiss. “I turned her down a few months ago, told her it wouldn’t look good if anyone found out. But I just wasn’t interested.”

“What makes me so special?”

“Is it bad that I…don’t know the answer to that?” The relief on his face cuts through the dark when you shake your head. Seungmin’s body relaxes even more. “You are, though. Special.”

“I’ll call off now, you call off in the morning. Maybe it won’t be as suspicious.”

[rafeovermorals]

CRUSH - RAFE CAMERON PT. 2

he looks like he works with his hands, and smells like marlboro reds it makes me so, uh, and i can’t get enough of it

pt. 1

content: inspired on the song crush by ethel cain. mechanic!rafe au. reader isn’t from obx but she would be considered more kook. includes smut, fingering, oral (m recieving), p in v, creampie, mean!rafe, degrading, age gap (reader is eighteen), MINORS DNI!!!!!

word count: 2.5k

a/n: this is the last part to this mini series (at least for now)! but next i want to work on a dbf!rafe series or a vampire!rafe series. if anyone is interested in either one of those stayed tuned xo

“come by the shop tomorrow, it’s time for you to pay up.”

the call ended with a click. no goodbye, no time to meet. rafe didn’t bother to ask you, no, he told you.

he didn’t feel like he had to, he knew you would show up. you were the type to listen to your elders.

you laid in bed with disbelief, fingers still coated in your slick post orgasm. it didn’t take you long to drift off thinking about him— the raspiness in his voice, his dirty words repeating back in your head,

“do you normally get off on strangers talkin’ to you like this, hm? lettin’ them cum to your sweet lil’ voice over the phone?”

you stirred in your sleep as you dreamt of him. rafe was rough around the edges with eyes of a predator— the type that should tell you to run— yet you wanted more.

maybe that’s why he picked you. the perfect prey, too sweet and dumb for her own good.

rafe was nothing like the boys back home. your last boyfriend was a gentleman, clean cut and charming, but he was probably just as clueless as you. he wouldn’t know the last thing about changing out a tire, and certainly didn’t know how to please you the way rafe just had.

just from your short encounters with him, you could tell he had experience well beyond your years. he came from a different world, one that consisted of labor intensive, twelve hour work days— while you had just finished high school, barely ever lifting a finger of your own.

you were restless until the sun came up.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thankfully, today your alarm did wake you up, and you had plenty of time to get ready.

you wore your favorite yellow babydoll dress for the occasion, the one with dainty frills at the skirt that paired perfectly with your brown cowgirl boots. you had matching bows in your hair, clipped at the end of two braided pieces in the front while the rest of draped past your shoulders.

you wanted to look extra pretty for rafe since he caught you so off guard the day before, though you hoped it didn’t look too obvious

butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you went up to the rusted doors of his shop, business card folded in hand.

‘Cameron’s Auto and Body Repair’ was spelt on the glass in aged, faded lettering surrounded by dilapidated brick. you began to wonder how long he’d been there for considering the buildings clear wear and tear, which then led you to question— how old was he?

you hadn’t thought to ask for his age, or really anything else beyond what was on the business card. guess you weren’t too worried about that when he was helping you cum last night.

you walked in, a bell ringing as you did so. even with multiple cars in the lot, the shop itself was empty of customers. there was one person propped up against the checkout register, scrolling on his phone until you spoke, “excuse me?”

“are y’ pickin’ up or droppin’ o— oh.“

his eyes tore away from the screen, bored expression quickly leaving his face as his gaze landed on you. he was suddenly interested, straightening his back and pushing his device off to the side. “sorry about that, how can i help you?”

you let out a giggle at his silliness, standing across from him behind the counter. you would assume he’s close in age with you based on his appearance— youthful face and golden locks peaking from his hat. you saw he had a name tag printed to his coveralls, jj.

“hi, i’m just here to make a payment, actually.”

he stared at you for a bit, eyebrows knitted and chin rested his hand. “and you’re sure you’ve been here before? i would’ve remembered a cute face like yours.”

a blush crept to your cheeks, shaking your head. “no, but i did have some work done yesterday.”

he fumbled through the visitor log, briefly scanning the pages of signatures. “hmm, and what’s your name?”

you weren’t sure if he was asking to actually check or just wanted to know for himself— probably the latter. “i don’t think it’ll be there but it’s-“

you stopped at the sound of a loud slam, finding the source to be rafe standing on the other side of the room. your breath hitched, seeing his eyes bore into you. he was not amused, you could tell.

“flirtin’ with our customers again, maybank?”

jj looked like he was caught red handed, swallowing in his throat. “umm, no, she uh— said she had an invoice and needed to pay. that’s all.” he responded nervously, looking at you with a plea to back his word.

“yes, i wasn’t sure where to go.. i just got here.”

jj flickered between the two of you as the tension was rising in the air. sure, his boss was a jackass, but he could tell he was missing something.

rafe hummed, gesturing his head to the door behind him with arms crossed over his chest. “you can come with me. and jj, go to fuckin’ lunch.”

you gave the younger boy a small smile. you could tell he wanted to speak up— maybe stop god knows whatever was about to happen— but he held his tongue. rafe didn’t take back talk very well, something you would learn soon.

you followed in rafe’s direction where he led you past the bay and into his office. it was a tiny space, smelled of oil and gasoline with just enough room for a few file cabinets. it also had a desk, scattered with various papers and a few tools that weren’t put away.

“sit.” he referred to the worn chair in front of him, leaning on the edge of his wooden desk.

he was wearing a tank top, what used to be white but was now brown from being covered in dirt. it had ripped at the seams from its overuse, making it more like a scrap of fabric. dusted blue jeans hung low on his hips with a belt, his grease stained arms flexing at his side as he looked down at you.

you felt yourself getting warm just by looking at him.

“i brought your payment, sir.”

he smirked at your words, raising a brow as he waited and watched you.

you reached into the cup of your bra, feeling around until you pulled out a wad of cash that you had stuck there earlier. you unrolled the paper bills, handing it over to him.

he counted it out with a low chuckle. “sixty dollars. you think that’s how much i’m worth, sweetheart?” he teased.

you turned red, fiddling with your bracelet from anxious habit. “i wasn’t sure how much something like that costed, ‘s all.”

“i already told y’that i don’t want your money.” he stood up, setting the cash aside. “i have other ways that i would prefer you to pay me back.”

he towered over you, filling in the compressed space. you were eye level with his crotch, the print of his cock made itself known to you through his pants. you could smell him with his proximity— a blend of sweat and cigarettes and musk that made your head spin.

“get on your knees, darlin’.” he told you with that thick, honey southern drawl.

for a moment he took you by surprise, but you didn’t hesitate to slide off the chair and onto the tile floor in front of his feet. you shouldn’t want this. you should want a nice boy, someone your father would approve of, or at the very least take you on a date before he fucked you. yet here you were, cock desperate and mouth agape— practically begging for it.

he started to take off his gloves. “thought you would’ve texted me when you were on the way, i could’ve washed up f’you.”

“i meant to.. i must’ve forgot.”

“it’s okay, sweetheart.” his voice was smooth, but condescending. he began to work his belt free, slow and deliberate as he held eye contact with you. “now you’re just gonna have to suck me clean.”

he tugs his jeans down with his boxers, cock springing out with authority. you nearly whimper at the sight, taken aback.

he was more than just big— he was longer and thicker than you imagined— the weight heavy in your hand has you held it. his tip was flushed, a needy pink that was inviting you in.

your lips brushed the head, giving him a kiss at its slit. he let out a restrained grunt, bringing a hand to your head and grasping at the scalp. “not in the mood for teasing, baby.”

your tongue grazed his shaft, licking up from the base until he directed himself into your mouth. he tasted like a hard days work, sweat and salty precum whelming your tastebuds.

you pushed deeper for more, bracing your free hand on his thigh for support. he guides you, inch by inch into until he hit the back of your throat. you choke, pulling away.

“fuck,” you gasp out, jerking your wrist on his length while you catch your breath. he weaved his fingers through your hair, giving it a tug.

you take him in again, bobbing at a steady pace— not too far or fast— but just right.

he held his other hand on the corner of a cabinet, keeping his balance while you swirl your tongue around the tip.

“you like the taste of dirty cock in your mouth, sweetheart? i’m sure y’daddy’s real proud of you, huh?”

you moaned in response, making him buck his hips further. you could feel his legs trembling as he fucked your mouth, signaling that he was close. you relaxed your throat, ready to take his load.

but he stopped, releasing his hold on you and taking you off.

his once blue eyes were black, dark with lust and something almost evil.

“not finished with you yet, sweetheart. think i deserve a little more after that stunt you pulled out there.”

“w-what- what do you mean?” you asked, your voice soft and uneasy. you could hardly speak, let alone think.

he tisked, snatching you by the arm to get you on your feet before bending you over and pressing you down to the desk. he cleared it off with one smooth motion, stacks of paper and metal clanks hitting the floor.

“wanna act stupid now? throwin’ yourself at my employee’s, that’s what.” he growled, hands riding up your dress and grabbing at your ass. you stifled a whine as he kneaded the flesh, thumbs digging into your skin.

heat radiated off of both of you, his chest twice your size folded against your back, your cheek smushed to the wood.

“it wasn’t- ah- like that.” you breathe out as his fingers find your panties, swiping over your clothed clit.

“so what was it like then? hmm?” he nudged his knee between your thighs, parting your legs for better access. he rubbed tedious circles, your arousal soaking through the cotton.

“i came here for you.. just you.” you answered in a moan.

“just me.” he agreed, tugging off your panties and tucking them into his pocket. he slipped his middle finger past your folds, sinking into your cunt.

“shouldn’t even be stretchin’ you out first, think you did enough of that when i called you.”

he curled the digit, hooking and flicking it inside you in a spot that makes your knees buckle underneath him. you bite down on a lip to silence yourself.

rafe was impatient. he’d already had a bad day— behind on some repair that should’ve been finished weeks ago— then his lazy ass staff had the audacity to make a move on you. he needed you now.

maybe if he was in a better mood he would’ve taken care of you first, given you an orgasm or two with his mouth— but he didn’t think you deserved that— not today at least.

his cock wedged into your entrance, no mercy with a full thrust. you winced, crying out as he rocked into you, the mix of your spit and slick still not enough to relieve the pain of his girth. you were so tight, your walls gripping his cock as he fucked himself into you.

“such a good girl, takin’ me so well.”

the burn eventually wore off, his thrusts that started off slow began to speed up. you were still squeezing around him, splitting you open farther than you had been before.

your search along the desk for something to grab, getting him to hold both your wrists behind your back. you balled your hands into a fist, your whimpers getting louder as he picked up the pressure. harder, controlled.

he was slamming into you now, the slaps of his thighs meeting yours while he grunted into your ear. “look so fuckin’ pretty today, darlin’, makes me wanna put my babies in you.”

you couldn’t reply, he knew it too. you just had to lay there and let him use you— for pay back.

this was exactly what he wanted. your pussy was so wet and warm, practically untouched. it was as if you were created for him.

you clenched around his cock, like an animal in heat you found yourself matching his movements, your body accepting its purpose.

you were cock drunk, words inaudible as the legs of the desk shifted with each forceful thrust. he was pounding into you hungrily, both of your faces screwing up in pleasure.

he knew he grazed that sweet spot in your walls when you fluttered around his length, stickiness pooling at the base of his cock.

“wanna watch you cum on my cock.” he grumbles, releasing your wrists as he pulls away, flipping you over to be face to face.

he picked up where he left off, plunging into you as he met your hips with sloppy, frantic thrusts. you were so weak by that point he had to hold your legs up, toes curling when his tip connected with your cervix.

“gonna cum- please, rafe- fuck, right there.” you were a babbling mess, mewling like a kitten.

he brought one hand to your mouth. stuffing his fingers in to shush you like a pacifier. his other hand went to your swollen clit, rubbing the sensitive bud to help get to your climax.

he coaxed you through it. “cmon, just like that. i know you’re almost there, sweetheart.”

he rammed into you a few more times, watching his bulge outline your little tummy as you took him.

your core eventually snaps, releasing the flood as you squirm and shake— too much to bare.

“too much! too much!”

“nuh uh. be a big girl, and take it.”

he started to stutter, eventually spilling his load inside of you. your cunt pulsated as you felt him fill you up, like it was trying to collect all of his seed.

rafe moved aside, zipping up his jeans while you flattened your dress. he gave you a kiss on the cheek, like one you would give to a child, patting it afterwards in approval.

“now we’re even.”

[a-babe-without-a-name]

Sit Next To Me

Chapter 6: Only For You

You had created two rules for yourself.

Rule One: You could do whatever you wanted. Get the degree you want, party when you want, cancel plans when you want, love who you want. Whatever you really wanted to do, you were going to do, anxiety and guilt free.

Rule Two: You could do whatever you wanted, except for have relationships with classmates. No sex, no dating. If they were on the same course roster as you, they were off limits.

Easy enough, right?

…Right?

Viktor x Female!Reader - 18+

A.N. I saw 'sorry this took so long' for every chapter, but this is probably the one with the biggest gap. I'm semi-sorry , semi-not because this is the longest chapter I've written so far (14.3k words). It's also 3 am, but I am determined to post. So here it is. I hope everyone loves it. Very mild content warnings on AO3. Have fun, I love you all dearly <3 (more author notes may appear in the replies)

A link to the playlist for this chapter is in the replies!

EDIT: Shout out to @cicadastoner for letting me ramble some ideas to them and figure things out.

Read on AO3

October officially ushered out the last days of summer. Replacing the sunny days with falling leaves and the excitement of a fresh semester with mid-term blues. Unlike all the past semesters, you were fairly unbothered this term. Of your courses, only Hiemerdinger’s class had an official midterm exam. The rest didn’t bother and instead continued assignments as normal. It was clear you were one of the few to be spared the anxieties. 

Viktor had gotten to class before you. You found him glaring down at the textbook in front of him and tugging his normally neat hair into a mess of cowlicks, his leg jumping like it was trying to run away from his body. As you got closer to him, you could tell that he wasn’t exactly looking at anything in particular. Just staring at the table, the muscles around his eyes twitching almost imperceptibly and the soft skin darker than you had ever seen it.

“Morning,” You said, sliding into your seat next to him, waiting for a response that didn’t come. You tilted your head at him, lips pursed, “Viktor?”

Nothing. You felt bad thinking about how pretty he looked when he was upset. The already strong lines of his face were that much more prominent, his eyes were darker, his whole demeanor more intense. He let out a shaky breath through his nose, still seemingly unaware of your presence.

“Viktor?” You asked again, then reached out and placed a firm hand on his knee, stopping the motion, “Vik?”

He sucked in a harsh breath, turning to you with wide eyes. He blinked a few times, registering where he was.

“Sorry,” He shook his head lightly, heaving a sigh before saying your name, “Goodmorning.”

“Are you okay?” You squeezed his knee, still shaking slightly, “Did you get any sleep last night?”

“Uh, yeah,” He straightened up, placing his palm over the back of your hand, “Yeah, no I didn’t, I guess, sorry.”

“You’re starting to sound like me,” You joked, laughing softly, “Sorry, sorry. What’s up? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this anxious?”

“Your American habits are rubbing off on me,” He pulled his hand away and ran it through his hair, he leaned into the back of his chair.

“Really, what’s got you all worked up?” You tried to think if he had mentioned anything coming up that would cause this reaction, “You only have the one midterm test, right? Please tell me you aren’t worried about Heimerdinger's test.”

He hesitated for a moment, picking at the edge of the table and not looking up at you, “And if I said I was?”

“Then I’d tell you that’s dumb and you are the last person that should be worried about this test,” You told him, leaning forward to try to catch his gaze. He met your eyes, seemingly unconvinced. You leaned farther into his space, hoping he believed you when you urged, “Seriously, I mean it.”

He rolled his eyes in response, but fought back a smile as he gently pushed you away, a laugh slipping past his lips, “Okay, whatever you say.”

“If you want help studying, I’m always around,” You teased, “Not like you need it, but still.”

“Well, if I need someone to tell me the wrong pages to study, I’ll keep you in mind,” He teased, smirking over at you.

“Hey, that was one time,” You pouted, face going red thinking about when you had given him the completely wrong chapter to complete homework on.

Before Viktor could reply, Jinx and Ekko arrived at the table holding two more coffees than usual.

“Good morning my lovely lab partners,” Jinx said, extra bubbly as she set the two extra cups down in front of you and Viktor, “My birthday gifts for you.”

“Happy birthday, Jinx,” You smiled up at her as you took the drink, “Thank you.”

“Happy birthday,” Viktor repeated, picking up the cup curiously, “Why do you bring us gifts?”

“Family tradition,” Jinx shrugged as she took her seat, “Spiced anise latte for you, and a cherry mocha for you.”

“Yeah, Vi will do it too, when it’s her birthday,” You told him

“Hm, that’s very sweet. Thank you, Jinx,” He lifted his own cup to his lips. 

“Of course, my gift to everyone else is going to be the best concert and after party this town has ever seen,” Dramatic as ever, “You’re coming to our show, right Vicky?”

“I’m only letting you call me that because it’s your birthday,” Viktor scolded, “Yes, I should be able to come.”

“Should?” You scoffed, hitting him lightly on the leg, “Don’t be lame, you have to come. What else would you be doing?”

He shrugged, “Studying? Working on research?”

“No way,” Ekko said, shaking his head seriously, “You have to come, you’d actually be the worst lab partner in the world if you didn’t show up.”

“Yeah, literally the worst,” Jinx nodded, equally as serious, “We might have to drop you from the group.”

“Yeah, sure.” He rolled his eyes, looking to you for backup.

“Hey, It’s my show, too,” You pointed out, poking him in the chest as you fought back a smile,  “I agree, you don’t come and you're out.”

“Fine, I’ll make sure to be there.” He laughed, waving you away from him.

“Early? And front and center?” You raised an eyebrow.

“Yes ma’am.” He nodded firmly, “It seems my grade depends on it.”

“Sure does,” You told him, glad he seemed to be relieved of his undue test worries. 

------

The rest of class was fairly calm. Jinx made sure to tell as many people as she could about the show, and the ones she liked about the party afterwards. Friday classes were lecture only and Heimerdinger reached the end of his presentation before even that allotted time was up. Everyone was grateful to be released early. As soon as he dismissed the class Jnx was up, practically dragging Ekko behind her on the way to whatever else she had going on today.

“You have plans before the show tonight?” You asked, bumping your shoulder into Viktor’s lightly as everyone filed out of the classroom.

“Other than reading the textbook front to back?” Viktor scoffed, “No.”

“Good, instead of stressing yourself out so much that you take years off your life,” You joked, “Come run some errands with me? I’m picking up a looper from someone on craigslist, and if you're with me the chances that I get human trafficked go down significantly.”

You followed him into the elevator, “Unfortunately, I do not believe I could actually protect you.”

You leaned against the wall as he hit the button for the first floor, you shrugged, “Eh, it’s more about having a witness than actually getting in a fight.” When the doors slid shut without anyone else inside, you moved closer to him. 

“Besides,” You hooked a finger into the belt loop on the back of his jeans, and pulled him flush against you. He gasped softly, looking over his shoulder as you pushed yourself into your toes and rested your chin against his shoulder. One hand was holding the back of his jeans, the other on his waist, “I’m strong enough to take care of myself.”

The curve of his throat jumped as he swallowed hard. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You watched his face redden in real time, the tips of his ears the darkest. 

“Uh, s-so,” He tried, voice catching before he cleared his throat, “your car or mine?”

You laughed and gave him some space. By the time you reached the ground floor, you were acting innocent as ever and he looked like he had just strolled through the Red District. 

“I’ll drive,” You told him, “I’ve gotta pick up Ekko’s drums anyways, I’ll get you from your place in like thirty?”

“That is good,” He nodded, then he furrowed his eyebrows, glancing down at the ground and back at you, “Why…why did you do that?”

“Got you to stop thinking about the midterm, didn’t it?” You said innocently as you backed away from him towards the side door of the building, “Go home, I’ll see you in a minute.”

-----

You were the most grateful for Viktor coming along when you realized that your only way to reach the apartment building without having to walk a mile was to parallel park. You knew your truck front and back. You have driven practically every day since you earned your license, put thousands of miles on it. Despite this, parallel parking was not a skill in your repertoire. 

“I’m gonna be real honest with you,” You said, truck angled awkwardly half into the spot, “I don’t know how to parallel park.”

“Eh, yes, I have gathered that,” He looked nervously over his shoulder at the traffic slowing and pulling around the front of the truck.

“I’ll just, uh, yeah I’ll just find somewhere else to park,” You laughed nervously, avoiding eye contact with other drivers.

“Wait, here, just calm down,” Viktor undid his seat belt and slid across the bench seat to be next to you, “You can do this, It’s not that hard.”

“Easy for you to say,” You mutter, now overly aware how close he was.

“Hush,” He scolded, and then, “Pull out of the spot, line up with the car in front of us.”

“But I’m already half-way in?” You challenged, hands tight on the steering wheel.

“God above! Will you just do what I tell you for two seconds?” He dragged a hand down his face, voice low. Before you could answer, he grabbed the gearshift and put the car into drive, “Pull. Forward.”

You did as he asked, hoping he contributed the blush creeping up your neck to anxiety. Once you were lined up with the car in front, he let out a sigh, apparently relieved you decided to cooperate.

“Okay, good,” He reached up and put the truck into reverse, “Now back up and pull the wheel right.” You nodded, following his instructions.

“Slowly,” He told you, leaning over to look out the window, muttering half to you half to himself, “There you go, just like that.”

The tone of his voice made you bite down on your lip, grateful he wasn’t looking at you in this moment, “Is that good?”

“Almost,” He said, voice softer as he focused, “Almost there, just a little more right…good now straighten out and pull forward a little bit.”

You did and then hesitated, unsure if you were actually in the spot. He reached over and put the truck into park. 

“There, you did it,” He said leaning closer to the side of your face and huffing out a laugh, voice teasing “I thought you were an independent girl, huh?”

“Excuse you,” You scoffed at him, “I am! I just haven't gained the skill of parallel parking yet.”

  He laughed at the shrug you gave him, “Okay, well, I hope you were paying attention, because next time I’m making you do it on your own.”

You rolled your eyes at him, pulling the keys from the ignition, “Yeah, no I’ve definitely got it down now.”

That was a lie. 

You grabbed your bag and gestured for him to slide out of the truck, following him out the passenger side. The sidewalk was fairly busy, the mid-Friday crowd bustling from downtown shops to restaurants. You stuck close to Viktor, squinting around as you tried to find the right building.

“This guy was supposed to meet me down here,” You huffed, rolling your eyes, “But now apparently he’s too busy to walk down to meet us.”

“What’s the address?” He asked, looking over your shoulder as you pulled up the texts on your phone.

“890 Piltover Main, Unit Seven.” You read from the text, “We’re on the right road and I think it’s on this side.”

Viktor began walking looking at the building numbers, “890, right? This should be it.”

You followed him into an entry alcove, the address number almost completely hidden by ivy growing on the wall. You buzzed apartment seven on the intercom. It only took a moment before the door unlocked with a thunk. 

“Trusting guy,” Viktor mused, pushing open the door for you.

You shrugged, leading the way to the elevator. It was small and creaked when you both stepped inside. You exchanged a worried glance with Viktor. Any other time you would take the stairs, but you weren’t going to leave him to die in the scary elevator alone. You didn’t linger inside when the door squeaked open on the second floor. 

It wasn’t until you knocked on the door that you realized you had lost Viktor. You looked back down the hall to see him stopped in front of a frame on the wall, examining it closely. Before you could ask what he was doing the door swung open. A mid-thirties man stood in the doorway, unfortunately shirtless, an array of poorly done tattoos on display. He leaned on the doorway, cheap cologne making your eyes burn.

“Hey, uh, I’m here for the looper,” You told him, resisting the urge to scrunch your nose at the smell and ignoring the way his eyes scanned over you.

“Oh yeah, I’ve been expecting you,” He said, crossing his arms and adjusting the way he was leaning, an attempt to look more casual, “You’re late.”

“Yeah, sorry, parking was a bitch.” You said, pulling cash out of your pocket, “Twenty, right?”

“Yep,” He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, his eyes decidedly not on your face, “You want to come in and test it?” 

“No, that’s okay.” You shook your head, glancing over to where Viktor was very unhelpfully down the hall, face close to the glass as he focused.

“Are you sure?” He asked, turning around and leaving the door open, an invitation you weren't taking.

“Vik,” You hissed when the guy was out of earshot. Viktor’s head snapped up, realizing you had gone ahead without him, you waved him over. Quickly he made his way down the hall toward you, his cane echoing each footstep on the warped wood flooring.

“Sorry,” He said, sheepishly ducking his head.

“It’s fine,” You whispered, slipping your hand into his, “but, I did bring you with me for a reason.”

You waited a moment for the man to return. He faltered when he found you still in the doorway with Viktor next to you, his eyes bouncing down to your hand in his. 

“Sorry, I thought you were behind me.” He said, eyeing Viktor like a threat. The looper in his hand.

“No worries,” You held the cash out to him casually, “Here ya go.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to come in and test it?” He asked, staring at your face, “Make sure it works right?”

“You wouldn’t offer her to test it, ” Viktor interjected, voice low as he raised an eyebrow at the man, “if you knew it didn’t work.”

“Hm, well, I could teach her how to use it.” He said, pointedly.

“I know how to use it,” You assured him, holding your hand out for the equipment, “Thanks anyways.”

When he didn’t hand it over, Viktor took the twenty out of your hand, reaching over and placing the cash in the man's free hand and firmly taking the looper out of the other.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” He said tightly, eyes narrow.

Neither of you waited for a response before turning to leave. You took the looper from him, holding it in one hand and looping your arm through his. Letting him lead you down the hall.

“I agree with Jayce,” He leaned over and whispered, “Don’t ever do this alone, please.”

“Don’t let me do it alone, then,” You told him with a shrug, “Why’d you stop anyways?”

“Blue prints,��� He nodded, slowing to a stop in front of the fame he had been looking at earlier, “Old, I’m surprised it’s not kept somewhere safer.”

The blueprints were of the building you were in and the two on either side. They were indeed very old, probably original ones from when the area was first built.

“Hm, cool,” You mused, then teased him, “I’m glad you stopped to look at these instead of keeping me from being murdered.”

“I’m sorry,” He whined, following you as you hit the elevator button, “I forgot that I was to be your guard dog today.”

“If you want to be my guard dog every day,” You teased, squeezing his bicep where your hand still rested, “You won’t forget next time.”

------

The next stop was a music store. Ekko generally managed to break at least one stick during rehearsals, you predicted he’d break a couple more in the heat of the show tonight, and you had been meaning to restring your guitar for a couple weeks now. Better late than never. The store was only a few blocks from where you picked up the looper. You had offered to drive, but Viktor insisted that walking was less painful than watching you attempt to parallel park for a second time that day. Despite the dig, the short walk with Viktor was pleasant. You had reluctantly dropped your hands from his arm, but stuck close to him while you walked. Comfortably talking about nothing important. 

Inside the music store you wandered through the aisles, Viktor trailing you as you searched for the few things you had come in for. Finding the drumsticks wasn’t hard, but you quickly realized you should have asked for more specifics from Ekko on which ones to pick up for him. He had mentioned the brand, but nothing about what size or wood type to get. Even within the brand he wanted, you were left with dozens of options. You sent him a text and began reading the packaging of the sticks, hoping that would give you some idea of what to look for. 

“They’re just sticks,” You exasperated, squinting at the packaging in your hand, “This should not be so complicated.”

You set them down, deciding that you’d find the strings you needed while waiting for Ekko to text you back. When you turned, you were surprised to find that Viktor had strayed away. He was standing in front of one of the test keyboards, cane tucked under his arm and head bent as he played. You hadn’t even registered the sound until you saw him. You watched him for a moment. His hands moved with a practiced skill. Tufts of chestnut hair fell over his forehead, almost covering his eyes as he played. Every couple of measures he would close his eyes, eyebrows furrowed for a moment as he tilted his head to the side and thought about the chords as he played them, lips parted gently. You took a photo before he could notice, making a mental note to save it into the folder overflowing with candids of your friends. 

He had pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows. You moved closer, watching the muscles of his forearms flex and move as his fingers pressed against the keys. 

“I didn’t know you played,” You said as his hands came to a slow stop.

“Eh, I used to,” His shoulder lifted in a small shrug, “I don’t really anymore.”

“You’re very good,” You took another step closer, looking up at his face that was still cast down at the keys. There was the faintest line between his eyebrows, a tightness behind his eyes, “Why don’t you play anymore?”

“Have I ever mentioned I grew up Catholic?” He asked, placing his cane back against the ground and straightening up. He adjusted his weight, nudging slightly closer to you. Close enough that you had to tip your head back slightly to keep eye contact. 

“No,” You shook your head, a little surprised at the sudden information, “I didn’t know that.”

“Yep, full-blooded Roman Catholic,” He clicked his tongue against his teeth and pulled in slow breath, “Are you religious? Do you know about Catholicism?”

“No,” You shook your head, you could count the times you remember going to church on one hand, “Not really. I mean, Joan of Arc was a saint, right? That’s probably all I know.”

“Yes, Joan of Arc was indeed a saint,” He laughed softly, “The cut and dry of it is that humans are inherently sinful by nature. It’s the way we are created and we must spend every moment of our lives atoning for that.”

He scoffed, shaking his head at the ground, “We are told that we deserve the bad that happens to us. That it is our fault…and when you are nine and different, that concept is a particularly deep cut.”

His hand tightened around the handle of his cane, the smooth wood creaking slightly. You reached out without thinking, fingers circling around his wrist. You held him gently, thumb smoothing over the pulse on the inside of his wrist, urging him to relax. 

“So, instead of helplessly sitting through mass every week, I learned to play piano,” He shrugged like it was obvious, “My mother was thrilled that I was involving myself in the church, and by the time I was eleven I managed to sit at the piano every service and just…tune out. I pretended to listen, did what was asked, spent hours each week learning uninteresting melodies. All in an effort to escape the myriad of adults in my life telling me that if I served God, if I prayed hard enough, confessed my sins, I would be cured.”

He said the last word like a slur, corners of his mouth pulled down in a scowl, eyes distant. It made your heart sink. The image of him as a child, berated by religion. You resisted the urge to reach up and smooth the hurt on his face. You opted instead to move your hand up his arm, giving a gentle squeeze to the back of his forearm. The motion was enough to bring him back to the present. He sucked in a sharp breath, almost stepping back as he shook his head.

“I’m sorry,” A rueful laugh split past his lips, and he cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, you didn’t ask about that. Um, I learned to play when I was a kid for a purpose. I don’t need to play anymore, so I don’t. That’s it.”

“Hey, no, don’t apologize.” You held him where he was as he tried to move away, “Thank you for telling me that… I’m sure it’s not fun to talk about,” You scoffed lightly, knowing full well you avoided conversations about aspects of your childhood like the plague, “and I know it probably doesn’t help, but for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

He cast a sad look down at you. Doubtful.

“Really, listen, I know you didn’t ask my opinion,” You laughed softly, squeezing his arm again, “But I think that is incredibly fucked up, and I’m sorry you had to go through that, and I’m glad that you found something to help you through it.”

He let out a huff through his nose and was chewing on the inside of his lip, clearly nervous. You could tell that he felt exposed, let himself be vulnerable without meaning to. You stepped closer and looped an arm around his waist, turning the both of you towards the piano.

“What were you playing?” You asked, hoping to set him at ease, “It was very pretty.”

“Oh, uh, it was Leoš Janáček,” He told you, tension releasing from his shoulders as you leaned into him, “He’s one of the more well known composers of Czechia.”

He played the first few notes again, slowly, “Naše večery, it’s the first piece in a piano cycle. Written around…1900 I believe.”

“Hm, it’s beautiful,” You greeted the way he relaxed into you as he played, your hand resting gently against his waist as you watched his hands move, “Naše večery…what does that mean?”

“Our Evenings,” He told you, “It would sound better on a true piano.”

“Oh, well, be careful what you wish for,” You joked, looking up at his face with a smirk on his lips, “If you find one to play at, I’ll make you play the whole cycle.”

“You have an hour to spare, just for me?” He joked, raising an eyebrow at you under his arm.

“Always,” You rolled your eyes, laughing like it was a joke. Laughing like you wouldn’t drop everything in a heartbeat for him if he asked.

A well-timed phone call prevented you from thinking too much about that fact. You didn’t move away from him when you picked it up.

“Hey, did you get them already?” Ekko’s voice asked on the other end.

“Oh, no I was waiting for you to text,” You pulled the phone away and realized he had replied, several times, “Sorry, I got distracted. Which ones do you want?”

You tried to hide your disappointment as you pulled away from Viktor. You could hear him trailing behind you as you moved back to where the sticks were. 

You grabbed the sticks he wanted (a pack of hickory, and a pair of oak to test), the strings you needed for your guitar, and a neon pink bass strap as a gift for Jinx. All the while Viktor hovered near your side, fingers brushing against your waist or the inside of your wrist. It wasn’t clear why until you reached the counter to pay. When the teenage cashier made eye contact with your chest first, you realized why Viktor hooked his arm strongly around your waist. You watched the kid take notice of Viktor’s presence, glancing away quickly as he met Viktor’s gaze. You pretend not to notice why his head stayed down for the rest of the interaction.

“Don’t tell her I said this,” You said lowly as you walked away from the counter, still firmly in Viktor’s grasp, “but you’re certainly a better guard dog than Lest.”

He made a triumphant little noise in the back of his throat and squeezed your waist as  you walked to the truck.

-----

The rest of the afternoon had been easy enough. Back at the house, Jayce helped you load Ekko’s drums and the rest of the equipment needed for tonight into the back of your truck. Viktor helped you double and triple check your list to guarantee nothing had been forgotten. At The Last Drop, Vander and Sevika had been kind enough to help you set up the stage, something you had allotted a couple hours to when you thought you’d be doing it yourself. You even had time to go all the way back to your dorm to shower and change properly. 

The stage was set. The party was ready for after. Jinx and Ekko were on time. Soundcheck went smoothly. The bar had filled up. The sky above the outdoor stage was clear. Everything was great. So great, in fact, that you hadn’t even the notion to be anxious. Not until right now.

You let out a nervous laugh, thrown off guard by the tears that pricked at your eyes and the ways your hands shook. You bent over, steading your hands against your thighs and trying to calm yourself down. You tried to focus on the lowkey sound of the opening duo. From the backside of the speakers, their acoustics were drowned out by the rumble of the large and still growing crowd in front of the stage. It filled your ears coupled with the rush of blood, making your head spin. You tried to think of the things your dad had taught you growing up. Grounding exercise to pull you out of a panic attack. It was too loud, though. You couldn't focus on the timing of each breath or your surroundings. Even in the open space behind the outdoor stage you felt caged in, like the sky was pressing into your back. 

You forced your eyes open. Focusing on what you could see in your direct vision. The hem of your skirt, first, the flowy fabric brushing against the bottom of your shins. Then your hightops, the black canvas well worn in and pen marks covering the dirty rubber. The laces were looped around your ankles, keeping them secured tighter than they needed to be. You shifted, feeling the gravel crunch beneath your soles. Dark rocks made to let water drain into the earth below instead of pooling. You reached down and picked a small one up just as a hand came to rest against the curve of your back.

“You doing okay?” It was Ekko, voice soft as he checked in.

“Huh? Oh, yeah I’m okay,” You straightened, hoping your voice was more convincing out loud than it was in your head. You realized there wasn’t a good reason to lie to Ekko of all people, “Sorry, just nerves, ya know.”

“Why?” He asked, hand falling to his side.

“Why what?” You tilted your head.

“Why are you nervous?” He prodded.

“I…I don’t know,” You shrugged, “Because I am.”

“That’s a horrible answer. Really, what do you have to be nervous about?” He scoffed before going into a laundry list, “You know the songs front to back, we’ve practiced everything a hundred times, sound check went fine, the crowd is full of our friends, and your hair looks great.”

He flipped a hand through your hair dramatically then placed both big hands on your shoulders.

“This is supposed to be fun.” He said seriously, then began shaking you around by the shoulders until you started laughing, he cracked a smile, “This. Will. Be. Fun.”

“Stop Ekko, stop!” You laughed, grabbing his wrists and trying to break free, “Fine, fine. I’m not nervous anymore, happy?”

“Good,” He slung an arm over your shoulder, weighing you down, “Because we’re on in like five minutes.”

“Fuck,” You gasped, looking towards the stage.

Before you could descend back into panic, Jinx was barreling towards you and Ekko. She threw her arms around both of you, shoving her head between yours and Ekko’s and hugging you tight enough to hurt. 

“I am so excited!” Jinx was practically vibrating as she pulled away, hands still on both of you, “This is going to be so fun!”

Jinx thrived on adrenaline. Her energy was overpowering. It was impossible to not let it infect you, something you were glad for. You felt the nervous energy leech from your bones. A shaky excitement taking its place. 

“You ready?” Ekko asked her, unwinding himself from your side and playing his hands on her shoulders, she nodded eagerly, “You have picks in your pocket?”

She reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out an absurd amount of picks. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she managed to go through most of them during the show. Ekko nodded affirmingly then pulled her into his chest, strong arms flexing as he held her tight, speaking just to her. 

You smiled fondly at the couple and moved away to get yourself ready. Your freshly restringed guitar was waiting on the stage. You had picks in your pocket. Your water was filled. You had eaten. Your shoes were tied. You were physically as ready as you could be.

‘This will be fun,’ you told yourself. You loved playing, especially with Jinx and Ekko. Performing wasn’t necessarily your favorite thing in the world, but you had a good time during your few shows over the  summer. Your friends were right in the front. Jayce and Mel and Lest and…and Viktor. You realized that the thought of him watching you made you nervous. What a stupid feeling to have. What a childish feeling to have. Nervous about doing something in front of a boy like you were 14 or something. He had already seen you play. Multiple times, even. Him and Jayce frequently set up in the garage while you and the others rehearsed. 

Even early today he had twirled calmly on a stool in the garage, watching you intently as you tested the second hand loop pedal. He had never given you a reason to be nervous under his eyes. Still, you wondered what he would think seeing you actually on stage. Would he think you looked awkward? Uncomfortable and out of place on stage. Maybe you’d be too stiff, or too loose even. You wanted to claw your hair out. Before you could dwell on the idea any longer, Jinx grabbed you by the hand, dragging you quickly to the stage stairs.

“Ready? She asked, eyes glowing.

You took a heavy breath, twisting your sneaker into the gravel to ground yourself. You gave a nod and a smile that you hoped didn’t look forced, “As we’ll ever be.”

The opener bounced off stage, wishing Jinx a happy birthday and the rest of you good luck. Jinx went first onto stage, you and Ekko only a few steps behind her. She was on the mic in an instant. You vaguely listened to her as you set up your guitar, grateful for the moments it took to plug into the amp and test the strings. You took a few deep breaths, checking that the setlist and equipment around your feet were still secured down before glancing up. The crowd was luckily obscured past the first ten feet, the lights on you not giving you much visibility. You did catch sight of your friends, right where they said they’d be in the front row. Viktor was between Lest and Jayce, watching you. You blinked at him, giving a weak smile. He gave a strong one in return, all pretty teeth and encouragement. You were surprised how much it put you at ease. You let out a heavy breath and felt yourself relax again, in a way that you were sure would last. 

You glanced over to Jinx, tuning in as you adjusted the height of your mic. 

“Just in case you don’t know,” Jinx said to the crowd, bass held around her neck by the new strap you had bought her,  “Today is my twenty-first fucking birthday!”

The crowd cheered for her. Shouts of ‘happy birthdays’ and dramatic ‘we love yous’ thrown her way. You laughed as she basked in the attention, falsely waving them away.

“And to celebrate that!” Jinx said into the mic, then paused to lean down to one of the amps, pulling out three sealed plastic cups. She went back to the mic, “With the company of my beautiful bandmates, I’m gonna do my first shot.” Then lower away from the mic, “legally.”

Ekko climbed down from his drum platform, letting Jinx hand him one of the premade shots before she bounded over to give you yours. It was one of those twisted shots, blue and pink liquor separated by a swirl of plastic. 

“A pornstar shot, really?” You laughed into the mic, looking over at Jinx.

“Hey! They’re pink and blue!” Jinx defended, also speaking into the mic, letting the conversation be part of the performance, “I’ve gotta stay on brand.”

You shrugged in agreement, peeling off the foil top and sniffing it experimentally. They brought back freshman year memories of dorm parties and running around campus in the dark. Jinx settled next to you, slightly in front to keep from hitting you with the neck of her bass. 

She lifted her shot, you and ekko mimicking the motion, “To a good show and an after party none of us remember,” The crowd in front of you lifted whatever drinks they had as the three of you downed the shots. The overly sweet alcohol made your nose burn. Jinx laughed, taking in the cheers as the three of you retake your proper spots on stage.

“Now let’s get this show fucking started,” Jinx plucked a few strings on her bass, testing the sound. She looked over to you and when you gave a confirming nod, she gave the same look to Ekko. He set the tempo on the drum for a few beats, counting down verbally before you and Jinx joined in. Together playing the opening to Darla by Vundabar.

Once your hands were on the strings and the chords poured from the speaker towards the crowd, any worry you had was gone. You felt light, high almost, as you played. Moving around to the beat of the song, mouthing half the lyrics to yourself as Jinx sang them.

After the first song, all three of you were in it. Any drop of uncertainty leaching out with the sweat on your skin as you played. It was easy, you floated through the setlist, hands knowing the chords and timing perfectly. You played and sang your back up vocals, taking control of a full verse here and there. It wasn’t until the middle of the set that the attention was fully on you. An almost original song. A derivative work technically, lyrics written by Ekko set to a slightly altered composition of a Dystopia song.

Jinx was in love with this one, she had coaxed her dad into letting her play with the lighting just a little bit. The light dimmed slowly as you set for the song, adjusting settings on amps and Ekko preparing extra sticks. You plucked a cigarette out of the pack in your pocket, placing it in your lips as you crouched down on the edge of the stage. Right in front of Viktor.

You didn’t say anything, just rested your guitar in your lap and let the bottom of your skirt pool against the ground around you. You didn’t need to search for eye contact, it was there in an instant. Only seconds later when he was stepping closer and holding a flame up to you. You didn’t look away from him when you took the drag and blew the smoke down to his face.

Without so much as a word you stood back to the audience as the lights reached their end, only blue spotlights on you, Jinx, and Ekko remaining. The chords rang out exactly as you had wanted them, low and haunting as Ekko shimmered the cymbals of his set. This was your favorite song to play. Your favorite to practice, to show off to people. 

It felt good to play it in front of everyone. Felt better knowing how you were playing in front of him.

------

That feeling carried you to the end of the show. Carried you even when Viktor politely moved to the bar at the back of the crowd to lean against a stool. He gave a reassuring wave from where he sat, knuckles pressing into his thigh. Carried you through breakdown, carried you to your truck packed with gear, carried you to the Rune Street house where the boys unloaded you truck while you changed in Cait’s room. 

Carried you until you finally stopped moving. You leaned against the kitchen sink, body heavy as you sipped at a solo cup of tap water. You took slow breaths, staring at a spot on the floor as you tried to bring yourself back up from the ground. The excited and already intoxicated people around you did nothing to help. You stayed in the twilight zone until a pale hand waved in front of your face. 

“Visiting another universe tonight?” Viktor asked as you snapped your head up to look at him.

“Sorry,” You shook your head, blinking like you had just woken from sleep, “Sorry, I just…zoned out.”

“Hm, well welcome back,” He laughed softly, moving closer to you as someone tried to squeeze around his back to get through the kitchen. He stayed close even when the person was gone, he even leaned in further. Shouting over the music,  “You did great tonight. You played incredibly.”

“Thank you, that’s very sweet,” You smiled up at him, still feeling weak.

He caught on quickly, steadying a hand on your shoulder, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” You tried to wave it off, he narrowed his eyes at you, “I’m just tired is all, kinda crashing.”

“That’s reasonable,” He frowned, then pulled away, just enough to fish a silver key from his pocket and hold it out to you, “My room is the only one that locks, you can crash in there for a bit if you’d like.”

It was a tempting offer, but you knew if you tried to sleep now you’d be out until morning, “I’m okay,” You told him, “I wanna hang, just gotta power through.”

“Well in that case,” 

He put the key back in his pocket and reached past you, grabbing a cup from the stack and setting it on the counter next to the fridge. He took your cup from your hands and dumped the water out, setting it next to his. You were finally taking him in now. Too spaced to notice his wardrobe change post-show. Jinx’s party was rave themed, the music and lights and outfits all reflecting this. 

Apparently, Viktor was not excluded. You remembered Ekko offering his close to Jayce and Viktor, his style being that of someone who actually went to raves. This was not what you had expected, though. Viktor, who only ever wore the most reserved of outfits, was in jeans that were purposefully too big, except for where they rested between his hips and waist. Cut outs in the side, just below the belt line, showed off completely the line and curve of his narrow hips. Pale skin practically glowing in the light of the fridge as Viktor opened it. It was cut in such a way that there was no chance he was wearing anything underneath the jeans. And almost more jarring was the fact that Viktor was wearing a crop top. The fairly normal t-shirt came to a harsh stop right at his navel, showing off the softest of happy trails and curve of muscle. You had seen him undressed before. You’ve seen him in less clothing than this even, at the coast. Nothing you were witnessing was new to you, but there was just something about it. About how intentional every bare inch was. 

You glanced away harshley, realizing you were very obviously staring at his body as he rummaged around in the fridge. He pulled out two narrow cans and set them on the counter. You picked one up, the cold condensation biting at your hand.

“Red Bull?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Patience,” He scolded, grabbing the can and setting it back down on the counter. 

He slid open the freezer drawer and moved things around, pulling a glass bottle out from underneath an ancient bag of frozen vegetables. He set it to the side, the clear liquor inside reflecting the lights in the room. All the labeling was in Czech. He dumped the energy drinks into the cups and then twisted the cap of the liquor with a satisfying pop.

“Don’t tell anyone I let you have this,” He told you, pouring a hearty shot into his cup, “They’ll make me share with them too.”

“Oh, so I’m special?” You joked, he gave you a look that very loudly screamed well, obviously. He paused to size you up for a moment, and came to the conclusion that half a shot would do. You scoffed, “Hey, I’m not a lightweight.”

“Eh, maybe not,” He said, “But this is not American liquor, and you are not a European woman.”

“Would you prefer I was?” You joked, rolling your eyes as he added another splash to his own drink before recorking it. 

“Of course not,” He held the cup out to you, “Na zdravi!”

You bit back a smile when you repeated the words and tapped the edge of your cup against his. He watched you hesitantly, cup hovering near his lips as he waited for you to take a sip. When you did, you were admittedly surprised at the strength of the small shot. You were even more surprised at the amount that he had poured into his own cup. 

“Christ, Vik,” You gasped, trying not to flinch at the burn, “You’re gonna go blind.”

“See, I told you” He laughed, taking a sip of his own drink with ease, “Only a small amount for the American. If it’s too much I can add more Red Bull.”

“No, it’s good,” You sipped again, taking the liquor better now that you were ready for it, “Thank you for being my bartender tonight,”

“What, no tip?” He teased, smirking down at you.

“Unfortunately, these shorts leave no space for my wallet,” You ran a hand over the side of the tight silvery shorts you had changed into. So tight you had even foregone underwear beneath them, “Next time.”

“I’m sure,” He leaned in to avoid shouting as the music and crowd became louder, he reached out and ran a finger over the waistband of the shorts, “I mean, I’m sure a few dollar bills could fit here, no?” His hand dropped lower down your side, fingertips brushing against the top of your thigh high socks, “Maybe here even?”

You slapped his hand away, “Not nice to imply I’m a stripper,” You pouted as he laughed and waved a hand in front of himself defensively.

“I kid, I swear,” He assured, “Where did you even get these clothes anyways?”

“It’s October in America, baby,” You laughed, “there's a halloween store taking up residence in every empty building in the country right now.”

“Yes, I forget about the holiday here,” He shrugged, “It’s not a large thing in Czechia.”

“Yeah, I know, Europe is lame like that,” You joked, turning your nose up.

“Is that so,” He questioned, then reached out to take your drink from you, “Then I guess you don’t like the European liquor if it’s so lame then…”

“Wait no,” You giggled, trying to reach for the cup as he held it away from you, “No I lied, I swear.”

He laughed and relinquished the cup back to you. You gratefully took another sip, holding eye contact with him to prove you liked it. 

“That’s what I thought.” He leaned back against the fridge, “Tell me if you want another,”

You nodded, then reached out and tugged the high hem of his shirt, “I like this, by the way, suits you.��

“Hm, that so?” You asked, dipping his chin to examine his own outfit, “I tried for something a little more low-key, but Jayce wasn’t having it.”

“Ah, I imagine he’s dressed even sluttier?” You barked a laugh.

“Oh of course,” Viktor nodded with wide eyes, “are you saying I’m a slut?”

“No, of course not,” You shrugged, “Just that you are dressed like a slut.”

“I don't think it’s that slutty,” He looked down at his outfit, again.

“What’s this then?” You slid a hand down his side, gripping his bare hip where t was exposed by the cutout, “This is pretty slutty, especially for a man.”

“And what’s your opinion of that?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Of what?”

“Of slutty men?” His eyes darkened, “Is that something you enjoy?”

“Who doesn’t,” You said innocently, taking another sip in hopes of hiding your blush.

“Hm, good to know,” He hummed, a smirk pulling at the corners of his lips. He leaned in just a touch more, mouth open to continue his sentence when Jayce was suddenly right next to you, a hand on Viktor’s shoulder.

The intrusion made you jump, nearly spilling your drink as you flinched away.

“Hey, oh sorry,” Jayce said, realizing he had barged in. He was wasted already, pretty cheeks already flushed red. He was indeed somehow dressed sluttier than Viktor. A mesh top and chaps of all things, underneath only a pair of shimmery shorts, almost as tight as yours. 

“What did I say?” Viktor laughed, looking down at you, you just widened your eyes in agreement.

“Huh?” Jayce tilted his head at the two of you.

“Nothing,” Viktor waved him off, “What’s up?”

“We need another person for beer pong,” Jayce told you both, “Are either of you down?”

You looked down at the still mostly full and very strong drink in your hand, “I’ll pass for now, maybe later if you guys play another round.”

“I’ll go,” Viktor told him with a shrug.

“Good,” Jayce clapped him on the shoulder, “You can be Sky’s partner.”

That twisted something in your chest, but you forced it away as you took another drink. Viktor just nodded and went to follow Jayce towards where the table was set up in the garage. He turned back to you when he realized you weren’t following.

“Are you not coming?” He tilted his head.

“No, it’s okay, I should probably go find Lest, actually,” You told him, trying to act casual, “You go, though, Defeat Jayce in my honor. I’ll find you later.”

“Okay,” He frowned slightly, hesitating before turning away to follow Jayce. 

You watched him walk away, doing your bets to look unbothered. Even with him out of your proximity, the heat still lingered. You shoved your hand under the ice dispenser of the fridge, catching a cube and popping it into your mouth before wandering to the living room. You wanted to dance with Lest, or grind up against a stranger, anything to get him off your mind.

----

Hours later, when you became bored of fending off freshman boys on the dance floor, you found yourself watching Viktor from across the room like a fucking creep. You knew you were and you couldn’t help it. He looked great. In that stupid fucking crop top and insufferable pair of borrowed jeans. He looked great and so did Sky. She looked great in the electric blue outfit you had helped her pick out. She looked great laughing and fanning her alcohol warmed cheeks. 

She looked great with her hands all over Viktor. Playing with his neat hair. Rubbing a hand over his shoulder. Leaning half way on top of him every time she laughed.

The spot on Viktor’s other side was empty. You could claim it easily. Insert yourself into their conversation or, most likely, pull his attention completely to you. You could sideline her in an instant. 

You had officially fucking lost it. You couldn’t believe you were pouting against the wall at a party. Face half hidden behind your cup, pretending to sip your sad mixture of three parts american vodka one part flat orange crush. Unrightfully angry at one of your closest friends. 

She’d be fine, though. There were plenty of men who’d jump at the chance to sweep her off her feet, take her virginity, and propose before graduation. Why did she need to be so focused on him? Was she blind? Viktor was obsessed with you and you knew it. You had tried to discourage him at first. Some point since then and now, you had succumbed to the idea that you were just waiting for eachother. Well, more of him, waiting for you, but still. You couldn't break your composure, not even for someone like him. 

Your ankles twitched, your angry body coaxing your drunk brain into a rash decision.

You couldn’t. It would be too obvious. Too fucking mean, like anything about this wasn’t already. You couldn't force it. He had to come to you. You could at least give him the option.

You brushed your fingertips against the side of your ear, ensuring that the cigarette you had tucked there earlier hadn't disappeared. You sent an innocent enough text - cig out back? - and walked out the back door before you could see him open the message. The ball was in his court now. You weren’t going to control him and he could make whatever decision he felt like. If he didn’t come, then you’d get a whole cigarette to yourself. A win-win situation, really. 

Outside the sky was still dripping. The storm that had started shortly after the party and hadn’t really let up until now. The backyard was completely barren, everyone still crowded into the house and garage to keep out of the rain. You rounded the side of the house, opting to let the cool wet air clear away the stickiness from inside. You had barely rested your back against the siding when your name was being hissed into the dark. 

“Over here,” You beckoned Viktor over to your corner of the yard.

You didn't need a whole cigarette anyways.

“Got a light?” You asked as he settled next to you, shoulder pressing to yours. 

Wordlessly he pulled one from his pocket, holding the flame out in front of you. You pressed the cigarette to your lips and lent towards him. Eyes fell shut as you pulled the flame in, smoke filling your lungs. 

“Where have you been?” You asked, smoke burning your nose as you exhaled and passed him the cigarette, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Around,” He shrugged, taking the cigarette and bumping his shoulder against yours with a smirk,  “You have been looking for me?”

“Shut up,” You muttered, hitting the back of your hand against his bare stomach.

“Ah, milá ,” He sighed, cigarette hanging from his lip as he grabbed your arm and pulled you to stand in front of him, “Jsi legrační dívka,”

His hands came to rest on the small of your back. You leaned against him, stealing back the cigarette from his mouth and taking a drag. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes on your lips.

“Are you drunk?” You asked him, taking a quick drag and holding the cigarette between you for him to take.

“Eh, a little,” He blew smoke out of his nose. Hot. “Me and Jayce smoked earlier, but the high is fading. You?”

“Also a little,” You told him, reaching up to touch his face. You ghosted a fingertip over the mark above his lip. So pretty. So inviting. 

You were drunk…enough. It didn’t count if you were drunk.

Your hand moved to his jaw and pulled him towards you, lips brushing against his softly. Tonight he chose you over Sky. Like you knew he would. The guilt was discarded as quickly as the half smoked cigarette when he pulled you closer. He wrapped his arms around your waist, holding your flush to him as his mouth crashed against yours harder. You looped your arms over his shoulders, hands fisting into the back of his shirt as your lips parted. He didn’t waste the invitation, tongue pushing into your mouth with a gasp. He tasted like caffeine and tobacco and himself. Your head spun as he kissed you. His teeth pulled at your lower lip, eliciting a whine you hadn’t expected.

“Ah, fuck,” He panted, breaking away to beath. His hands slid down to grab your ass, pressing you harder against him. You could feel how hard he was already, heavy cock pressing against your lower stomach, “You’ll kill me one of these days.”

“No,” You laughed softly, licking his lips playfully, “I’d like to keep you around for a while, Pretty Boy.”

He groaned at the pet name, hips rutting up again just slightly. You moved one hand down his chest, reaching the bottom of the cropped shirt he wore and slipping underneath. You raked your nails over his stomach, delighted at the shudder you could feel in his shoulders. You buried your other hand in the hair at the back of his neck, holding him still as you kissed him again. Part of you hated how perfectly you fit together. How the shape of his nose pressed into your cheek exactly as it should. How his lips slotted against yours like they were made for you. How he was the perfect height to kiss you. How his hands were the perfect size to hold you. It made everything difficult having him so easily. 

He wanted to be slow the first time, but he was clearly in a different mood tonight. You could barely breathe with how deep he kissed you. His tongue so wonderfully strong against yours, against your teeth and lips. The noises he made in the back of his throat went straight to the heat between your legs. You wanted to hear more. 

You tighten the hand in his hair, fisting the chestnut strands and yanking his head back, rough but not enough to hurt. He gasped, breathing heavy as he let you ruin his hair.

“So good for me,” You purred, clamping your teeth down on the spot below his jaw, tongue smoothing over it a moment after.

“Only for you,” He muttered, voice barely there, “God, only for fucking you.”

“Fuck,” You smiled, licking from the collar of his shirt up to his chin, “God you taste so fucking good. Wanna taste all of you,”

You resisted the urge to suck a love bite into his neck as you pressed yourself against him harder, canting your hips just enough to make him hiss, “Let me taste you, baby?”

“F-fuck,” He shuddered, flinching as your cold fingers brushed against the skin exposed by the cutouts in the side of the jeans. The skin you had been eyeing all night. The cutouts you had already expressed your admiration for. 

“Please Vik,” You practically begged as you mouthed at his neck, hands flatting against his hips, fingers under the edge of the denim, “Let me get on my knees for you.”

“God, fuck,” He whimpered, dropping his head to pull you into another kiss, “Are you sure? You don’t have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” You laughed against his lips, hands moving to the sides of his face. His heavy lidded eyes met yours, pupils blown wide, “I want to. I want you in my throat.”

He couldn’t help the sound that slipped past his lips, desperate and wanting as he dropped his head into your neck, muffling the sound against your hair. 

“Ano. Ano, kurvo ano,” He panted, you had been friends with him long enough to not need a translation.

“Good boy,” You said, mouth next to his ear, “Lean back for me.”

You left open mouthed kisses down his throat, palming him through his jeans. When you couldn’t reach any more of his skin from the position you were in, you slid to your knees. The wet grass soaked the knees of your socks. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, enjoying the fucked out look on his face. You hadn’t even touched him yet he was already flushed and trembling in front of you. You loved it.

You pressed a kiss to the skin exposed on his hips, your hand on the other side. You licked at his soft skin, thrilled to find the presence of slight moles hiding there. You bit down hard enough to leave a mark, Viktor’s hips canted forward, apologies spilling past his lips. You ignored him, your hands rubbing over his hips to grip his ass and then rub down his legs. Your palm caught on the ridge of his brace. Hidden completely under his jeans, you had all but forgotten it. 

You ran your hand up his leg gently, sitting back slightly to look at him softly, “Are you okay like this? Are you hurting?”

“I am alright, milá,” Voice gentle even as he panted heavily, hand reaching out to cup your face, “I’m perfectly good.”

You couldn’t help but to lean into his touch, humming against his palm, “You’ll tell me if this doesn’t work, yeah?”

“Promise?” You asked leaning past his hand and pressed your cheek to his front. You could feel him twitch against your face. You breathed him in, the heady scent making your thighs tense.

“I promise,” His voice came out strained and breathy.

It was enough to break you. You pulled back enough to unzip his jeans and shimmy them a couple inches down. You pulled him out, cock heavy and leaking in your hands. You hummed to yourself, admiring him. You had forgotten exactly what he looked like, but you were surprised how big and pretty he was. He was more worked up now than last time, entire cock a pretty shade of pink that darkened gradually up to his tip. You looked up, watching him as you dragged your thumb over his tip, spreading precum and getting more to drip as he twitched. He gasped, chin dropping to his chest as he tried to keep himself up right. You used the slick to coat your hand and slide your fist down his shaft, watching as his whole body flinched at the feeling. He was clay in your hands, trusting you to handle him.

You parted your lips, still watching intently as you gave an experimental lick to the tip of his cock. You couldn’t have dreamed of this noise he made, shocked and desperate and shaky as you dipped down and licked a broad strip along the veins on the underside. You used the point of your tongue to tease the base of his head, swirling over the crease there. His hands fisted at his sides, barely able to keep his eyes open as you tasted him. And he tasted heavenly. Sweet and bitter at the same time, and like his lips, very much like him. 

You were sure he could have come from just the sight of you holding his head against your flat tongue, catching pearls of cum from his weeping tip. When you closed your lips round him, he was loud. He sucked in a sharp breath, groaning heavy at the feeling of your warm mouth around just a small part of him. His hand flew to his mouth, trying to hold back the sounds.

You pulled off, making him whine as you pouted up at him, “I want to hear you. Please Vik, please let me hear you.”

“Fuck, we’re outside,” He panted, glancing towards the fence that faced the front of the house.

“It’s fine,” You urged, “Please, baby I promise. Everyone is inside, no one’s gonna hear you.”

Before he could respond, you wrapped your lips around him again, this time pushing on to him until he was almost to your back teeth. He cried out, stomach muscles tensing as you hollow your cheeks around him, releasing the tension with a gente pop.

“Oh fuck, milá,” His hands flexing at his sides.

You hummed around him, corners of your mouth turned up in as much of a smile as you could do. The vibration of your throat sent him shaking again. Fingers twitching just next to your head.

“Sensitive are we?” You pulled off and teased, one hand moving steadily up and down, the other cupping his balls, “You can grab my hair, just don’t push on me, okay?”

“Are you sure,” Hesitation hid behind the eagerness, all nerves about hurting you.

“Yes, Pretty Boy,” You breathed, lips ghosting over his cock again, “I trust you.”

Genty he gathered your hair into his fist, holding the strands back from your face. The tension on your scalp grew when you pulled him as far into your throat as you could. You took steady breaths through your nose, unable to help the moans that pushed out of your lungs at the feeling of him twitching just for you. You moved your tongue over him, eyelids fluttering shut at the feeling of his precum dripping down the back of your throat. You steadied yourself against his good leg, a hand wrapped around the back of his thigh as you began to move, your other hand gliding over what you couldn’t fit in your mouth. He did as you asked, hand tangled in your hair, but not controlling your movements. 

You studied him. Taking note of how he reacted to each movement, each slight gag around his cock, each flick of your tongue. The best noises came from when you took as much of him as you could and sucked around him, head moving only slightly. He gasped, uttering nonsense and curses and your name as he basked in the feeling. You wanted more and pulled him farther in in search of it, tears welling in your eyes as he reached the complete back of your throat. You steadied yourself, taking a moment to adjust before swallowing around him.

This made him cry out, knees almost buckling and hips rutting up involuntarily. He cursed, eyes wide as he apologized. You waved him off with a hum, swallowing again before you began to bob your head. You let your eyes fall shut, focusing on the weight of him in your throat and the sounds he was making above you. You could feel the tension in his muscles build under your hand on his leg. He was so close. Just a few motions away. You weren’t done, though.

With gasp you pulled off, circling your fingers just under the head of his cock. Forcing him away from the edge. You panted, pulling in more oxygen than through your nose.

“Ah, fuck. Why?” He whimpered, sounding like he could cry.

“Trust me, Vik,” You assured, pressing your cheek to the top of his thigh and looking up through your lashes, “It’s gonna feel so good, just be patient for me, baby.”

“God, you’re so fucking beautful,” He reached down, brushing a thumb under your eye where yur mascara was blurring.

“You’re sweet,” You hummed, pressing your lips to the base of his cock, mouthing at him as your hand stroked over him again, “So good for me.”

You raised your hand, lifting him enough for you to have access to lick over his balls. He groaned at the feeling and you heard a soft thud as he dropped his head back against the wall. You replaced your mouth with your hand, gently squeezing him in time with the thrust of your hand. You licked up from the base to tip, not wasting time in bringing him back between your lips. 

Velvet, you realized. His skin felt like velvet under your tongue. You moaned around him, pressing your thighs together as you sank further unto him. You picked up your pace, making obscene sounds as you moved up and down his length. You had wanted to go slow at first, but this pace was for you, too. You couldn’t help it. You chased his release with an eager tongue, anticipating him.

“Ah, I’m close, Lasko,” He gasped, hips twitching in the tiniest of bucks, not letting himself get too carried away. His hand tightened in your hair, trying to pull you off before he came.

You made a noise of protest, pushing him to the back of your throat again and looking up at. Eyes narrowed as you made clear what you wanted.

“Oh fuck,” His voice was thick with a mix of his accent and lust. He let you grab his hand, braced against his stomach as you began to move again, “You are heaven sent.”

His jaw hung open as you continued the pace, slowing down every couple of thrusts to swallow around his tip. He took short strained breaths as you pulled him closer and closer. Pitch of his voice canting up as he moaned, the whimpers that slipped past his lips making your own wetness pool between your legs. 

He cried out as he finally came, whole body tense as you slowed your movements. You held him in the perfect place in your mouth, cum painting the back of your throat and mixing with spit on your tongue. You groaned, breathing heavy through your nose as you took everything he had to give. The taste was addictive, you could've stayed here forever on your knees, his slightly bitter cum filling your mouth. 

Eventually, Viktor hissed in near pain. The feeling of your warm mouth around his oversensitive cock too much to handle. Gently he tugged on your hair, coaxing you off him.

“Come here,” He held your arm steady as you stood on shaking legs, your knees aching from holding your weight for so long. 

“Was that good?” You asked like you didn’t already know the answer, pulling you swollen bottom lip between your teeth.

“There is a special place for you in heaven,” He told you, hands grasping the sides of your face and forehead dropping to yours. You could feel the cool sheen of sweat over his body, it made the short hair curl where you played with it at the base of his neck.

“Hm, so sweet to me,” You cooed, reaching down and tucking him away gently, deciding it probably wasn’t a great idea for him to just hang around with his dick out. 

He tilted his chin, catching your lips with his. His tongue pushed into your mouth where he surely tasted himself. He let out a shaky breath against your mouth, lips pulled back but tongue still pressed against yours. He kissed you deep, hands moving down to your waist pulling you flush against him as he practically ate out your mouth.

You let the sounds you were making go, letting him hear how he made you feel. Without warning, he gripped you tight and spun you around, pressing your back to the house. He braced his weight with one arm against the wall behind you. He was still licking into your mouth as the other hand dropped between your bodies. He pushed his hand past the waistband of your shorts, cold fingers making you gasp as they came in contact with your cunt. 

“Oh, fuck, Vik,” You keened, jaw dropping as he slid his hand further into your shorts, fingers teasing at your entance before retreating back to your clit. 

Careful he pulled his arm off the wall, gently smearing away the ruined makeup beneath your eyes. He dropped his forehead to yours, breathing in every pant you gave, watching you intently as you gasped and rutted your hips into his hand. He moved his arm back to the wall, steading himself for you as he pressed two long fingers in, curling them in a way that made you see white. 

“So fucking wet,” He breathed, eyes barley open, “soaked just from sucking my cock, God so fucking dirty.”

You whimpered, one hand holding onto his arm above your shoulders, fingers surely bruising his flesh where you pressed. The other hand fisted in the back of his hair, pulling him close enough to kiss. You tried to muffle yourself with his lips, moaning directly into his mouth, biting down on his lip when you felt yourself getting louder.

“Hm, not fair,” He scolded, realizing what you were doing, “Let me hear you. Only sound I ever need to hear again.”

Oh, how you loved incoherent orgasm induced poetry. 

He dragged his fingers in and out of you at a teasing pace, his thumb pressed to your clit. Each tiny motion of his hand brought you closer and closer. His name tumbled from your lips, everything about him clouding your cells. 

You almost didn’t hear the slide of the back door.

You gasped pulling away from him with wide eyes, head smacking against the siding as you did so. The hand on the wall cupped the back of your head, holding the sore spot you caused yourself. The other retreated swiftly, the heel of his hand resting against your waist, sure to keep his soaked fingers from ruining your clothes. You blinked at him, trying to calm your breathing enough to hear. Behind your pulse you heard footsteps on the wooden deck, they stopped right before the stairs. You hadn’t realized until now that the air was cold enough to see your breath. His and yours formed a cloud between you, white condensation huffed from your lungs as you waited.

Lest’s voice shouting your name into the dark made your heart sink. You loved her, but right now you could kill her.

Reluctantly, Viktor stepped away from you, dry hand steadying your waist. You grabbed the other, pulling his fingers up to your lips and hastily licking yourself off them. He swallowed hard, then surged forward, kissing you through his hand, tongue running between his fingers and against yours. 

He pulled away, wiping his spit covered hand against his jeans as you adjusted your clothes. Your name rang again from the porch, you could hear the creak of the top step. You glanced down at yourself and shrugged. Disheveled for sure, but it’d have to be good enough.

You grabbed Viktor by the chin, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, “Catch you later, Pretty Boy.”

You pressed a quick kiss to his open lips and darted away. Shaking out your hair and continuing to adjust your clothes as you went to Lest. She shouted your name a third time.

“Yeah, I’m coming!” You told her, picking up your pace.

‘If only’, you thought, frowning to yourself.

-----

At some point, you realized you were done. No amount of vodka redbulls or dancing or drinking games were gonna keep you on your feet. The party was still thriving well past the hours when it would normally end. You were coming down from everything and needed to be somewhere that wasn’t a hot sticky crowded house. 

You wandered to the front porch. The rain had stopped, but the air was just as cool as earlier. You sank down to sit on the edge of the stairs, the rough concrete catching on the fabric of your shorts. You pulled your knees up and leaned back on your palm, basking in the cool air and watching as the moon slowly came in and out of view behind the clouds. The muffled sound of music and people was relaxing. You liked the feeling of disconnecting, but still being nearby. 

You stayed like that for who knows how long, letting goosebumps crawl up your sore thighs and arms. Breathing slowly and occasionally moving out of the way for the few people that came in and out through the front door. You closed your eyes, leaning back and paying no mind when the door opened once again, music growing loud for a second before it was once again muffled.

“You’ll catch your death out here,” Viktor’s accent told you, you laughed softly at the phrasing, “Are you not freezing?”

“Hm, I’m cold, but not freezing,” You told him, not opening your eyes until you felt a jacket being placed over your shoulders, you snorted a laugh, “Thank you.”

“Hm, you should take better care of yourself,” He said, sitting down next to you, using his cane to lower himself slowly, “We have a big project next week, it’ll suck to be down a person,”

“How thoughtful,” You rolled your eyes and sat up next to him, knees closer to your chest.

“Any time, milá,” He muttered what you were beginning to recognize as a pet name in his native language, “Anytime.”

You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder. With his jacket over you and him this close, you were dizzy with the smell of him. Obsessed with it.

“Are you feeling alright?” He asked, taking your hand from where it rested in your lap. He pressed his thumb into your palm, long fingers moving against yours, brushing against the newly forming calluses on your fingertips, “Why are you out here all alone?”

“Just wanted to be alone,” You told him, closing your eyes and leaning into him further.

“Would you like me to leave?” He asked, sincere and unoffended.

You grabbed his hand, holding it tight as you shook your head against him, “No, please don’t.”

He didn’t need any more convincing than that. He slid slightly closer, the side of his body pressing to yours. He gently pulled his hand from yours, sliding his arm to your back, hand resting at the nape of your neck as he brushed his fingers through the fine hair there. You hummed, pressing closer to him, nearly overwhelmed with how nice it felt to be next to him like this.

“Can I tell you something?” He asked, voice slightly hesitant as he broke the comfortable silence.

“Of course,” You’d like him to tell you everything.

“Sky asked me out yesterday,” He said it quietly but quickly, you tried not to react but you knew he could feel the way you tensed.

“I’m not surprised,” You told him, forcing yourself to sit up and look at his face, “What did you tell her?”

You hoped your face didn’t give away too much. He could go out with Sky if he wanted. You and him were not technically together. Sharing liquor and drunk blowjobs didn’t count as a relationship.

“I…I told her I’d get back to her,” He flinched at his own words, guilt creasing his pretty face, “Which is an absolute dick move, but I panicked.”

“Well, if you like her,” You shrugged like it didn’t matter, “then you should go out with her. There’s no reason not to.” 

He frowned, chewing on the inside of his lip, “And if I don’t like her?”

“Then why would you go on a date with her?” If stung. Like it was an option. Of course it was an option, you knew that, you didn’t have any right to be upset with him.

He huffed, “You are making this difficult,”

“Viktor, I can not make decisions for you,” You told him sternly, not upset with him, just frustrated.

“I know, I’m sorry,” He shook his head, scoffing a laugh, “I shouldn’t have said that. Forget I said anything, I’ll handle it.”

You were pretty sure you knew what that meant. You did understand where he was coming from. Getting asked out by someone you weren't interested in was tough, even more so when that person was a friend. 

“Good,” You nodded, and leaned back into him, tone turned teasing, “now will you stop trying to ruin the moment, this feels good.”

‘Hm, such a brat,” He joked back, you could feel the tension leach out of him, “Always getting what she wants.”

You scoffed, hitting him lightly on the leg. 

“You deserve it, though, don’t you?” His voice dropped, so soft against your ear when he turned his head slightly, nose pressed to your temple, “You’ve done so much for everyone today.”

His hand moved from its place on your back, moving back in front of him to rest on your knee. You took a shaky breath as he pressed a kiss to your temple, the pressure against your pulse dizzying. 

“Vik,” You warned, voice barely there as his hand moved up your thigh, stopping at the edge of your socks.

He ran his thumb over the elastic pressing into your thigh, over the small dip it made in your flesh. Slowly he pushed his fingers under the fabric, making more contact with the soft skin of your leg and squeezing gently.

“Hm, you deserve to be taken care of,” He hummed, fingers kneading into your flesh, perfect against your arguable sore muscles, “You do so much for other people.”

You couldn’t help the shuddery breath that slipped past your lips. He pressed another kiss to the side of your face, dropping his head to press his nose against the spot under your ear. You felt his teeth graze across your skin, tongue there only a moment later. 

“Let me take care of you,” He practically begged, hand moving out from under your sock and up your thigh. His breath was hot against your skin, you could feel his eyelashes brush against you, “Stay with me tonight, oh god please stay with me tonight.”

The desperation in his voice went directly to your core, you resisted the urge to press your thighs together. You couldn’t believe he was making you feel like this a second time tonight.

“Viktor,” Your voice came out breathier than you had meant it to. 

He pulled his face away from your neck, meeting your eyes as his hand traveled even higher up, and dipped lower between your thighs. Only inches away from where he had been for only a few moments earlier tonight. His face was so close to yours, lips still slightly red from when you had kissed him hours ago. His pupils were blown wide, eyes hooded as he stared at you. Stars in his eyes.

“I could make you feel so good,” He purred, “I could make you feel so so good. I could take care of you so well, you deserve it. Let me show you how you made me feel earlier.”

His voice was straining as he spoke. Desperate and needy. You were sure if you reached over you’d find him to be half hard already.

You closed your thighs around his hand, keening for him as you pressed your forehead to his. You were forgetting all the stupid reasons you had been denying him. Any rule of thumb you had established went up in smoke. It didn’t matter. None of it fucking mattered.  A yes was right on the tip of your tongue. A plea for him to take you to his bed and never let you leave was a breath away from slipping out. 

Before you could let the words fall out of your mouth the font door slammed open. You practically choked as you sucked in a gasp. You and Viktor threw yourselves away from each other, out of the compromising position. You sat wide eyed and red faced with your thighs pressed together, practically a foot of space between you and Viktor.

“You two are un-fucking-believable,” Lest scoffed, take the few steps down the stairs to stand on the sidewalk in front of you. Her eyes were alight with anger, perfect face turned down in a look of disappointment that bordered on disgust.

“Wh-what?” You stuttered, trying to control your breath. 

“You heard me,” She snapped, arms crossing over her freckled chest, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Lest!” You scoffed, truly taken off guard by her anger, “What are you talking about.”

“You both are sharing the award for shittiest friends on the planet,” Lest told you, dramatic as always.

“Lest, what-” Viktor tried, shaking off his stunned expression, eyebrows furrowing.

“No,” She held up a finger to him, cutting him off, “You know what I’m talking about Seriously, how could you do this to Sky?”

Oh…that's what this was about.

Lest hissed your name, “You know how she feels, you fucking know. And you.” She turns to Viktor, “What is wrong with you? Dragging her around like this? If you don’t like Sky, fucking tell her. Don’t tell her that you’ll ‘get back to her’ and then go get head from a different girl.”

“Lest!” You snapped, not knowing what else to say, “We didn’t-“

“There are grass stains on your fucking knees,” She seethed your name at the end, then rubbed a crease out of her forehead.

“You,” She snapped, jabbing a finger in your direction, “You need to stop being a jealous, passive aggressive bitch,” And you, attention on Viktor, “need to learn how to be a fucking man.”

Your head was spinning. Lest had been mad at you before. It was in her nature to be protective and aggressive and say what she thought. Never had this level of rage actually been directed straight at you. It made your hands shake, every ounce of guilt and shame you’d ever carried floating to the surface of your skin. 

“I’m spending the night with Sky,” Lest told you, jaw set, “because she’s fucking torn up over this, even if she won’t admit it.”

And with that she was leaving. Stalking off and down the street to catch an uber somewhere where she didn’t have to look at you. You stared after her, frozen. Hands shaking as your head swam.

Viktor said your name gently, reaching out for your shoulder. You flinched involuntarily, standing up in one quick motion, his jacket falling from your shoulders. 

“I…” Your voice caught in your throat, “I’m gonna go home.”

“Hold on,” Viktor said, pushing himself up off the stairs, steadying himself on the cane and grabbing your wrist before you could get away, “Wait, please, just…let me get you a ride home at least.”

You could tell he wanted you to stay, and you could tell he knew you wouldn’t, “No, it’s fine. I just… I want to walk, it’s not far.”

You knew you were not sober enough to try to drive, you didn’t think your shaking hands would even let you. 

“Milá, it’s freezing,” He gaped at you, eyes full of fear and worry, “Please.”

You tried to pull your wrist from his grasp, “Viktor, I’m fine. Please, just let me go.” You could feel hot tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Oh god, you didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not now, not like this.

“At least take my jacket?” He offered, grabbing it from the ground with his other hand and holding it out to you, “Please, you’re barely dressed. Please just put on a jacket.”

You hesitated, but slowly reached out and took it. Watching the ground as you slipped the heavy coat over your shoulders. 

“Please let me know when you get home safe,” He said, voice reluctant to let you go, “Please.”

You nodded, cursing the way your voice broke, “Goodnight Viktor.”

You turned and walked away, trying to hide the shaking of your shoulders in the borrowed jacket. You were barely down the street before the first sob finally broke out of your chest. You zipped up the coat, burning your face in the neckline of it and tried and failed to calm yourself down as you walked back to your dorm room. 

You were still crying when you finally collapsed into your bed, Viktor’s heavy coat still wrapped around you. You barely remembered to text Viktor. His face and name appear on your screen, reminding you of your promise. You declined the call, instead just texted him a brief ‘home.’ before shutting off your phone and letting yourself fall into a restless sleep. 

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 5.1 | This Must Be The Place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy reading! It's a long one.💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His assistant had booked the Quarter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pulled out his phone.

Joe QB: Just landed. City looks wild.

Her response came almost immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe was coming. Today.

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

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

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: So lover boy lands today, huh?

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

Riley: Shut up.

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

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

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

Haley: I need details. What are you wearing?

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

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

Haley: And I mean ALL of them 👀

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

She was nervous—which was ridiculous.

Riley Carter didn’t get nervous about men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Riley: Final verdict?

Laura: Holy. Shit.

Haley: 10/10. You look insane.

Laura: He’s gonna lose his mind.

Riley smirked, tucking her phone away.

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

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

Joe QB: Can’t wait to see you.

A slow warmth spread through her chest.

Of course, he couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

Riley stood in the hallway, and his breath caught.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe raised an eyebrow. "A disguise?"

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

"A shoe?"

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

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

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

"Pretty much."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Riley asked, catching him staring.

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

"About?"

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

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

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

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

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

The tension in her shoulders eased.

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

Joe nodded. "Same."

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

Riley smiled. "I'd like that."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yeah."

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

Joe raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That so?" he managed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Almost nine-thirty."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Smooth," she teased, laughing softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, finally, she smiled.

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

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

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

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

Riley burst out laughing. "Confirmation purposes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Buttoned-up?" Riley suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Where'd it finally die?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except he knew it wasn't. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey, find something good?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Home is where I want to be...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Damn," was all Joe could manage.

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

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

"Subtle," Joe said dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe felt himself settle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, he could tell she wanted this one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Neither did he before pulling her in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Right here," he replied, understanding perfectly.

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

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

She giggled, rolling toward him. “We should get some water.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed, but made no move to get up. His arm flopped dramatically over her waist. “My legs don’t work.”

Riley poked him in the ribs. “It’s my house. Guest gets the water.”

“I just ran a marathon,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Need electrolytes.”

She snorted. “Three minutes is not a marathon, Burrow.”

“Felt like one,” he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep. The bourbon, the parade, and their enthusiastic—if chaotic—activities had finally caught up with him.

Riley sighed, giving in as she slipped out from under his arm. “Fine, lazy. I’ll get the water. Future us will thank me.”

“Future us are suckers,” he muttered, still mostly out of it.

She just smiled, shaking her head as she padded toward the kitchen, already imagining him half-asleep when she got back.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Riley shifting closer, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

Home, he thought hazily as consciousness slipped away. This feels like home.

[drtyelvisfantasy]

SAVE YOUR LOVE

LINEMAN!RAFE X STRIPPER!READER AU

warnings: emotional abuse, abandonment, mentions of bullying, parental neglect, let me know if I'm missing anything!!

note: sorry if this is rlly short lol also there's no mention of Rafe in this post, it's just more of a background story for the reader

I look back at my old life in OBX, the resurfacing memories of growing up in a small beach town. The brief memories of my former friends and family, snippets of moments that sometimes bring a smile to my face. Sometimes, I wish I could go back and change things.

I was never the golden child. Even though my sister is five years older than me, my mother always made sure to make it known that she was the favorite. I see the moments of my childhood—the constant feeling of being overshadowed and undervalued by my mother. My father wasn’t around when I was growing up. I would always ask my mom what happened to him or where he was, but she would always respond, saying, “He’s a horrible man, that’s what he is.” It never really helped when my mom responded that way. It left me asking myself what went wrong or if it was me who made him run away.

Starting high school was hard. My sister, being known as the smart, successful sibling, created immense pressure to match her reputation. I felt the constant weight of disappointment from my mother, her expectations hanging over me like a heavy burden. The friends I had came and went—none of them stayed around for long, and I never really understood why. I still ask myself why no one wanted to be around me. Those “friends” I had never stood up for me when people would tease me about my appearance and spread nasty rumours about me. I felt like an outcast—unwanted and alone. The pain and hurt of those experiences stayed with me, leaving scars that never fully healed.

—

By the time senior year came around, applying for colleges and universities became a full-time job, where the pressure of getting into a good school consumed my life. The constant barrage of applications and studying was overwhelming, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough to impress my mother. I eventually got fed up and applied to a small college on the mainland—my only way out of this hellhole of an island.

I only lasted one semester in college. I dropped out and never looked back. I didn’t even tell my mom. I felt like it would be better for me to cut off all contact with her; it was clear as day she didn’t love me the way she said she did. I’m better off without her, right?

I used the rest of my savings to catch a Greyhound straight to Las Vegas. I needed a sense of change in my life, where nobody knew who I was or anything about my past. My job as a stripper was unexpected, but the money was undeniably attractive, offering a way out of my previous struggles. It was only supposed to be a temporary job until I could find a new one, but I became so addicted to the fast money that I never wanted to quit. The money I earned allowed me to get a decent apartment, gaining independence and a sense of freedom I had never had before. It was better than living in a house with people who resented you for no reason.