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mrs-delaney · 2 days ago

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Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note:

this one is heavy, guys. sincerely, thank you to the anon who requested it. i literally cried writing this.

i hope you feel it.

honestly i’m a little nervous because i’ve never written anything this heavy before. these requests have been such a fun challenge—some of y’all are asking for things i never would’ve thought to write, and it’s pushing me in the best way.

i feel like this goes without saying but creative liberties were taken here.

this one’s for anyone who’s ever felt left behind. Part Two is coming Friday.

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

The photo falls out of your copy of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo like a ghost from another life.

You're sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of your new apartment, surrounded by boxes labeled in your neat handwriting—Books - Living Room, Kitchen - Essentials Only—building this new life piece by piece, methodically, like everything else you've learned to do alone. December afternoon light filters through windows that overlook a city that doesn't know your history, doesn't whisper his name on every street corner.

The photo is from October 2018. Ohio State tailgate. Both of you wearing Buckeye gear, his arm draped over your shoulders, caught mid-laugh at something off-camera. You remember exactly what made you both crack up—his terrible impression of Coach Meyer that had you snorting so hard you nearly choked on your beer.

You're looking up at him in the photo like he hung the moon. He's grinning down at you like you're the only person in a crowd of thousands.

God, you were so young. So sure you were different. So sure you were forever.

Your thumb traces over his face in the photo, and for a moment you can almost feel the scratch of his stubble, smell his cologne mixed with autumn air and possibility. Before the fame changed him. Before success became more important than the girl who believed in him first.

Before loving him nearly killed you.

You slip the photo back between the pages, closing the book gently. Not throwing it away - you're not that angry anymore, not that hurt. But not keeping it out either. Just... acknowledging it existed, acknowledging it mattered, before putting it back where it came from.

It wasn't always like this, you think, looking at those two kids who had no idea what was coming. It used to be perfect. It used to be the kind of love that made other people jealous, the kind that felt like finding your missing piece.

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

The first time you see Joe Burrow, he's late to freshman orientation and clearly doesn't want to be there.

You're sitting in what you quickly realize is the wrong breakout session—Student-Athletes: Balancing Academics and Competition—but the session has already started and you don't want to cause a disruption by leaving. You're a transfer student, sophomore standing but new to OSU, and you're already feeling like you stick out in all the wrong ways.

The door opens at 2:58 PM, and he slips in just under the wire. Still in workout gear—navy Nike shorts, gray Ohio State Athletics t-shirt, hair damp from a quick shower—backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He scans the room for an empty seat and his eyes land on the one next to you.

"Sorry," he murmurs, settling into the chair. "Long practice."

You glance at him sideways. He's got this boy-next-door thing going on that probably makes professors want to adopt him, but there's something in his posture that screams frustration. Like he's carrying weight that doesn't belong to him.

"No worries," you whisper back. "I'm not even supposed to be in this group anyway."

That gets a small smile. "Yeah? What group should you be in?"

"Literally any other one. I'm not an athlete."

"Lucky you," he says under his breath, and there's something bitter in it that makes you look at him more carefully.

The orientation leader—a perky senior with a clipboard and an Ohio State cheerleading background—claps her hands together. "Alright, everyone! Time for our icebreaker. Partner up with someone you don't know and share your biggest fear about college!"

You turn to look at the boy next to you. Up close, you can see he's got these blue-green eyes that look tired despite his age, and there's something in his expression that gives him just enough edge to be interesting.

"Well," you say, "looks like we're partners."

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

"Y/N." His handshake is firm, confident in that way that comes from being an athlete, but his palm is slightly damp with nerves.

"So," you continue, settling back in your chair, "biggest fear about college. You go first."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in directions that should look ridiculous but somehow just look endearing. "That I'm gonna wash out. Like, everyone here is so sure of themselves and I'm just hoping I don't completely embarrass myself."

The honesty catches you off guard. Most guys, especially athlete guys, would never admit that to a stranger. There's something refreshing about it, something real.

"Your turn," he says.

"That I'll always be the transfer kid who doesn't really belong anywhere. This is my second school already."

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

You shrug. "It was small, didn't have the program I wanted. I'm in nursing school."

His eyebrows raise. "Nursing? That's hardcore."

"Says the guy who probably gets hit by linebackers for fun."

"Quarterback, actually. Well, third-string quarterback. Behind J.T. and Haskins." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Living the dream."

Something in his tone makes you study his face more carefully. "How long have you been here?"

"This is my third year. Redshirted as a freshman, barely saw the field last year." He shrugs like it doesn't bother him, but you can see that it does. "Coach Meyer likes to remind me that I'd be better suited for Division III ball."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But hey, everyone starts somewhere, right?"

"Hey," you say, surprising yourself with how much you want to make that bitter edge disappear from his voice, "some of the best players had to wait their turn."

"Easy for you to say. You're not getting called 'John Burrow' by your own teammates."

"John?"

"J.T.'s real name is Joe too. So I'm John now. Very creative." He rolls his eyes, but there's hurt underneath the sarcasm.

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

The orientation leader calls for everyone's attention, but Joe's eyes stay on yours for a beat longer than necessary.

"Well, John," you say, and his face falls slightly before you continue, "I think Joe suits you better."

His smile, when it comes, is genuine and a little surprised. Like no one's bothered to stick up for him in a while.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

After the session ends, you both stand in that awkward way people do when they're not sure if the conversation is over. The other students are filing out, heading to their next activities, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"So," Joe says, shouldering his backpack, "what's your next thing?"

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

"Same." He pauses, then: "Want to get lost together? I mean, figure out where we're going together?"

You can't help but smile. "Want some company?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

You walk out of the building together, into the late afternoon Ohio sun, and something about the way he holds the door for you, the way he asks about your major like he actually cares about the answer, makes you think this might be the start of something good.

You have no idea, walking across campus with this frustrated quarterback who makes you laugh, that you're falling in love with someone who will break your heart so completely you'll forget how to breathe.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll be sitting alone in a new apartment, holding a photo from when you thought you'd made it—when he was yours and you were his and the future felt as bright as those Ohio autumn afternoons—wondering how love that felt so right could go so wrong.

All you know is that Joe Burrow has kind eyes and a crooked smile, and when he asks about nursing school, you get the feeling he's the kind of person who actually listens to the answer.

So you tell him. And he listens. And somewhere between the academic buildings and the student union, between his stories about small-town Ohio and your dreams of helping people heal, something begins that feels like coming home.

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

You're reorganizing your notes for the third time when Joe slides into the chair across from you at the library, twenty minutes late and looking frazzled.

"Sorry," he says, dropping his backpack with a thud that earns him dirty looks from nearby students. "Coach kept us running extra drills because apparently we 'throw like we're afraid of the ball.'"

You look up from your perfectly color-coded anatomy flashcards and can't help but smile at his air quotes. "Yikes. Sounds like a fun afternoon."

Oh, the best," he deadpans, pulling out a crumpled syllabus and what appears to be three different notebooks. "Thanks for agreeing to this, by the way. Writing papers isn't exactly my strong suit."

It's become a routine over the past few weeks—these "study sessions" that Joe desperately needs for his Communications class and that you agreed to help with because, well, you like him. More than you probably should for someone you've known less than a month.

"What's the assignment this week?" you ask, even though you already know. You may have looked up his class schedule. Not in a creepy way. In a helpful way.

Joe squints at his syllabus. "Something about... 'analyzing the impact of digital media on interpersonal relationships in the modern age.'" He looks up at you with those blue-green eyes that have been showing up in your dreams lately. "I get the concept, I just hate writing papers."

You lean back in your chair, studying him. He's wearing a gray Ohio State hoodie that's probably two sizes too big, his hair is still damp from the shower, and he's got that slightly frustrated expression he gets when he has to translate his thoughts into academic essay format.

"You know what you want to say, right? You're just stuck on how to say it?"

"Exactly." Joe pulls out his notebook, and you can see he's already outlined his main points. His handwriting is messy, but his ideas are solid. "I've got all these thoughts about how social media makes people perform fake versions of themselves, but every time I try to write it down, it sounds like garbage."

You scan his notes. They're actually insightful��observations about authenticity, external validation, the psychology behind curated online personas. "These are really good points, Joe. You're just overthinking the academic voice."

For the next hour, you help him organize his thoughts into essay format. Joe doesn't need help understanding the concepts—he grasps them intuitively, makes connections you hadn't even considered. He just needs someone to help him translate his natural intelligence into the formal structure professors expect.

"You know," you say, reading over his revised introduction, "you should consider taking more psychology classes. You have good instincts about human behavior."

Joe shakes his head with a small laugh. "Nah. I mean, it's interesting, but I'm pretty single-minded about what I want to do with my life."

"Which is?"

"Make it as a quarterback. That's it. That's the plan."

There's something in his voice—not doubt, but determination so fierce it's almost startling. This isn't some childhood dream he's holding onto. This is his life's purpose, and he knows it.

"Must be nice," you say, "being that sure about what you want."

"What about you? You seem pretty sure about nursing."

"I am. I want to help people, you know? There's something about being there when someone's at their most vulnerable, being the person who helps them heal..." You trail off, realizing you've probably said too much.

But Joe's nodding like he gets it. "That's exactly how I feel about football. Like, I know it sounds dramatic, but when I'm on the field, everything makes sense. Even when I'm riding the bench, just being part of it feels right."

"Do you ever feel like you're trying to live up to someone else's expectations?" you ask.

Joe considers this, absently tapping his pen. "Not really. I mean, my dad played football, so people assume I'm trying to follow in his footsteps, but this has always been my choice. I was actually really good at basketball - could've probably played in college - but football just felt right, you know? Dad never pushed it on me. If anything, he tried to make sure I wanted it for the right reasons."

"And do you?"

"Want it for the right reasons?" Joe's smile is small but certain. "Yeah. I love everything about it. The strategy, the pressure, the way a perfect pass feels coming off your hand. Even the parts that suck, like sitting behind three other guys on the depth chart."

There's no bitterness in his voice when he mentions the depth chart, just the confidence of someone who knows his time will come. It's attractive in a way that has nothing to do with his looks and everything to do with his certainty about who he is and what he wants.

The library is starting to empty out around you, the late afternoon crowd heading to dinner or evening activities. You should probably pack up, get back to your own studying, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says, leaning forward in his chair.

"Shoot."

"Why are you helping me? Most people would just go through the motions."

The question catches you off guard with its directness. You set down your pen and consider how to answer honestly without revealing that you've developed feelings for the frustrated quarterback who brings you Red Bull during these sessions and remembers the chocolate covered espresso beans you like.

"Because I like how your mind works," you say finally. "You see things differently than other people. And because..." You pause, feeling heat creep up your neck. "Because I like you. As a person."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine, the kind that transforms his whole face. "I like you too. As a person."

"Good," you say, fighting your own smile. "Now, do you want to actually work on this paper, or should we keep having this very important philosophical discussion about why we like each other?"

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

You do work on the paper, eventually. But you also talk about everything else—his frustration with being redshirted, your adjustment to OSU, his family back home, your plans for nursing school. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

"Do you ever worry you won't make it?" you ask.

Joe's quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. "Not really. I mean, I know it's going to be hard, and I know there are no guarantees, but..." He shrugs. "I can't imagine doing anything else. This is what I'm supposed to do."

That certainty, the way he talks about football like it's not just a career but a calling—it's one of the things that draws you to him. Joe Burrow knows exactly who he is and what he wants, even at nineteen.

"See? You're not the only one with good ideas."

The library lights start dimming—the universal signal that it's time to leave. You both pack up slowly, neither wanting to break the bubble you've created in this corner table surrounded by anatomy textbooks and his chicken-scratch notes.

"Same time next week?" Joe asks as you walk toward the exit together.

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to nail this paper. You've got good instincts."

His smile is the last thing you see before you part ways in the parking lot, and you drive home with a dangerous fluttering in your chest and the absolute certainty that you're in trouble.

The good kind of trouble. The kind that makes you want to write his name in the margins of your notebooks and find excuses to bring up Ohio State quarterbacks in casual conversation.

You have no idea yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find the words for his thoughts and watching him light up when he understands a concept, something has shifted.

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

You're sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed at 11:47 PM, staring at a blank piece of notebook paper, trying to figure out why you can't get tonight out of your head.

Your roommate Allison is already asleep, her gentle snoring mixing with the sounds of the dorm settling around you. You should be sleeping too—you have Clinical Skills at eight AM and Anatomy & Physiology right after—but your mind won't stop replaying the last four hours.

Joe had texted around seven: Library still open? Could use help with that comm paper

What was supposed to be an hour of editing had turned into... something else entirely. You'd finished his revisions in forty-five minutes—his writing was getting better, more confident—but then he'd just stayed. Stayed and talked about everything and nothing until the library staff started pointedly stacking chairs around you.

"You know what's weird?" he'd said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms overhead. "I've been here two months and you're the first person who's asked me what I actually think about stuff. Not football stuff. Just... stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone either wants to talk about football or they act like I'm too dumb to have opinions about anything else." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stick up in six different directions. "You asked me about that social media thing like you actually wanted to know what I thought."

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

The question had caught you off guard. "Because you're smart. Because you see things differently than other people do."

The way his face had changed when you said that—like no one had ever called him smart before, like it was the best compliment he'd ever received—had done something dangerous to your chest.

Then he'd told you about watching Tom Brady win his first Super Bowl when he was eight years old. About the exact moment he'd decided he wanted to be a quarterback, sitting in his family's living room in Ames, pointing at the TV and announcing to his parents that someday that would be him.

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy for being so sure about it," he'd said. "Like, what if I'm wrong? What if I'm not good enough? But I can't explain it—when I'm throwing, when I'm reading a defense, when I'm in the pocket... it's like everything else goes quiet. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

The way his whole face had lit up when he talked about football, like he was describing falling in love—God, you'd never seen someone that passionate about anything. And when he'd looked at you after, like he was checking to see if you thought he was ridiculous, you'd felt something shift in your chest.

Something that felt a lot like falling.

Now you're sitting here at midnight, pen hovering over paper, trying to figure out how to capture what you're feeling. Because this isn't just a crush anymore. This is something bigger, something that scares you and thrills you at the same time.

You start writing before you can talk yourself out of it.

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

Okay, this is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. I'm sitting here in my tiny dorm room at almost midnight, writing a letter to someone who will never read it, but I can't get tonight out of my head and I need to put this somewhere.

We stayed until the library closed again. We finished your paper revision in less than an hour (and it's really good, by the way—you have this way of cutting through academic BS that's actually kind of brilliant), but then we just... stayed. We talked about everything and nothing. About how Coach Meyer still calls you "the kid from Iowa" even though you've been here for years. About how you miss your mom's cooking but pretend the dining hall food is fine because complaining feels ungrateful. About how you've known exactly what you wanted to be since you were eight years old.

And then you told me about that Tom Brady Super Bowl. The way your whole face changed when you talked about that moment—when you decided you wanted to be a quarterback. God, Joe. I've never seen someone love something that much. It was like watching someone talk about religion.

Here's the thing though, and this is going to sound crazy: I've been sort of accidentally watching practice from my dorm window (yes, I'm a creeper, sue me), and I see how hard you work. I see you staying late, running routes with receivers who barely acknowledge you exist. I see you studying playbooks in the dining hall while other guys are talking about parties. I see the way you watch film on your laptop between classes.

So I'm starting this collection. Because someday—and I mean SOMEDAY soon—you're going to be exactly what you dreamed of being when you were eight years old. You're going to be the quarterback everyone talks about. You're going to make all those people who overlook you now remember your name.

And when that happens, I want to be able to show you this box full of letters and say "I told you so."

Maybe that makes me presumptuous. Maybe I'm just some nursing student who has no business believing in your future. But I do believe in it. I believe in YOU, even when you're frustrated on the bench, even when Coach Meyer looks right through you like you're not there, even when you doubt yourself.

You're going to be something special, Joe Burrow. I can feel it in my bones.

And honestly? I really hope I get to be there to see it happen.

Love (yes, I said it, fight me), Your biggest believer

P.S. - Your Communications paper is going to get an A. I'm calling it now.

You set the pen down and read over what you've written, heat creeping up your neck. It's sappy and presumptuous and completely insane, but it's also true. Every word of it.

You fold the letter carefully and slip it into the small wooden box your grandmother gave you before she died—the one that's supposed to hold "treasures." This feels like the start of something worth treasuring, even if Joe never knows it exists.

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

You turn off your desk lamp and slip under your covers, but sleep doesn't come easily. Instead, you lie awake thinking about blue-green eyes and crooked smiles, about the way Joe's voice changes when he talks about football, about the impossible certainty that you're watching someone destined for greatness.

You don't know yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find his voice and listening to him share his dreams, something has taken root in your chest.

Something that feels like forever.

Outside your window, the campus is quiet except for the distant sound of late-night traffic and someone's music playing softly down the hall. You drift off to sleep thinking about eight-year-old Joe Burrow pointing at a TV screen, declaring his future to the world.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll remember this moment—the purity of believing in someone completely—as both the best and worst thing you ever did.

All you know is that you've never felt anything like this before. And you never want it to end.

* * *

December 16th, 2017

You're stress-eating pretzels in the library when Joe slides into the chair across from you, looking like he's been psyching himself up for something.

"Hey," he says, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, my birthday was last week."

"I know. You mentioned it like twelve times." You look up from your nursing textbook. "How was it? Very exciting twenty-first birthday celebrations?"

"Went to dinner with some of the guys. Nothing crazy." He's still drumming his fingers, which means he's nervous about something. "But, um, I was thinking. Since we don't have any more tutoring sessions before break..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to grab dinner? Like, not a study thing. Just dinner."

You set down your highlighter and really look at him. Joe's wearing his usual Ohio State hoodie and jeans, hair messy from practice, but there's something different about the way he's looking at you. Less casual. More intentional.

"Like a date?"

His ears turn red, which is honestly kind of endearing. "Maybe. Is that... would you want to do that?"

You've been waiting for this question for weeks, but now that it's happening, you feel oddly nervous. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. Okay. Good." He grins, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Friday work? There's this place off-campus that's supposed to be decent."

"Friday works."

"Awesome. I'll pick you up around seven?"

"Sounds good."

After he leaves, you sit there for a solid ten minutes staring at your textbook without reading a single word, trying to process the fact that you're going on an actual date with Joe Burrow.

* * *

Friday comes faster than you expected. You change your shirt twice before settling on something that looks nice but not like you tried too hard—dark jeans and a sweater that Allison insists "brings out your eyes," whatever that means.

Joe picks you up right on time, looking nervous and freshly showered. He's wearing a button-down shirt instead of his usual hoodie, and the effort doesn't go unnoticed.

"You look nice," he says as you walk to his car.

"Thanks. You too."

The restaurant he picked is a small Italian place near campus, the kind with mismatched chairs and good garlic bread. Busy enough that you don't feel like you're on display, quiet enough that you can actually talk.

"I've never been here before," you admit as you look over the menu.

"Neither have I, actually. My roommate recommended it. Said the pasta's good and it won't bankrupt me."

"Solid criteria."

At first you're both a little awkward - this is officially a date, after all - but once the food comes, you fall back into your usual rhythm. Joe complains about winter conditioning, you vent about your anatomy professor, and somehow you end up arguing about whether cereal is soup.

"It absolutely does not," you insist, laughing at his mock-serious expression.

"Milk is a liquid. Cereal pieces are solid ingredients floating in that liquid. That's soup."

"By that logic, ice cream with toppings is soup."

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

"You're the one dating someone insane, so what does that say about you?"

The word 'dating' hangs in the air between you for a second. It's the first time either of you has acknowledged what this is, and you feel your cheeks warm.

"I guess I have questionable judgment," you say finally.

"Clearly."

The drive back to your dorm is comfortable, filled with easy conversation and Joe's terrible taste in music. When he parks outside your building, neither of you seems in a hurry to end the night.

"This was fun," you say, turning to face him.

"Yeah, it was. Better than I expected, honestly."

"Wow, don't overwhelm me with enthusiasm."

Joe laughs. "You know what I mean. I was nervous I'd be weird about it. The whole date thing."

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

You consider this. "Maybe a little. But in a cute way."

"Ouch."

You're both smiling, and there's this moment where the air seems to shift between you. Joe's eyes drop to your mouth for just a second before meeting your eyes again.

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. "Yeah. You can."

He leans across the center console, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, tentative, nothing like the dramatic first kisses you've seen in movies. It's better because it's real—a little awkward because of the car's interior, but sweet and genuine and completely them.

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

"I've been wanting to do that for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Since that first day when you made fun of my terrible introduction in orientation."

You laugh. "I did not make fun of you."

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

"Good thing, because I plan to keep making fun of you."

"I'm counting on it."

You kiss him again, just because you can, and this time it's less nervous, more sure. When you finally pull away, Joe's smiling at you like you've just made his entire week.

"I should go," you say reluctantly. "Allison's probably watching from the window like a creep."

"Probably?"

You glance up at your dorm room window and see the curtain drop quickly. "Definitely."

"Tell Allie I said hi."

"I'll tell her you're a good kisser. She'll want details."

Joe's ears turn red again. "Please don't."

"Too late. I'm telling her everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, not everything. But definitely the cereal soup debate. She'll think you're insane too."

"Great."

You lean over and kiss his cheek before getting out of the car. "Text me when you get back to your place?"

"Yeah. I will."

You watch him drive away before heading inside, where Allie is waiting with an expression that suggests she's been pressed against the window for the past twenty minutes.

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

"Don't you dare. How was it?"

You collapse onto your bed, touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of Joe's kiss. "It was really good, Allie."

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

Your phone buzzes: Made it back. Thanks for tonight. Sweet dreams.

You fall asleep thinking about the way Joe looked at you across the dinner table, like he was seeing you

* * *

April 14th, 2018

You're sitting in the stands with Joe's parents, wearing his number on a t-shirt you got specifically for today, and your stomach is in knots.

"He's been so nervous about this," Robin Burrow says, adjusting her Ohio State visor. "Barely slept last night."

"He'll be fine," Jimmy adds, but you can hear the tension in his voice too. "Joe's been working his ass off for this opportunity."

The spring game is supposed to be a glorified scrimmage, but everyone knows what it really is: Joe's last real chance to prove he belongs ahead of Haskins on the depth chart. Coach Meyer has been non-committal about the backup quarterback situation all spring, but the writing's been on the wall since Haskins' performance at Michigan last season.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Joe: See you after. Wish me luck.

You text back: You don't need luck. You've got this.

But watching him during warm-ups, you can see the pressure weighing on him. His jaw is set in that way it gets when he's trying not to let anyone see how much something matters to him. Three years of waiting, three years of getting told he's not good enough, all leading to this moment.

"There he is," Robin says, pointing as Joe trots onto the field with the second-string offense.

He looks good in the scarlet and gray, confident despite the nerves you know he's feeling. You watch him go through his pre-snap reads, the way he surveys the defense with the kind of calm intelligence that should be obvious to anyone paying attention.

The first quarter is mostly vanilla plays, nothing too exciting. Joe gets a few snaps, completes his passes, hands the ball off cleanly. Solid but unremarkable. You can see him settling in, finding his rhythm.

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

Joe drops back on a play-action fake, and the defense bites hard. He steps up in the pocket, eyes downfield, and launches a perfect spiral to K.J. Hill for a 35-yard touchdown. The crowd erupts, and you're on your feet screaming before you even realize it.

"That's my boy!" Jimmy yells, and Robin is clutching your arm so hard you'll probably have bruises.

Joe doesn't celebrate much—just a small fist pump before jogging to the sideline—but when he looks up at the stands, his eyes find yours immediately. He points right at you, that crooked smile breaking across his face, and your heart does something acrobatic in your chest.

"Did he just—" you start.

"He pointed at you," Robin finishes with a smile. "I've never seen him do that before."

The rest of the game is a blur of completions and smart decisions. Joe finishes 18 of 23 for 279 yards and two touchdowns, no interceptions. It's the kind of performance that should settle any debate about who the backup quarterback should be.

When the final whistle blows, you practically sprint down to the field level, Robin and Jimmy close behind. The crowd is filing out, but you're pushing against the current, desperate to find Joe in the chaos of players and families and media.

You spot him near midfield, still in his uniform, talking to a reporter. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in six different directions, and there's a grass stain on his jersey, but he's glowing. Actually glowing with the kind of satisfaction that comes from proving everyone wrong.

When he sees you approaching, his face breaks into that smile—the real one, not the media-trained version—and he excuses himself from the interview.

"Did you see that?" he says, jogging over to you, still breathless from the game. "Did you see that pass to Hill?"

"I saw everything," you say, and before you can think about it, you're in his arms and he's spinning you around right there on the 50-yard line. "You were incredible."

When he sets you down, his hands stay on your waist, and there's something different in his eyes. Something that makes your breath catch.

"I love you," he says, the words tumbling out like he can't hold them back another second.

Time seems to stop. The noise of the stadium fades into background static. It's just you and Joe and this moment that feels like everything you've been building toward since that first day in orientation.

"I love you too," you say, and his smile is so bright it could power the entire stadium.

He kisses you right there on the field, in front of his parents and the remaining fans and anyone else who happens to be watching. It's not perfect—his lips taste like Gatorade and sweat, and someone's taking pictures with their phone—but it's real and it's yours and it's everything.

"I've been wanting to say that for months," he admits when you break apart, his forehead resting against yours.

"Only months?" you tease. "I've been thinking it since December."

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

Joe laughs, the sound mixing with the distant noise of the crowd still filing out. "God, I was so nervous that night. I thought I was going to mess it up somehow."

"You didn't mess anything up. You were perfect."

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

You're both grinning like idiots, caught up in the euphoria of the moment—his performance, the "I love you," the feeling that everything is finally falling into place.

"Joe!" Jimmy calls out, approaching with Robin and a huge smile. "Hell of a game, son."

"Thanks, Dad." Joe's arm stays around your waist, like he can't bear to let you go. "Did you see that scramble in the third quarter?"

"Saw all of it. You looked like a quarterback out there."

"He looked like the quarterback," Robin adds, hugging both of you at once. "I'm so proud of you."

The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and photos and people telling Joe how well he played. You stay close to his side, basking in his happiness, in the way he keeps glancing at you like he still can't believe you're there.

It's not until you're walking back to the parking lot, just the two of you, that reality starts to creep back in.

"Think this changes anything?" you ask, swinging your joined hands between you.

"It has to, right?" Joe says, but there's uncertainty underneath the confidence. "I mean, I couldn't have played much better than that."

"You were amazing."

"Coach Meyer actually smiled at me. Like, a real smile, not one of those scary ones."

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

But even as you laugh and celebrate and replay every throw from the game, there's a part of you that's worried. Because you know how these things work. You know that one good game doesn't necessarily change everything, especially when the coaches have already made up their minds.

You don't say any of this to Joe, though. Not today. Today is for celebrating, for savoring this moment when everything feels possible.

"I love you," he says again as you reach his car, like he's testing out how the words sound.

"I love you too," you reply, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

You drive back to campus with the windows down and the music loud, Joe's hand in yours, both of you high on love and possibility. The future feels bright and wide open, full of promise.

You have no idea that this will be one of the last purely happy moments you'll have for a long time. That the coaches have already made their decision about the depth chart, that Joe's transfer will be announced in just a few weeks, that loving someone with dreams as big as his means learning to love them through disappointment too.

All you know is that Joe Burrow just told you he loves you after the best game of his college career, and right now, that feels like everything.

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

You pointed at me. In front of 70,000 people, in front of all the coaches, in front of your teammates - after that beautiful touchdown pass, you found me in the stands and pointed right at me.

You pointed at me after that touchdown pass. In front of all those people, after the best play of the game, you found me in the stands first. I've never felt anything like that.

Coach Meyer actually smiled at you today. I saw it from the stands. And when you told that reporter after the game that your girlfriend was your inspiration? I thought I might spontaneously combust from pride.

But mostly, I can't stop thinking about what you said on the field. "I love you." Just like that, no hesitation, no fear. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I love you too, Joe Burrow. I love your terrible jokes and your competitive streak over everything and the way you actually listen when I complain about my anatomy professor. I love how hard you work and how much you care and the way you make me feel like I'm the most important person in your world.

You're not the backup anymore. After today, you can't be. You're the future.

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

You find Joe sitting on the couch in his apartment, staring at his laptop screen like it holds the answers to the universe. There are papers scattered across the coffee table—transfer portal documents, LSU recruiting materials, statistics sheets—and he looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Hey," you say softly, setting down the coffee you brought him. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't answer immediately, just keeps staring at the screen. You can see the LSU Tigers logo reflected in his eyes.

"Joe?"

"I'm scared," he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I'm making a huge mistake? What if I go down there and just prove everyone right—that I really am Division III material?"

You sit down next to him, close enough to see the stress lines around his eyes. It's been a month since spring practice ended, a month since it became clear that despite his spring game performance, Haskins was still ahead of him on the depth chart. A month of Joe weighing his options while you watched him slowly break apart.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you say.

Joe closes the laptop and runs both hands through his hair. "Coach O called again yesterday. Says they want me, says I can compete for the starting job immediately. But..."

"But?"

"But what if I can't? What if I transfer and sit on another bench for another year? What if I'm just not good enough, and I'm too stubborn to see it?"

You've never seen Joe like this—so uncertain, so vulnerable. The confident quarterback who pointed at you in the stands after throwing touchdown passes has been replaced by someone who's questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.

"What does your gut tell you?" you ask.

"That I need to go. That staying here means accepting being a backup forever." He looks at you then, and there's something desperate in his expression. "But it also means leaving you. Leaving us. And we just figured this out."

Your heart clenches. You've been dreading this conversation, knowing it was coming but hoping somehow you could avoid it.

"Joe," you say carefully, "what are you asking me?"

"I'm asking if you think this is crazy. If you think I should just accept my place here and stay."

The question hangs between you like a test. You know what the easy answer is, what the selfish answer is. Ask him to stay. Tell him you need him here. Make this choice about you instead of about his dreams.

But you also know Joe. You know that if he stays at Ohio State just for you, he'll spend the rest of his life wondering what could have been. And eventually, he'll resent you for it.

"I think," you say slowly, "that you've been preparing for this opportunity your whole life. And I think you'll never forgive yourself if you don't take it."

Joe's shoulders slump slightly. "What about us?"

"What about us?"

"Long distance is hard. Really hard. And if I go to LSU..." He trails off, but you can hear the unspoken concern. If he goes to LSU and succeeds, if he becomes the quarterback he's always believed he could be, will there still be room for a girl from Ohio?

"Joe," you say, taking his hands in yours, "do you love me?"

"Of course I love you. That's why this is so hard."

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me when I say that if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out. Distance is just geography."

"It's not just geography. It's everything else. The pressure, the spotlight, the way everything changes when you're actually playing at that level."

You can hear the fear in his voice, and it breaks your heart. Not fear of failure—fear of success. Fear that becoming the quarterback he's always dreamed of being will cost him the life he's built with you.

"Hey," you say, moving closer to him on the couch. "Look at me."

He does, those blue-green eyes full of uncertainty.

"I fell in love with someone who dreams big. Who works harder than anyone I know. Who refuses to settle for less than what he's capable of." You brush a strand of hair off his forehead. "If you stay here just for me, you won't be that person anymore. And then what are we really holding onto?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, processing what you've said. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier.

"What if everything changes? What if I go down there and become someone different?"

"Then I'll learn to love that person too. As long as he's still fundamentally you."

"And if the distance is too hard?"

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens. But Joe, you can't make decisions based on fear. You taught me that."

"When did I teach you that?"

You smile. "Every day. Every time you get back up after Coach Meyer tells you you're not good enough. Every time you choose to keep fighting instead of giving up. You've been teaching me how to be brave since the day I met you."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. The uncertainty is still there, but underneath it, you can see the determination that's always driven him starting to resurface.

"You really think I should go?"

"I think you should do what your heart tells you to do. And I think your heart has been telling you to go since the day Coach O first called."

Joe nods slowly, then reaches for his phone. "Okay. I'm going to call him back."

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

You watch as Joe dials the number, your own heart racing. This is it. The moment that changes everything.

"Coach O? It's Joe Burrow... Yes, sir, I've made my decision."

You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you can see Joe's posture straightening, his confidence returning with each word.

"I want to be a Tiger... Yes, sir, I'm ready to compete... Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down."

When he hangs up, Joe just sits there for a moment, staring at his phone like he can't believe what just happened.

"I did it," he says finally. "I'm really doing this."

"You're really doing this."

"Holy shit." He looks at you, and now there's excitement mixing with the fear. "I'm going to LSU."

"You're going to LSU."

He pulls you into his arms then, holding you tight against his chest. You can feel his heart racing, matching your own.

"I'm terrified," he whispers into your hair.

"That's how you know it's the right choice."

"What if I miss you too much?"

"Then you'll call me every day. And I'll visit as much as I can. And we'll make it work because we have to."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

That night, you lie awake long after Joe falls asleep beside you, staring at the ceiling and trying to process what just happened. Tomorrow, he'll start the transfer process. In a few months, he'll be in Louisiana, chasing the dream he's carried since he was eight years old.

And you'll be here, supporting him from 900 miles away, hoping that love is enough to bridge the distance.

You think about that first letter you wrote, about believing in someone's potential before anyone else could see it. You just never imagined that believing in someone could require letting them go.

But that's what love is, isn't it? Wanting someone to become the best version of themselves, even when it's hard for you. Even when it means sacrifice.

Joe stirs beside you, and you turn to watch him sleep. In the morning, everything will change. But right now, he's still yours, still the frustrated quarterback from Ohio who pointed at you in the stands and told you he loved you.

Tomorrow, you'll help him pack. You'll drive him to the airport when it's time to visit LSU. You'll smile and be supportive and pretend your heart isn't breaking a little bit.

Because that's what love looks like sometimes. It looks like letting go so the person you care about can fly.

May 19, 2019

My love,

You did it. You made the call. You chose the scary, uncertain path because it's the one that leads to your dreams.

I watched you dial Coach O's number last night, and I have never been more proud of anyone in my entire life. Not because you chose LSU, but because you chose yourself. You chose to bet on your own potential instead of accepting what other people think you're worth.

I know you're scared. I know this means leaving everything familiar behind. But Joe, this is what you've been working toward your entire life. This is your shot.

I also know you're worried about us. About what distance will do to what we've built. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared too. But I meant what I said—if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out.

You're going to LSU to play in big games, to compete for championships, to become the quarterback you've always known you could be. I'm so excited to watch you do it.

And when you're standing on that field in Death Valley, throwing touchdown passes and proving everyone wrong, just remember that there's a girl in Ohio who believed in you first.

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

You're sitting in the Heisman Trophy ceremony audience, wearing a navy blue dress you bought specifically for this moment and trying not to cry before Joe even wins.

To your left, Robin Burrow is clutching a tissue and whispering prayers under her breath. To your right, Jimmy keeps checking his watch like he can speed up time through sheer willpower. The whole family section is buzzing with nervous energy, but you feel strangely calm.

Joe's going to win. You've known it for weeks, maybe months. The stats don't lie—78% completion percentage, 48 touchdowns, 6 interceptions, leading LSU to an undefeated season. He's not just the best player in college football this year; he's having one of the greatest seasons in the history of the sport.

But sitting here, watching them announce the finalists, you're not thinking about statistics. You're thinking about that scared boy in his apartment seven months ago, terrified he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

"The 2019 Heisman Trophy winner," the presenter says, and your heart stops beating for a moment, "quarterback Joe Burrow, Louisiana State University."

The room goes quiet for a beat, then fills with soft sounds of joy. Robin's eyes fill with tears that she wipes away quickly. Jimmy nods once, proud but not surprised. And you—you just sit there for a second, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

The boy who was told he belonged at Division III Mount Union just won the most prestigious individual award in college football.

When you finally manage to focus on the stage, Joe is walking up to accept the trophy, and he looks... composed. Confident. Like he belongs there, like this is exactly where his journey was always meant to lead.

But you know him well enough to see the emotion underneath the composure. The slight tremor in his hands as he accepts the trophy. The way his voice catches just barely when he starts his speech.

"First, I'd like to thank God," he begins, and you feel yourself leaning forward like you can somehow get closer to this moment. "My family, who's always been there for me through everything..."

He thanks his coaches, his teammates, the LSU community. You're filming it on your phone like every other proud girlfriend in the audience, but you're not really watching the screen. You're watching Joe—really watching him—and marveling at how far he's come.

"And to all the kids in Athens and Athens County that go home to not a lot of food on the table, hungry after school—you guys can be up here too," Joe says, his voice steady but emotional.

You're crying now, not because he mentioned you—he didn't, and that's okay—but because this is who he is. Someone who uses his biggest moment to think about hungry kids back home.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Photos with the trophy, interviews with reporters, a receiving line of congratulations that seems to last forever. You hang back with his family, not wanting to intrude on his moment, but Joe keeps looking for you in the crowd.

When he finally breaks away from the media obligations, he comes straight to you.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, still slightly breathless from everything. The trophy is in his hands, heavier and more beautiful than you imagined.

"I heard every word," you say, reaching up to straighten his tie that got crooked during all the photos. "That speech was incredible. Southeast Ohio, LSU, everything."

"I meant what I said about those kids back home. About them being able to make it up here too."

"I know you did. That's why I love you."

Joe's expression softens. "I should have mentioned you specifically. I had so many people to thank, and I ran out of time, but—"

"Joe, stop." You place your hand on his chest. "That speech was perfect. You thanked the people who got you here, who believed in you. You don't need to mention me for the whole world to know how I feel about you."

"But I want them to know. I want everyone to know that you're the reason I'm standing here."

"No," you say firmly. "You're standing here because you worked harder than anyone. Because you took a chance on yourself. Because you refused to give up when everyone told you that you weren't good enough."

Joe sets the trophy down carefully on a nearby table and pulls you into his arms. Right there in the middle of the Heisman ceremony reception, with his family and reporters and important people everywhere, he holds you like you're the most precious thing in the room.

"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too."

"After the championship game, after all this craziness dies down, we need to talk about the future. About what comes next."

"The NFL?"

"All of it. The draft, where we'll live, how we want to build our life together." His voice drops lower. "I want to marry you, Y/N. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. I want you to know that's where my head is."

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. It's not a proposal, but it's a promise. A commitment to a future that includes both of you.

"I want that too," you whisper.

"Good," he says, pulling back to look at you. "Because I'm pretty sure I can't do any of this without you."

Later that night, back in your hotel room, you finally have a moment to process everything that happened. Joe is in the shower, and you're sitting on the bed with your laptop, looking at the photos that are already popping up online.

There's one of Joe holding the trophy, beaming with pure joy. Another of him hugging his parents. And then there's one of him during his speech, talking about the kids back home in Athens County.

The caption reads: "LSU QB Joe Burrow wins Heisman, dedicates moment to hungry kids."

You're not mentioned in the articles, and that's okay. His speech wasn't about personal thanks—it was about using his platform for something bigger. That's who Joe is, even in his biggest moment.

You've loved him since he was a frustrated third-string quarterback that nobody believed in. You supported him through the scariest decision of his college career. You've been there for every step of this incredible journey.

And now he's the best player in college football, and you get to be proud of both his talent and his character. It feels like the beginning of everything.

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

I'm sitting in our hotel room writing this while you're in the shower, and I can hear you humming. Actually humming. Like you're so happy you can't contain it.

When they called your name tonight, I felt like my heart might literally explode. Not just because you won, but because you looked for me in the crowd first. Before the cameras, before the handshakes, before the trophy—you found my eyes.

You didn't mention me in your speech, and that's okay. You talked about the kids back home, about Athens County, about giving hope to people who don't have much. That's who you are - even in your biggest moment, you were thinking about others. I was so proud watching you up there, using your platform for something bigger than yourself.

Do you remember orientation day? When we were both convinced we didn't belong anywhere? Look at us now. You're holding the Heisman Trophy and talking about our future together like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I'm adding tonight's program to this collection, right next to that first letter I wrote when you were worried about embarrassing yourself. The boy who was afraid he wasn't good enough just won the most prestigious award in college football.

I told you so, didn't I? I told you from the very beginning.

You're everything I always knew you were. And somehow, impossibly, you're mine.

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

P.S. - Your speech made me cry. Happy tears. The best kind.

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

The Burrow family living room has been transformed into draft day headquarters. There are laptops everywhere, multiple TV screens showing different networks, and enough snacks to feed a small army. You're sitting on the couch next to Joe, your legs curled underneath you, trying to pretend like your heart isn't beating out of your chest.

Everyone knows Joe's going first overall to Cincinnati. It's been a foregone conclusion for months. But sitting here, waiting for it to become official, the nerves are real.

"Stop bouncing your leg," you whisper to Joe, placing your hand on his thigh.

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

Joe looks down and realizes you're right. He stills his leg but immediately starts drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch instead.

"Joe," Robin says from across the room, "you're going to wear a hole in that fabric."

"Sorry." He stops drumming his fingers and instead reaches for your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. "I know it's Cincinnati. I know it's basically guaranteed. But until I hear my name called..."

"Hey," you say softly, squeezing his hand. "Breathe. This is your moment. Enjoy it."

The living room is full of both your families - his parents, your parents who drove down from Ohio, his brothers, and a few close family friends. It should feel overwhelming, but instead it feels perfect. Like everyone who matters is here to witness this moment.

When Roger Goodell appears on screen in his home office (because of course the 2020 draft is virtual), the room goes quiet.

"With the first pick in the 2020 NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select... Joe Burrow, quarterback, LSU."

The room explodes in celebration. Everyone's on their feet at once - hugging, cheering, shouting congratulations over each other. Someone's taking pictures, someone else is already on the phone spreading the news. It's chaos, but the good kind.

And Joe? Joe just sits there for a second, staring at the TV like he can't quite believe it's real.

"You did it," you whisper, and that seems to snap him out of it.

He turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seen and pulls you into his arms, spinning you around right there in the living room while everyone cheers.

"I did it," he says into your ear. "Holy shit, I actually did it."

"Language, Joseph," Robin calls out, but she's laughing through her tears.

"Sorry, Mom. Holy crap, I actually did it."

The next few hours are a blur of phone calls and interviews and congratulations. You mostly stay in the background, letting Joe have his moment, but he keeps pulling you back to his side. When ESPN calls for a quick interview, his first words are about the journey, about LSU, about all the people who believed in him.

Later that night, after everyone has gone home and it's just you and Joe sitting on his back porch, you finally have a moment to process what happened.

"Number one overall," you say, still somewhat in disbelief.

"Number one overall," he repeats. "To Cincinnati, of all places."

"You excited about that?"

Joe considers this. "Yeah, actually. I am. It's close to home, close to you. And they need a quarterback badly enough that I'll probably get to play right away."

"No more sitting on the bench."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you looking out at the backyard where you've spent so many evenings over the past year whenever you visited from Ohio.

"So," you say finally. "Cincinnati."

"Cincinnati," Joe agrees. "You know, if you wanted to... I mean, if you're interested..."

"You're asking me to move with you?"

He turns to look at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Yeah. I am. I know it's a big ask, and I know you have your life in here, but—"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move to Cincinnati with you. Of course I will."

Joe's smile is so bright it could power the entire neighborhood. "Really?"

"Really. Though I'll need to find a job, and we'll need to figure out living arrangements, and—"

Joe cuts you off by kissing you, soft and sweet and full of promise.

"We'll figure it out," he says when you break apart. "All of it. Together."

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

You're standing in what will be your new apartment in Cincinnati, surrounded by boxes and furniture and the general disaster that comes with combining two people's lives into one space. Joe is attempting to assemble what the instructions claim is a coffee table but looks more like abstract art.

"I think you're missing a screw," you say, looking over his shoulder.

"I'm not missing a screw. The instructions are wrong."

"The instructions are not wrong, Joe. You probably have it upside down."

"I do not have it— Oh." He flips the piece he's been struggling with, and suddenly everything makes sense. "Okay, maybe I had it upside down."

You laugh and kiss the top of his head. "Good thing you're pretty."

"Hey!"

The apartment is perfect for you both—modern but not cold, spacious but not overwhelming, close to the facility but still in a neighborhood that feels like home. You found it together, both of your names on the lease, both of your input on the furniture. It feels like a real partnership.

"I still can't believe we did this," you say, looking around at boxes labeled with both your handwriting.

"What, moved in together?"

"All of it. You getting drafted, me finding a job at Cincinnati Children's, us actually doing this crazy thing."

Joe stands up from his coffee table project and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.

"Not crazy," he says. "Right. This feels right."

You lean back into his chest, fitting perfectly against him like you always have. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the Cincinnati skyline in the distance, but it's the reflection of you two together that catches your attention—Joe's chin resting on your shoulder, your hands covering his where they're clasped around your waist.

"It does feel right," you agree. "Scary, but right."

"What's scary about it?"

You turn in his arms to face him. "Everything's changing so fast. Six months ago you were in college, I was finishing my degree in Ohio, and now we're here. You're about to be an NFL quarterback, I'm starting at the hospital next week..." You gesture around at the boxes. "We're adults. Like, with a lease and everything."

"We've been adults, babe."

"Have we? Because I still feel like I'm playing house sometimes."

Joe's expression grows more serious. "Hey, look at me." When you do, his blue-green eyes are steady, certain. "This isn't playing house. This is us building something real. Something that's ours."

Before you can respond, there's a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of colorful language.

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

"Define okay," comes Jimmy's voice. "I may have just christened your new kitchen floor with a box of your fancy plates."

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"I'll get the broom," you say.

"I'll survey the damage," Joe says.

In the kitchen, Jimmy is standing amid a sea of ceramic shards and packing paper, looking like a kid who just broke his mom's favorite vase.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I was trying to put the box on the counter and it just slipped and—"

"Dad, it's fine," Joe says, already grabbing the dustpan from where you'd unpacked it an hour ago. "They were just plates."

"They were the good plates," you point out, crouching down to pick up the larger pieces. "The ones we spent forty-five minutes debating at Pottery Barn."

"We can get new good plates," Joe says. "Better good plates."

"I'll replace them," Jimmy insists. "I'll buy you the best plates money can buy."

Robin appears in the doorway, takes one look at the situation, and shakes her head. "Jimmy Burrow, what did you do?"

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

You watch Joe's parents bicker good-naturedly while you both clean up the mess, and something warm settles in your chest. This is what you'd imagined when you decided to move in together—not just the two of you, but the life that comes with being together. Family helping you move, broken plates on the first day, the comfortable chaos of people who love each other.

"You know," you say quietly to Joe as you dump ceramic shards into the trash, "maybe the broken plates are good luck. Like, we got the disaster out of the way early."

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

Joe grins. "I like it. New tradition: break something expensive on moving day for good luck."

"Let's not make it a tradition. These plates were thirty dollars each."

"Thirty dollars each?" Jimmy's voice rises an octave. "For plates?"

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

An hour later, the kitchen is cleaned up and Jimmy has been banned from touching anything fragile. You've moved on to unpacking books in what will be Joe's office—though you've already claimed half the shelves for your nursing textbooks and novels.

"We need a system," you say, holding up a copy of his quarterback camp playbook. "Your football stuff, my medical stuff, shared stuff?"

"Or," Joe says, unpacking his LSU championship trophy and setting it carefully on the bookshelf, "we could just mix it all together. Show the world that a football playbook and Gray's Anatomy can coexist peacefully."

You laugh. "That's very philosophical of you."

"I have my moments."

You're about to respond when Robin appears in the doorway holding your jewelry box—the small wooden one your grandmother left you.

"Sweetie, where do you want this?" she asks. "I wasn't sure if it should go in the bedroom or..."

"The bedroom's fine," you say, taking it from her. "Thank you."

Joe glances at the box. "What's in there?"

"Just some personal stuff from college," you say, taking it from Robin. "I'll put it away."

He nods and goes back to unpacking, not thinking much of it. You make a mental note to find a good hiding spot for your collection of letters he'll never read.

Joe doesn't press, just goes back to unpacking his books, and you clutch the jewelry box a little tighter. Later, when you're alone, you'll find a good hiding spot for it. Somewhere safe where you can keep adding to your collection of letters he'll never read.

By evening, the apartment is starting to look like a home. The furniture is assembled (correctly, after Joe swallowed his pride and actually read the instructions), the kitchen is functional, and you've managed to find places for most of your belongings.

Joe's parents left an hour ago after Robin made you promise to call if you need anything and Jimmy apologized one more time about the plates. Now it's just you and Joe, sitting on your new couch, takeout containers scattered on the coffee table he finally assembled properly, looking around at what you've built together.

"We did good," Joe says, his arm around your shoulders.

"We did," you agree. "Though I think your dad's banned from helping us move ever again."

"Definitely banned."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of us. For taking this leap."

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

Joe presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You know what I love about this place?"

"What?"

"It's ours. Not my apartment that you stay at sometimes, not your place that I visit. Ours. Both our names on the lease, both our books on the shelves, both our terrible cooking in the kitchen."

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

You laugh and burrow deeper into his side. "Fine, but you're not much better."

"Which is why we're going to learn together. Just like everything else."

Outside, Cincinnati is settling into evening—traffic sounds, distant music, the urban symphony you're both still getting used to after years of college towns. But inside your apartment, everything is quiet and warm and exactly right.

"I love you," you say into the comfortable silence.

"I love you too," Joe replies, pulling you closer. "This feels right, doesn't it? Being here together."

"It does," you agree, settling against his side. "Even with your dad breaking our plates on day one."

"Hey, that's a family tradition now. Good luck plates."

You're both laughing when Joe's phone buzzes with a text. He glances at it and his expression shifts slightly.

"What is it?"

"Coach Taylor. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Looks like the real work starts now."

There's something in his voice—excitement mixed with nerves, anticipation tempered by the weight of what's coming. Tomorrow, he stops being Joe Burrow the draft pick and becomes Joe Burrow the Cincinnati Bengals starting quarterback. Tomorrow, everything changes again.

"You ready?" you ask.

Joe considers this, looking around at the apartment you've built together, at the life you're starting to create. When he looks back at you, his smile is confident and sure.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

And sitting there on your new couch in your shared apartment, surrounded by boxes and the promise of everything ahead, you believe him completely.

You have no idea that this moment—this perfect, ordinary evening of takeout and broken plates and dreams coming true—will become a memory you'll cling to years later when everything falls apart.

All you know is that you love Joe Burrow, and he loves you, and you're building something beautiful together.

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

We moved in together today. Officially, permanently, with both our names on a lease and everything. Your dad broke our good plates (the ones we spent forever picking out at Pottery Barn), and you spent two hours assembling a coffee table upside down, and it was perfect.

Perfect because it was real. Because we're not playing house or pretending anymore—we're actually doing this. Building a life together. Making a home.

I keep looking around this apartment and thinking about how it's ours. Our books mixed together on the shelves, our pictures on the walls, our terrible cooking experiments in the kitchen. Everything we've worked toward, everything we've dreamed about, starting right here.

You asked about my letters earlier, and I almost told you. Almost handed you this entire box and said "here, read about how much I love you." But these are mine. My way of loving you, my way of documenting this incredible journey we're on.

Someday, maybe I'll show them to you. When we're old and gray and you want to remember how we got here. But for now, they're my secret way of telling you everything I feel.

Tomorrow you start training camp. Tomorrow you become an NFL quarterback for real. But tonight, you're just my Joe, sleeping next to me in our bed in our apartment, and everything is exactly as it should be.

I love our life, Joe Burrow. I love the life we're building.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

You're adjusting the IV drip for seven-year-old Dylan when you hear the commotion in the hallway. Excited voices, the sound of sneakers squeaking on linoleum, someone saying "Oh my God, is that really him?"

Dylan looks up at you with wide eyes. "Miss Y/N, what's all that noise?"

You smile, checking his chart one more time. "I think some very special visitors just arrived."

"Special visitors?"

Before you can answer, Joe appears in the doorway wearing his Bengals polo and that easy smile that makes patients feel instantly comfortable. Behind him are Ja'Marr, Tyler Boyd, and a few other teammates, but Dylan only has eyes for Joe.

"No way," Dylan breathes. "No freaking way."

"Dylan Rodriguez," you say in your best stern nurse voice, "what did we say about language?"

"Sorry, Miss Y/N. But that's Joe Burrow!"

Joe steps into the room, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest watching him with kids. He's a natural—crouching down to Dylan's eye level, asking about his favorite plays, listening to Dylan explain his treatment like Joe's genuinely interested in the medical details.

"So Dylan," Joe says, pulling up a chair beside the bed, "Miss Y/N here tells me you're the bravest kid on this whole floor."

Dylan beams. "She takes really good care of me. She's the best nurse ever."

Joe glances at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your heart skip. Pride, love, admiration—like he's seeing you through Dylan's eyes and falling for you all over again.

"She really is," Joe agrees. "I'm pretty lucky she takes care of me too."

"She takes care of you?" Dylan asks, confused.

"Well," Joe says, winking at you, "she's my girlfriend. So when I get hurt playing football, she patches me up just like she patches you up."

Dylan's eyes go wide. "Miss Y/N is your girlfriend? That's so cool!"

"I think so too," Joe says, and the way he's looking at you makes you forget there are other people in the room.

The next two hours pass in a blur of room visits, autographs, and photos. You work alongside Joe and his teammates, but it doesn't feel like work. It feels like showing off your two favorite worlds—Joe getting to see you in your element, your patients getting to meet their hero.

In eight-year-old Sophie's room, you're checking her post-surgical dressings when she whispers conspiratorially to Joe, "Miss Y/N sang to me when I was scared before my operation."

"She did?" Joe looks over at you. "What did she sing?"

"Taylor Swift," Sophie giggles. "She knows all the words."

"She's very talented," Joe says seriously. "Though I have to warn you, her singing voice is... questionable."

"Hey!" you protest, laughing. "Sophie, don't listen to him. He thinks he can sing better than me."

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

"Absolutely not. But don't tell her I said that."

In the NICU, you're explaining ventilator settings to Tyler Boyd's wife Kierra when Joe comes up behind you, his hand settling naturally on your lower back.

"You're really good at this," he murmurs in your ear.

"It's my job."

"No, I mean... you're really good with them. The kids, the families. They all love you."

You turn to look at him. "You sound surprised."

"Not surprised. Just... proud. Really fucking proud."

"Language, Burrow," you tease, glancing around at the tiny patients. "There are babies present."

"Sorry," he grins. "Really freaking proud."

The local news crew arrives halfway through the visit, and you try to fade into the background like you usually do during Joe's media obligations. But this time, Joe won't let you.

"Actually," he says to the reporter, his arm sliding around your waist, "I want to make sure you get the real story here. This is Y/N, my girlfriend, and she's a nurse here at Children's. These kids aren't just patients to her—they're her kids. She takes care of them every single day, not just when the cameras are here."

The reporter's eyes light up. "Oh, that's a wonderful angle. How long have you been working here, Y/N?"

You glance at Joe, suddenly nervous to be on camera, but he squeezes your hand encouragingly.

"Almost two years now," you say. "Since Joe and I moved to Cincinnati."

"And what's it like having your boyfriend surprise your patients?"

"It's pretty special," you admit. "These kids fight so hard every day. Seeing them light up like this... it's everything."

Joe's thumb traces circles on your hip, and when you look at him, he's watching you with an expression so soft it takes your breath away.

"She's amazing," he tells the camera, but his eyes never leave yours. "These families are lucky to have her."

Later, after the team has left and you're finishing your shift, you find a note tucked into your locker:

Thank you for letting us see what you do. Watching you with those kids today... I've never been more proud to be with someone. You're incredible at this, babe. Really incredible. - J

P.S. - Dylan asked me if I was going to marry you. I told him that was the plan. Hope that's okay.

You read the note three times, your heart doing acrobatic flips in your chest. The plan. Like it's not a question of if, but when.

That night, curled up next to Joe on the couch, you're both scrolling through the news coverage on your phones.

"Look at this," Joe says, showing you his screen. "Channel 12 posted a whole segment about you. 'Bengals QB's girlfriend is local children's nurse.'"

You peer at his phone. The photo they used is from today—you and Joe with Dylan, all three of you laughing at something off-camera. You look happy. More than happy. You look like you belong.

"They called me 'local children's nurse,'" you point out. "Not just 'Bengals QB's girlfriend.'"

"Good. That's what you are. That's who you are."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Thank you for today. For including me, for making it about the kids."

"Thank you for being amazing. Seriously, watching you work today..." He trails off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I love seeing you in your element. You're so good at what you do."

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you scrolling through comments on the hospital's Facebook post about the visit. Most of them are about Joe, but there are plenty about you too:

"Y/N is the sweetest nurse! She took such good care of my daughter last year."

"Love that Joe's girlfriend actually works at the hospital. She's not just there for the cameras."

"You can tell she really cares about those kids. What a sweet couple."

"See?" Joe says, reading over your shoulder. "They love you."

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep, you slip out of bed and retrieve your wooden box from its hiding place in the closet. You've been writing letters less frequently lately—life has been so good, so stable, that the urgent need to document everything has faded into simple contentment.

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

Today you came to my hospital. MY hospital, with MY kids, and you were so perfect I could hardly breathe.

Watching you with Dylan, listening to you tease me about my "questionable" singing voice when Sophie brought up your Taylor Swift performances, seeing you crouch down to every child's eye level like they're the most important people in the world... God, Joe. My heart was so full I thought it might burst.

But the best part wasn't watching you with the kids. It was watching you watch me. The way you looked at me when Dylan called me the best nurse ever. The way you insisted the reporter interview me too, like you were proud to claim me. The way you told that little girl at the end that you were planning to marry me someday.

THE PLAN, you wrote in your note. Like it's not even a question anymore.

I've never felt more seen, more valued, more loved than I did today. You didn't just bring the team to visit kids. You brought them to see what I do, who I am when I'm not just "Joe Burrow's girlfriend." You made sure everyone knew I matter.

This is us at our best, Joe. This is the team we make, the life we're building. You supporting my dreams while I support yours. You being proud of me while I'm proud of you.

I love our life. I love the way we fit together. I love that your dreams and my dreams somehow make perfect sense side by side.

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend

P.S. - I do NOT have a questionable singing voice. Sophie clearly has excellent taste.

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

You're sitting between Robin and Jimmy, all three of you staring at the field in stunned disbelief. Overtime. They lost in overtime. Three points away from the Super Bowl, and it's over.

Your hands are shaking as you watch Joe on the field, still in his uniform, helmet off, talking to Patrick Mahomes at midfield. Even from here, you can see the devastation in his posture—shoulders slumped, head down, the weight of this loss written in every line of his body.

"He played his heart out," Robin whispers, tears streaming down her face. "He gave everything he had."

"It wasn't enough," Jimmy says quietly, and the defeat in his voice breaks your heart almost as much as watching Joe does.

You want to run onto the field, want to wrap Joe in your arms and tell him it's okay, that there will be other chances, other seasons. But you know better. You know how much this meant to him, how hard he worked to get here, how close they came to something extraordinary.

The family section starts to empty slowly, other wives and girlfriends gathering their things, preparing for the long, quiet flights home. But you don't move. You can't move. You just keep watching Joe, waiting.

"Come on, honey," Robin says gently, touching your arm. "We should head down."

You nod but don't get up immediately. You're memorizing this moment—not because you want to, but because you know it's important. This is Joe at his lowest point, and you're about to find out if you're still the person he turns to when his world falls apart.

The walk down to the field level feels endless. Security guards guide the families through corridors that smell like concrete and disappointment. You can hear muffled crying, quiet conversations, the sound of dreams being packed away for another year.

When you finally make it to the designated family area outside the locker room, most of the other players have already come and gone. You wait with Joe's parents, all of you checking your phones obsessively, none of you sure what to say.

Then you see him.

Joe emerges from the tunnel still in his uniform, his face a mask of controlled devastation. His eyes scan the small crowd of remaining family members, and when they land on you, something in his expression cracks.

He doesn't say anything, just walks straight to you and pulls you into his arms so tightly you can barely breathe. You feel his body shaking against yours, feel the way he buries his face in your neck like he's trying to disappear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice broken. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"No," you say fiercely, pulling back to look at him. "Don't you dare apologize. Do you hear me? Don't you dare."

Joe's eyes are red-rimmed, whether from tears or exhaustion or pure emotion, you can't tell. "We were so close. We were right there."

"I know, baby. I know."

"I let everyone down. The team, the city, you—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You didn't let anyone down. You were incredible. You ARE incredible."

Joe shakes his head, but you don't let him argue.

"Joe Burrow, you took this team to the AFC Championship in your second season. You came back from a knee injury that could have ended your career and you made it to one game away from the Super Bowl. That's not failure. That's extraordinary."

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

"I know it doesn't. Not right now. But baby, this is just the beginning. This isn't the end of your story—it's the chapter that makes the next one even better."

Joe pulls you close again, and you feel some of the tension leave his body. Around you, his parents are talking quietly to Ja'Marr's family, giving you both space to process this moment.

"I love you," Joe says into your hair. "I need you to know that. I couldn't have gotten here without you."

"I love you too. And I'm so proud of you I can barely stand it."

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

"Especially after that interception in overtime. Because you got back up. You always get back up."

Joe pulls back to look at you again, and there's something in his eyes—gratitude, love, but also a kind of desperation. Like he needs you to anchor him to something real when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

"Come on," he says, his arm around your waist. "Let's get out of here."

The flight back to Cincinnati is quiet. Joe stares out the window for most of it, your hand in his, occasionally squeezing your fingers like he's making sure you're still there. You don't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. You just stay close, let him know through your presence that he doesn't have to carry this alone.

Back in your apartment, Joe goes straight to the shower while you order food from his favorite Sushi place. When he emerges twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing sweatpants and an old Ohio State t-shirt, he looks younger. Less like an NFL quarterback and more like the boy you fell in love with in college.

"Not hungry," he says when he sees the takeout containers.

"I know. But you should eat something anyway."

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

Joe sighs but sits down next to you on the couch, mechanically eating pad thai while you curl up against his side. The TV is on, but neither of you is really watching. There will be analysis tomorrow, articles about what went wrong, speculation about next season. Tonight is just for grieving.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask after a while.

"Not really."

"Okay."

"Maybe later. Just... not tonight."

You press a kiss to his shoulder. "Whatever you need."

Joe sets down his barely touched food and turns to face you. "I need this. Just you. And me."

"You have me. You'll always have me."

"Promise?"

There's something vulnerable in the way he asks it, like he's not just talking about tonight or this loss, but about everything that's coming. The pressure, the expectations, the spotlight that's only going to get brighter.

"I promise," you say, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

Joe kisses you then, soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say out loud. When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"I love you," he says again, like he needs to keep saying it to make sure it's real.

"I love you too. Win or lose, good games or bad games, I love you."

That night, Joe falls asleep with his head on your chest, your fingers running through his hair. You stay awake for a long time, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his trust in the way he sleeps so completely in your arms.

You think about what you said on the field—that this is just the beginning of his story. You believe that with everything in you. Joe Burrow will get back to this moment, and next time, he'll be ready.

What you don't know is that when he gets there, when he reaches the heights you're both dreaming of, you won't be standing next to him anymore.

All you know is that tonight, in this moment, you're exactly where you belong. You're the person he turns to when the world falls apart, the one who picks up the pieces and helps him remember who he is.

You're his home. His safe place. His forever.

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

I'm writing this after you finally fell asleep. It took hours for your breathing to even out, for your body to stop carrying all that tension from tonight. You're curled up next to me now, finally peaceful after the worst night of your football career so far.

Watching you walk off that field tonight was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Seeing you so close to your dreams and watching them slip away... God, Joe. My heart broke for you.

But then you found me. In all that chaos, all that devastation, you found me first. Not the media, not your teammates, not the coaches. Me. You walked straight to me like I was the only thing that could make any of this bearable.

That's when I knew. Not that I love you—I've known that for years—but that I'm the person you trust with your broken pieces. I'm who you turn to when everything falls apart.

You apologized tonight. You actually apologized to ME, like losing that game was something you did to me personally. Baby, you could never disappoint me. You could lose every game for the rest of your career and I would still be proud to love you.

But you won't lose every game. You won't even lose most games. Tonight was heartbreaking, but it wasn't an ending. It was education. It was motivation. It was the foundation for everything that's coming next.

You're going to get back there, Joe. And when you do, when you're holding that Lombardi Trophy, I want you to remember this night. Remember how it felt to fall short, so you never take success for granted.

I'll be there for all of it. The comeback, the victories, the championship we both know is coming. Just like I was there tonight.

Forever yours, Y/N

P.S. - You said you couldn't have gotten here without me. The truth is, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

* * *

March 15th, 2023

You're having lunch with your friend Emma at a trendy spot downtown, catching up on everything you've missed since she moved to Cincinnati for her marketing job. It feels good to have your college friend nearby again, someone who knew you before you became "Joe Burrow's girlfriend."

"So," Emma says, stabbing her salad with more force than necessary, "how are things with Mr. Quarterback? I barely see you guys together on social media anymore."

"We're good," you say automatically, the response you've perfected over the past few months. "Just busy. His schedule is crazy during the season, and now with all the off-season training..."

Emma nods, but there's something in her expression that makes you pause.

"Actually," she says, setting down her fork, "that's kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I saw something last night and I wasn't sure if I should mention it..."

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

Emma pulls out her phone, and you watch her scroll through Instagram with the kind of purposeful navigation that means she's looking for something specific.

"Because," she says, turning her phone toward you, "when I was scrolling last night, I noticed Joe's been... active."

The screen shows Joe's Instagram activity. Your heart starts beating faster as you see a long list of likes on photos from accounts you don't recognize. @KelseyAnderson @DanielleFitness. @MiaMartinii.

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

You scroll down with trembling fingers. Photo after photo of beautiful women—models, influencers, actresses. All liked by @Joeyb_9 All within the last few weeks.

Your mouth goes dry. "This... this doesn't mean anything. It's just social media."

But even as you say it, you're thinking about the photos. Bikini shots. Workout videos. Professional modeling photos where the women are wearing next to nothing.

"Honey," Sarah says softly, "there are like fifty of them. Just in the past month."

You hand her phone back, your hands shaking slightly. "He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. You know how guys are with social media. They just scroll and like without thinking."

"Maybe," Emma says, but she doesn't sound convinced. "But Y/N, some of these are really... explicit. And it's not just random scrolling. Look."

She shows you her phone again, this time on @KelseyAnderson's profile. "He's been liking her photos for weeks. Consistently. And she's been liking his back."

The room feels like it's spinning. You stare at the phone, at the evidence of Joe's digital attention being given to women who look nothing like you. Women with perfect bodies and professional photographers and hundreds of thousands of followers.

"I probably shouldn't have shown you," Emma says, watching your face carefully. "I just... if it were my boyfriend, I'd want to know."

"No," you say quickly, "you did the right thing. I just... I need a minute to process this."

The rest of lunch passes in a blur. You go through the motions of eating, of responding to Emma's conversation, but your mind is spinning. Every interaction you've had with Joe over the past few weeks is suddenly cast in a different light.

The way he's been more distant lately. How he's always on his phone but angles it away from you. The fact that he hasn't posted a photo of you together since... when? You can't even remember.

"I should probably go," you say, checking the time even though you have nowhere urgent to be.

"Y/N," Emma says gently, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... a lot to think about."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet. But thank you for telling me. Really."

Emma nods, but she looks worried as you both stand to leave. "Call me later? Promise?"

"Promise."

But you don't go home. Instead, you drive aimlessly around Cincinnati, Emma's words echoing in your head. Fifty of them. Just in the past month.

When you finally make it back to your apartment, Joe is in the kitchen making a protein shake, still in his workout clothes from training.

"Hey babe," he says without looking up from his blender. "How was lunch with Emma?"

"Good," you say, trying to keep your voice normal. "How was training?"

"Brutal. Coach has us doing these new conditioning drills that are basically torture."

You watch him pour his shake into a tumbler, notice how he immediately reaches for his phone. The same phone he's been using to like photos of other women.

"Joe," you say before you can lose your nerve.

"Yeah?" He's scrolling already, not really looking at you.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure, what's up?" But he's still looking at his phone, and something inside you snaps.

"Can you put that down? Please?"

Joe looks up, surprised by your tone. "Everything okay?"

"That's what I want to ask you."

He sets his phone face-down on the counter and gives you his attention. "What's going on?"

You take a breath, trying to figure out how to bring this up without sounding like a crazy, jealous girlfriend. "Emma showed me your Instagram likes today."

Joe's expression doesn't change, but you catch the tiny flicker in his eyes. "My Instagram likes?"

"The photos you've been liking. Of other women."

"Y/N—"

"Models, influencers. A lot of them, Joe. Like, a really concerning amount of them."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, a tell you recognize from years of watching him when he's uncomfortable. "It's just social media. It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. I scroll through my feed, I see photos, I like them. It's literally meaningless."

"But these aren't just random photos, Joe. These are specific accounts. Some of them you've been consistently liking for weeks."

"I don't monitor my likes, Y/N. I just double-tap and keep scrolling."

There's something in his tone—dismissive, almost annoyed—that makes your chest tighten. This isn't the Joe who used to listen to your concerns, who used to care when something upset you.

"So you're saying it means nothing? The fact that you're giving attention to dozens of half-naked women online?"

"Jesus, when you put it like that, you make it sound like I'm cheating or something."

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

Joe stares at you like you've lost your mind. "No, I'm not cheating. Not even kind of. I'm double-tapping photos on an app. That's it."

"It doesn't feel like 'that's it' to me."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?"

The words hit you like a slap. Your problem. Like your feelings about this are irrational, unreasonable, something for you to deal with alone.

"My problem?"

Joe seems to realize how that sounded and softens slightly. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... this isn't as big a deal as you're making it."

"How would you feel if I was constantly liking photos of shirtless male models?"

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

"No, because I'd know it didn't mean anything."

But there's something in the way he says it, too quick, too defensive, that makes you wonder if he's lying. To you or to himself.

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us together?" you ask.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us? Together?"

Joe is quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. "I don't know. Recently?"

"Try again."

"Y/N, I don't keep track of that stuff."

"Well, I do. It's been four months, Joe. Four months since you posted anything that shows we're together."

"So?"

"So people are starting to wonder if we're still dating."

"People need to mind their own business."

"These people include my friends. And your teammates' wives. People who actually know us."

Joe picks up his phone again, a clear signal that he's done with this conversation. "I'm not going to change how I use social media because of gossip."

"I'm not asking you to change how you use social media. I'm asking you to understand why this hurts me."

"It hurts you that I like photos on Instagram?"

"It hurts me that you're giving other women attention that you don't give me. It hurts me that strangers have to ask if we're still together because I've disappeared from your online presence. It hurts me that when I try to talk to you about it, you dismiss my feelings like they don't matter."

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at his phone screen. When he looks up, his expression is tired.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Y/N."

"I want you to say that you understand why this bothers me. I want you to say that you'll be more mindful about it."

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

But he says it like he's humoring you, like he's agreeing just to end the conversation. There's no understanding in his voice, no recognition that your feelings are valid.

"Joe—"

"I said I'll be more mindful. What else do you want?"

What you want is for him to apologize. What you want is for him to seem like he cares that he hurt you. What you want is for him to put his arms around you and promise that you're the only woman who matters to him.

What you get is dismissal and irritation and the growing certainty that something fundamental has shifted in your relationship.

"Nothing," you say quietly. "Forget I said anything."

"Good," Joe says, already looking back at his phone. "Because I have a conference call with my agent in ten minutes."

You watch him walk away, disappearing into his office and closing the door behind him. You're left standing in the kitchen, holding the pieces of a conversation that solved nothing and somehow made everything worse.

That night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling while Joe sleeps peacefully beside you. You think about Emma's concerned face across the lunch table. You think about the photos you scrolled through—beautiful women getting attention from your boyfriend that you haven't received in months.

But mostly, you think about Joe's reaction. The dismissiveness. The casual way he made your feelings seem unreasonable. The Joe you fell in love with would never have done that.

For the first time since you've been together, you wonder if you're fighting for something that's already over.

March 15, 2023

Joe,

Today Emma showed me your Instagram activity. Fifty likes on other women's photos in just the past month. Models, influencers, women who look nothing like me.

When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Maybe it does make me crazy. Maybe I am being unreasonable. But I don't think I am.

I think I'm watching the man I love slowly erase me from his life, one Instagram like at a time. I think I'm watching you explore options while keeping me as a safety net.

The worst part wasn't discovering the photos. The worst part was your reaction when I brought it up. You didn't apologize. You didn't seem to care that it hurt me. You just wanted me to stop talking about it.

When did I become so unimportant to you that my feelings don't even register?

When did you stop loving me enough to care when you hurt me?

I keep telling myself this is just a rough patch, that we'll get through it like we've gotten through everything else. But I'm starting to wonder if you want to get through it, or if you're hoping I'll just stop fighting and let you slip away.

I love you. But I'm starting to think that's not enough anymore.

Y/N

#joe burrow #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow fluff #nfl fanfic #nfl fan fic #nfl fanfiction #joe burrow smut #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #nfl imagine #nfl smut #nfl x reader #joe burrow x you #nfl x you

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meiplays · 3 days ago

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🧨 “Whipped & Wrecked”

Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x Reader

Rating: 💥 SFW (but spicy, lap grinding, thigh riding, hickeys, hair pulling, worship, possessive & feral Ben energy)

Word Count: ~2.8k

Warnings: Intense lap grinding, thigh riding, hair pulling, whimpering, kissing, marking/neck kisses/hickeys, teasing, possessive behavior, begging Ben (softly), whipped energy, reader in Ben’s shirt, praise, mutual obsession, canon Ben attitude

Summary:

All Ben wanted was to hold you in his lap. Just cuddle you for a while. But you knew exactly what you were doing the second you started grinding your hips over his thigh. Turns out, Soldier Boy isn’t as in control as he likes to act—especially not when you’ve got your fingers in his hair and your lips on his throat.

A/N: this is probably the spicest thing I've written (as what I'm comfortable with) first time writing soldier boy! Hope you enjoy xo

“C’mere, baby. Just wanna hold you for a while.”

That’s how it started.

You were curled up in bed, wearing nothing but one of Ben’s old shirts—soft, worn-in, and way too big. He was leaning against the headboard, dog tags still hanging against his chest, arms open, eyes soft in a way no one else ever got to see.

And you melted for it. Always did.

You crawled into his lap without hesitation, straddling his thick thighs, resting your body against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arms came around you instantly, solid and warm and possessive. He let out a quiet breath, one of those rare, content ones, like just having you there grounded him.

“Missed you,” he murmured, pressing his face into your neck. “Been thinkin’ about this all week.”

His voice was lower than usual, warm against your skin, and it made you shiver in his arms. You could feel his hands rubbing slow, lazy circles on your lower back, fingertips brushing just beneath the hem of the shirt. Nothing urgent—just comfort.

But you weren’t exactly behaving.

You shifted in his lap. Just a little. Enough to feel the way his muscles tightened beneath you. Enough to make him pause mid-breath.

“Careful,” he warned, but his grip on your hips got firmer. “You’re in dangerous territory, sweetheart.”

You smiled against his throat. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

Another shift. This time, you let your thighs tighten around his. The hem of the shirt slid higher as your body naturally moved over his lap, creating friction that neither of you could ignore.

Ben groaned, deep and low. His hands flew from gentle to gripping, fingers digging into your hips as his jaw clenched hard.

“Jesus,” he muttered, his voice rough now, “you tryin’ to kill me?”

You looked up at him through your lashes, playful. “What if I am?”

His eyes darkened.

“Don’t play with me, doll,” he rasped, rocking his hips just barely upward. “You know exactly what you’re doin’. You sit here, all sweet in my shirt, like you’re just here for cuddles—and then you start ridin’ my thigh like it’s an accident.”

“Maybe it is,” you whispered, grinding slow against the thick muscle beneath you. You could feel how hard he was breathing, how tense his hands had gotten. “Maybe I just like being close to you.”

“Bullshit,” Ben growled, dragging you closer. “You know how goddamn sensitive I am to you. You start movin’ like that, and I forget how to breathe.”

You rolled your hips again, this time firmer—grinding right against the curve of his thigh, where his muscles flexed under your heat. Ben’s head fell back against the headboard with a guttural sound.

“F**k, baby…”

His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movement before he even realized what he was doing.

“Keep goin’,” he muttered. “You’re gonna ruin me. Might as well finish the job.”

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his jaw, whispering sweet and sinful things in his ear as you rolled your hips over and over again, using the thick, strong muscle of his thigh like a toy built for you. His dog tags jangled softly between your chests as he tried to hold himself back.

“Takin’ my f***in’ breath away,” he groaned. “Look at you—makin’ a mess on my leg, actin’ all innocent. You know you’re the only one I’d ever let do this, right?”

You nodded, panting now, clutching his shoulders for leverage. “I know.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, up your spine, pulling you flush against him. His thigh tensed again—harder—and your body shivered in his lap.

Ben kissed you rough, possessive, like he was trying to remind you exactly who had you. When he pulled back, his eyes were blown wide with heat.

“You ride me like that again,” he muttered, “and I swear to God, I won’t be able to stop myself.”

You grinned, grinding once more. “That the plan.”

Ben let out a strangled noise—something between a growl and a prayer—and pulled you tighter against him, burying his face in your neck.

“Whipped,” he mumbled. “I’m f***in’ whipped for you.”

You stroked the back of his neck softly, kissing his cheek as you moved with him. “I know, baby. And I love it.”

You didn’t even realize how far you were pushing him.

Not until you tugged on his hair—and he whimpered.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.

Just a soft, helpless sound that slipped from his lips the second your fingers tangled into that thick mess of his hair and gave it a firm pull.

Ben froze. His breath caught. Then his eyes rolled back just a little like he’d just been sucker-punched straight in the nerves.

You stilled in his lap, straddling his thigh in nothing but his shirt, lips parted in surprise. “Wait… you like that?”

Ben groaned—deep and rough like he hated how much he loved it.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, voice barely holding together. “You’re gonna break me.”

You tugged again, slower this time, watching his reaction.

Ben shivered. You felt it under your hands. He dropped his head back, his lips parted, a low sound catching in his throat.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, “you really do like your hair pulled.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Instead, his hands snapped up to your hips and dragged you harder against his thigh—his grip bruising, jaw clenched, eyes wild with hunger.

“Baby…” His voice was gravel. “You keep doin’ that, I’m not gonna be able to stop.”

You rolled your hips slow, dragging the heat of your core over the thick muscle of his thigh again and again, your thighs clenching as he flexed beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you breathed. “Let go.”

That was it. That was the match to gasoline.

Ben’s mouth crashed against yours, hot and heavy, hands gripping like he needed you to stay there—like you’d disappear if he wasn’t touching every inch of you. His kisses were everywhere: your lips, your jaw, your neck—worshipping.

“You drive me f***in’ insane,” he growled between kisses. “You—this—this sweet little thing sittin’ in my lap like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

“I do,” you whispered, fingers in his hair again, pulling hard.

Ben gasped against your skin—and then whimpered again. Raw. Real. The kind of sound he’d never make for anyone else.

“You like that?” you asked, teasing against his ear. “You like being pulled around like a good boy?”

“F***,” he choked out, rutting his thigh upward under you so hard it nearly made you moan. “I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be, baby. Just don’t stop.”

He started kissing down your neck again, slower now. Not rough—needy. His tongue flicked over your pulse, his lips suckling a spot just under your jaw until you gasped. Then he did it again. And again.

“Gonna mark you up,” he mumbled, dazed. “All over. So you never forget who you belong to.”

“You’re the one who’s whipped,” you panted, grinding shamelessly against his thigh. “You’re the one who begs when I pull your hair—”

“I do not beg—”

You yanked again. Harder.

Ben whimpered. Louder this time. His eyes squeezed shut. His hips jerked upward under you like he couldn’t stop.

“Okay,” he gasped. “Maybe I do.”

You laughed breathlessly, but he wasn’t done with you.

He flipped you gently—fast but controlled—until you were on your back and he was hovering over you, his thigh still wedged perfectly between yours. You tried to protest, but his lips were already on your neck again, his hands sliding under your shirt, skin on skin.

“You make me weak,” he whispered. “You hear me? You ruin me every time you climb into my lap like that, grind on me like you own me.”

“I do own you,” you teased, breathless.

Ben grinned against your collarbone, and you felt his teeth graze your skin right before he sucked another mark into you, just beneath the line of your throat.

“Damn right, you do,” he muttered. “So let me show you what being yours means.”

He trailed kisses down your chest, slow and heavy, tongue flicking, lips sucking, worshiping every inch of skin he could reach without going too far. You tugged his hair again just to feel him twitch. Just to hear that sound again—the little gasp he couldn’t hide.

“You’re evil,” he muttered against your ribs.

“You love it.”

“Damn right, I do.”

He came back up, kissing you breathless, tasting every inch of your lips like he needed them to live. His hands never stopped roaming—your waist, your thighs, your hips—everywhere he could hold you down and pull you close.

When he finally slowed, both of you were panting, chests heaving, still tangled together on the bed. Your shirt had ridden up high. His sweatpants hung dangerously low on his hips. But neither of you had crossed the line—yet.

“Ben?” you murmured, brushing his hair from his forehead.

His eyes cracked open, and for once, he looked… soft.

“Yeah, baby?”

You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You know I’ve never seen you like this with anyone else. You’re not just mine. I’m yours, too.”

His throat worked like he was trying to swallow the lump in it. One of his hands slid up, curling around your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he rasped.

You kissed him again, slow and lingering. “Too late. You’ve got me.”

He pulled you into his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping protectively around your waist as he held you like he was afraid the world would take you away.

And you laid there like that—on top of him, tangled, flushed, and ruined—while his fingers idly stroked your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses into your temple.

Every few seconds, you tugged his hair just to hear that helpless little whimper again.

And Ben?

He let you.

Because he was yours. Whipped, marked, and happy about it.

#soldier boy #soldier boy fanfiction #soldier boy smut #soldier boy x reader #ben x reader #the boys #the boys smut #sfw smut #sfw spicy #smut sfw #ben x female reader #jensen ackles #jensen ackles imagine #jensen ackles x you #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles #jensen ackles x female!reader #jensen x reader #jensackles

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bewitched-hours · 1 day ago

Note

Hello! Yeah me again asking abt the noli and 07 yandere thing (lord I feel weird asking again I don’t want to be a bother) It’s just the last one you wrote was really and I mean really WELL written and I was hoping to ask for a part 2 of how things go? Hacking together, speaking, debating life—just quite cool! I already sent you the link of the past one I was talking about so I hope thats alright!

HI- YEAH- I SAW IT LOL I only saw it at school tbf so I'm starting it with this and have the story opened in another tab to make sure I don't forget anything (•̀ᴗ•́)و ̑̑

The reader's pronouns are once again She/They-

Pre-Forsaken

All three of you sat on opposite sides of 007 as you looked at the child in his arms.

"It's kinda cute..." You tried to end the silence comfortably as you could see the man soften. Noli didn't look so tough either for a change.

Though the red bundle of joy was giddy now, you knew it was only a matter of time until it got hungry...

"What are we meant to do with it..?" Noli asked quietly, watching as the baby held onto 007's fingers with glee. It honestly melted your heart a bit.

"I say we keep it." You state bluntly, surprised eyes meeting your own as you went to quickly explain yourself. "Think about it. If we drop it off somewhere else it would probably reach the same path as us if it survives anyways."

The two of them gave each other an unsure look before you gently lifted the child out of 7n7's arms with a huff. "I'm not saying we'd be great parents or anything but it'd definitely be better than the foster system or death." Your tone was firm but they could tell you were empathising with that little red face giggling up at you.

Maybe you were trying to prove something to yourself. That you were better than your family? Maybe that you can actually take care of something meaningful?

Whatever, it wasn't like either of them could say no by the time you started cooing at the baby all motherly.

"Heh, guess you're right." 007 perked up first, getting you to smile a bit more.

Wether it was to make you happy or they actually liked the idea, you couldn't care less. What mattered was that this child was safe with you.

"We should totally call it after the c00lgui." You commented with a chuckle, having Noli cackling and 007 trying to suppress his laugh.

"Yeah- no- this is good- So c00lkidd?" He suggested, letting out a laugh at your grinning nod. It was silly, it was unusual...

It was perfect.

"It'll be the perfect addition! Plus, I have some experience back when I had a babysitting gig to save up some money as a kid myself. We'll just need to get a few things and c00lkidd is gonna be spoiled with love!" You practically beamed and placed a gentle kiss on the little one's head, going back to cooing at it as it giggled in your arms.

Being a family might just be easier than you thought...

Post-Forsaken

For once, 007 probably appreciated being an outsider.

It meant more time with you. More time with Noli.

You were quick to figure out a spot to all meet in where neither killers nor survivors would even hear you.

It was perfect, especially whenever Noli decided to bring along c00lkidd and you could just talk for a while.

CK loved you. He loved the idea of having a big family like this where you could be his mom. You played nice and fair and actually managed to tire him out at times.

Though he didn't understand why it was such a taboo to play tag outside of rounds, he trusted your explanation that it was because it was less fun with only you four and the other survivors wouldn't be willing to listen to you or 007.

And CK knew the other killers were even less willing so...

But you'd always promise that once you get back home, you'll be the best mother to c00lkidd. And he took it as a good promise to make before saying his goodbyes and waiting for the next round.

You were committed to being the mother c00lkidd needed and the 'wife' that 007n7 and Noli deserved...

A bit disappointed with how this turned out but I tried my best-

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

#forsaken roblox #forsaken #roblox forsaken #forsaken x reader #forsaken x y/n #yandere forsaken #yandere forsaken x reader #007n7 forsaken #noli forsaken #007n7 x reader #noli x 007n7 #007n7 x noli #noli x reader

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bananabreads · 1 day ago

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Random things i think the lads guys would do with/for their child (PART 2)

Part 1 | Rafayel, Zayne

Part 2 | Sylus, Caleb, Xavier

Dad!lads

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

SYLUS - kissing his daughter's boo-boos

Sylus sat on the couch, glasses perched low on his nose, a thick book resting in his hands, though his sharp eyes flicked toward the backyard every few seconds, trained on his daughter and the twins laughing just outside the backdoor.

Your daughter was out there with Luke and Kieran, the twins as rowdy and energetic as ever. Their voices rang out in bursts of laughter and running footsteps as they played a chaotic game of tag.

But then came the sudden stumble.

Sylus’s head snapped up.

He saw her fall, a tiny body tumbling forward, hands too small to catch herself in time, and then the stillness that followed, just a beat too long.

Before he could even move, the twins had already rushed to her side.

“You alright, Mini Boss?!” Kieran asked, eyes wide, brushing dirt off her arms.

“I didn’t see the step!” Luke said, worried.

Your daughter gripped both their hands, her smile stretched wide across her face. “M’okay!” she said, a little too quickly, her knee now smeared with a thin trail of red.

Luke and Kieran didn’t hesitate. One of them lifted her, the other opened the door, and they came marching in like soldiers on a rescue mission, right past Sylus, who had already closed his book and set it aside on the coffee table.

His eyes flicked immediately to her knee.

The twins stood in front of him like guilty big brothers waiting for sylus' orders. But Sylus didn’t scold them. He simply reached forward, his arms open.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said softly.

Your daughter reached out for him with zero hesitation, letting him scoop her into his lap. She still smiled, lips trembling ever so slightly, as if afraid letting it go would invite the pain in.

“What happened?” Sylus asked as he carefully examined the scrape, his fingers gentle and careful.

“It’s just a small scrape, Daddy.” she replied quickly, “I’m fine, it doesn’t hurt!”

The way she said it—it was like listening to you. That same stubborn tone, that same too-bright smile that said please don’t worry about me.

He sighed, kissing her forehead before glancing over at the boys. “Can one of you get the first aid kit?”

“We’ll get the good one!” Luke declared, bolting into the hallway with Kieran close behind.

Sylus turned his attention back to the little girl in his arms, her legs resting gently over his. “You don’t need to lie, princess,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re allowed to hurt sometimes.”

She bit her lip, blinking fast.

“You’re just like your mommy, y’know?” he added with a low chuckle, pulling out the disinfectant pad the twins brought back.

“I’m not—” she began, voice suddenly wobbling.

But as soon as the pad touched her scrape, her toughness broke. She let out a soft, shaky breath and tears started to brim in her eyes. She didn’t sob, but her small body trembled slightly as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

“There it is,” Sylus whispered, wrapping his arm around her as he cleaned the wound slowly, methodically. “You were so brave. You don’t have to keep pretending now.”

“I wanted to be strong like you and mommy…” she mumbled into his shirt.

“You are strong,” Sylus replied, his voice quiet and steady. “Being strong doesn’t mean not crying. It means you let yourself feel, even when it hurts.”

She sniffled, clutching his sleeve tightly as he bandaged her knee with practiced ease, then leaned back just enough to look at her properly.

Sylus softly asked, “Better?”

She nodded. “Better.”

Sylus smiled, pressing a kiss at her knee to make it better, “Good, Now we’ll sit here until the pain forgets you.”

“Okay,” she whispered, curling against his chest.

CALEB — your daughter is his mini sous chef

The scent of seared garlic and butter welcomed you the moment you stepped out of the bathroom, towel draped over your shoulders, hair still damp from your shower. You stepped softly into the living room, only to pause at the doorway to the kitchen, your breath catching at the sight before you.

Caleb stood by the stove, effortlessly holding your daughter on his left arm. His hair was a little messy, his apron slightly stained with sauce, and he had this soft, completely unbothered look on his face, like this right here, this moment, was where he belonged most.

"Okay, taste test," he said gently, stirring the pan with his free hand before lifting the spatula. He blew on the food first, making sure it wasn’t too hot, and then brought it carefully to your daughter’s lips.

She took the bite with the serious concentration of the best world class food critic.

"Hmm…" she hummed thoughtfully, already holding the salt and pepper shakers in her little hands. "Needs more flavor, Daddy."

Caleb let out a quiet chuckle, the kind that softened every part of his face. “Alright, Chef. Fix me up.”

He leaned in closer to the stove, adjusting his grip on her as she very seriously sprinkled salt, then a little pepper, her little brows furrowed in concentration, like one wrong shake might ruin the whole dish.

“There we go. Perfect!" she said with confidence.

“Yes, ma’am,” Caleb replied with a playful salute as they both continued making dinner.

XAVIER — can't resist his son

The house was quiet in that lazy afternoon kind of way. The curtains swayed gently with the breeze, the air smelled faintly of books and fabric softener.

You sat cross-legged on the floor of the living room, scrolling through your phone, while your son quietly played beside you—well, had been playing.

Now, he was nowhere near his toys.

Now, he was clinging to Xavier like the divine beings just guided him there.

Xavier was sitting on the couch, reading something he wasn’t really focused on. In one arm, your son, fully attached, cheek resting against his father’s chest, thumb in his mouth, his little legs dangling comfortably.

“He was on the floor two minutes ago,” you said, glancing up.

“He crawled onto my lap,” Xavier replied, like that explained everything.

You squinted playfully, “You didn’t even try to put him back down.”

Xavier looked up from the page, expression calm, “He didn’t want to be put down.”

Your son let out the softest hum, half sigh, half sleepy yawn, as if agreeing.

You stood, walked over, and gently reached for your son. “Here, let me take him for a bit—”

But he turned his face into Xavier’s shirt and clung tighter.

You blinked and jokingly said, “Wow. Rude."

“I’m afraid he’s made his choice,” Xavier said, and if he was smug about it, he hid it behind a calm voice and a hand softly stroking your son’s back.

“You spoil him.”

He quickly replied back, “I like carrying him.”

You paused. “...That’s it?”

“Yes.”

You looked at the two of them, Xavier in soft clothes and your toddler fused to his chest like a sleepy koala. And maybe it wasn’t productive parenting. Maybe it wasn’t teaching your son to be independent or walk more than five feet without assistance.

But God, they looked peaceful.

Xavier glanced at you. “You want to sit with us?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Just shifted the boy slightly and reached for your hand.

So you sat beside him to the couch, settling beside them as he leaned back with a soft exhale. Your son barely stirred, still pressed close to his heartbeat, and Xavier reached for your hand again, fingers lacing easily through yours.

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sunk1ssddreams · 3 days ago

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Nika Mühl Headcanons

nika mühl x reader

~ absolutely knows she's a baddie and expects to be treated as such

- like thirty compliments a day MINIMUM to keep her happy

~ mirror pictures 24/7

- will not leave for a date or anything until you take some with her

~ loves being spoiled and spoiling you back

~ LOVES back scratches and you playing with her hair

- whenever you're laying with her on the couch or bed and you stop for a second, she brings your hand back and makes you keep going

~ so so so stubborn

~ arguments over the stupidest things

- even if she knows she's wrong she'll keep arguing

~ competitive as hell

folding laundry? she can fold it faster. chopping vegetables? she can do it better. planning a date? she'll plan a more romantic one. and forget kissing, that's a battle. she refuses to be the first to pull away and she's not afraid to play dirty

~ loves to cuddle but refuses to admit it

if you're sitting on the couch, she'll keep inching closer until you take the hint and put your arm around her. she'll totally pout and huff loudly, too. and forget teasing her about being the little spoon, she'll hit you with a pillow

~ private but not secret about your relationship

isn't a fan of pda or posting you all over her feed, but you're her date to everything and vice versa. and best believe if anyone calls you 'gal pals' or 'besties' she's fixing that real quick

nsfw:

~ makeouts constantly

- she just loves to kiss. most kisses end up at making out minimum with her, she'll accept nothing less

- and absolutely loves kissing during sex, even if it just turns into her moaning into your mouth. she'll whine and pull you back to her face if you stop

~ such a switch but leans more towards power bottom (fight me idc)

- sometimes after a rough game though, all she wants is to dick you down with her strap, will not let up for hours until you're a mess

~ stamina. every night, she exhausts you without shame. even if you're five seconds from falling asleep, she'll start another round

~ wakes you up in the middle of the night just to have sex

~ loves experimenting and trying new things

~ when she's needy, she's needy. even if you're in public, she'll drag you to a bathroom somewhere to fuck because she can't wait.

- 100% will do everything she can to work you up so you'll fuck her in the bathroom. even semi-flirt with some gym-bro just to get you jealous.

~ complete tease. buys sinful dresses and outfits just to drive you crazy on a night out.

~ loves loves loves aftercare and being pampered and loves pampering you

~ shower sex is a must with her

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

hey! this is my first time posting anything like this, i just got so tired of the drought on this tag lol. let me know what you think!

#nika muhl x reader #nika mühl #nika muhl #wbb #nika mühl x reader

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pennyplainknits · 5 hours ago

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Jolt

Written for @steddiemicrofic prompt "hot". | Word count 315 | rated: G | No archive warnings apply. Technically pre-Steddie so I hope it counts. Additional tag: Coffee, Coffee and coffee shops, Canon divergence, Eddie Munson lives.

Or read on AO3

Eddie doesn’t see the point in fancy coffee. All that counts is that it’s hot and caffienated. He doesn’t drink it because it tastes good; it’s to keep him going through long campaigns and night shifts, when Wayne starts to make a little frown at all the Jolt he gets through.

Honestly, you move back (temporarily) one time to take care of him and his busted hip, and he never lets you forget that time you swore strawberry milkshake had all the essential vitamins and refused to drink anything else for a week.

Plus cream? Sugar? Whatever hazelnut thing Jeff was raving about last week? Not very metal, is it? No, coffee as black as his soul is the way to go, taste be damned. Just like him.

Except.

“It’s fine,” Jeff says, again. “I told you, Mike knows the guy and he’s fine for us to play here. He knows him from way back at school, and he volunteered as soon as he heard.

Eddie stares at the sign.

Such a lack of creativity. How is he supposed to weave tales of terror in such a pedestrian setting?

“Coffee Place?” he says. “Really?”

“It’s a place that serves coffee,” Jeff nudges him inside. “Stop being stubborn.”

The inside does not match the exterior. There’s fucking- alchemical experiments all along the counter. Funnels and jugs and, fuck, alembics (probably, he’s never been clear what they are), hissing machines and clouds of steam, like someone’s going brew a potion rather than a boring cup of joe.

“Sorry, I was out back,” a voice floats out from behind the counter and the owner hustles into view.

He.

Moles?

Face??

Eyes???

Arms???

Hair????

Jeff kicks his ankle so Eddie stumbles forward.

“What do you think?” he says.

“Uh huh,” Eddie nods, but he can’t look away.

Maybe he is in the mood for something sweet, after all.

#steddie microfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #jeff stranger things #my fic #penny writes #coffee steve #steve the experimental barista #i think this does fulfil the no sequels rule #because the other stuff I've written has been not!fic and headcanons #so I hope I'm safe there

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just-my-latest-hyperfixation · 5 hours ago

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Boy toy

Written for @switcheddieweek, day 6, and for round two of the @steddiebingo

Prompts: Exposure | Switch, Sugar Daddy, Sub!Eddie

Relationship: Steve x Eddie

Rated: E

Words: 1,290 [also on AO3]

Tags: Switching; Sub!Eddie; Dom!Steve; Rock star Eddie; Movie star Steve; Modern AU; Blindfolds; Lace; Lingerie; Toys; Collars; Humiliation; Dirty talk; Finger sucking; Dry humping; Blow jobs

“Eddie Munson’s newest boy toy.”

Steve reads out the headline in the same bored drawl that he recited the last two articles in, but a faint tremble of amusement is creeping in. Even without being able to see, Eddie can picture him perfectly: phone balanced in one hand, the other fiddling softly with the remote on the armrest, the barest of smiles grazing his lips.

“Subheading, wait for it: … Who's the face behind that ass? God, who comes up with these? Do you think this is serious or some silly joke?”

Silence settles over the room, only disturbed by the low hum of the toy buzzing against Eddie’s prostate. Steve lets it linger, just long enough for the warm coil of arousal in Eddie’s belly to settle back in. Just long enough for the dull, painful tingle in his knees to start bothering him again, now that there's nothing to distract himself. Just long enough for him to start wondering if he should answer the question.

Then again, Steve was pretty clear in his instructions.

Kneel.

Head down.

Don't make a sound.

It's a bit strange. For all that Steve loves to test Eddie’s patience when their positions are reversed - always wiggling and whining and pleading at him with those big, wet eyes of his - he has no tolerance for disobedience when he's the one calling the shots, not even on a good day.

And today is not a good day. Today, Steve is pissed.

“It's common knowledge by now,” Steve reads, casually turning up the vibrations of the toy, “that Eddie Munson has a type. Corroded Coffin’s frontman likes his men young, athletic and shapely. And what can we say? His newest catch, spotted recently at luxury BDSM club The Hideout, clearly ticks all of those boxes.”

There’s another beat of silence. Eddie hears how Steve fiddles with the remote again, and this time, the pattern of the vibrations changes. Not a constant buzz anymore, but a slow ebb and swell, each crest sending delicious shockwaves of pleasure into his leaking cock. His fingers twitch, longing to touch himself, but he keeps his arms crossed behind his back just like Steve told him.

“There’s pictures, too,” Steve says. “I don’t need to describe them, I think?”

He doesn’t. Eddie has seen them approximately a hundred times since the first article came out this morning - and even if he hadn’t, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the way Steve looked that night. How the lace hugged his legs and thighs. Dark, shimmery black contrasting beautifully with his tan skin, matching the color of his shorts and collar. The broad lace blindfold - the same one Eddie is wearing right now - making his lips look all the more shiny and pink. Eddie still remembers how he begged and pleaded against it. Steve doesn’t like having his vision impaired, least of all when they’re out in public. He says it makes him feel exposed and helpless, but Eddie was feeling a little mean that day, so he stayed firm.

In retrospect, it was probably a good thing. Paired with the low light of the venue and the distance from which the pictures were snapped, the blindfold makes it near impossible to make out features - apart from Steve’s strong jaw and the spectacular swoop of his hair, maybe. Steve should be happy about it, truth be told.

Except he isn’t.

“Fans are, of course, dying to know who Eddie’s newest sugarbaby is,” Steve continues. “Knowing him, it’s probably only a matter of time until we find out. … Well, I’m sure they’d fucking love that, huh?”

A long, slender finger hooks itself through the o-ring of Eddie’s collar and pulls. Not very harshly, but since Eddie doesn’t see it coming, he still yelps in surprise and struggles to maintain his balance, not daring to bring his hands forward to support himself. The sudden shift in position nudges the toy a bit more firmly against his prostate. The next vibration comes reliably and relentlessly, and he moans, precome dribbling onto the fabric of his lace stockings.

“You told me,” Steve says, voice suddenly very close to his ear, “that place was discreet. You told me I didn’t have to worry about it, and look where it got us. What if anyone recognizes me, have you thought about that for a- … Are you smiling?”

Eddie shakes his head as well as Steve’s hold on the collar will allow, biting the inside of his mouth to get the treacherous little tug of his lips under control.

Did he plan for this? Fuck, no! The Hideout is discreet, usually. They’re probably moving heaven and hell as they’re speaking, trying to figure out who snapped the pictures and sold them to the press. Whatever poor bastard did it will rue the day he ever set foot into the club.

But no place is ever truly safe, and they both know it. Steve better than him, probably. Being the only child of Hollywood’s most beloved celebrity couple, he was practically raised on the big screen. Steve had his first movie contracts under his belt before he could even walk, way before Eddie ever dreamed of picking up a guitar. Hell, if anyone is anybody’s sugarbaby here, it sure as hell isn’t Steve.

“Well,” Steve sighs. His hand has released its hold on the collar and is travelling up, tracing the shape of Eddie’s bobbing throat, the curve of his jaw. “At least one of us seems to be enjoying himself. Now, how do you plan on making it up to me, huh?”

Eddie turns his head, searching and finding Steve’s thumb and sucking it into his mouth. Steve makes a low, pleased sound from somewhere deep in his throat and Eddie’s neglected cock twitches.

“That’s your solution to everything, huh?” Steve murmurs. A foot pushes itself between Eddie’s thighs, and he moans, swirling his tongue around the finger in his mouth. “Sucking my cock? Well, I don’t think you’ve earned that today, have you?”

Eddie hollows his cheeks, bobbing up and down on Steve’s thumb while he grinds himself against Steve’s leg. If he looks pathetic and desperate enough, maybe Steve will change his mind.

Steve, as if he read his thoughts, laughs softly.

“God, the sight you make. Wish the fucking tabloids could see you like this. Maybe that’s what we should do, huh? Maybe I should get the leash and take you out. Maybe I should let them see what a dumb little slut you are.”

He won’t. Eddie knows he won’t. Unlike him, Steve still cares about both of their reputation. It's cute, in a way.

But God, the thought of it? The thought of Steve parading him around like this, naked and exposed for everyone to see? Feeling a dozen and more eyes on him, even with the blindfold on, burning into his skin while he kneels at Steve's feet, the perfect picture of discipline and obedience?

“You're actually getting off on that, huh?” Steve’s voice is a low, awed rumble. Eddie whines when the finger slides from his mouth, but Steve makes a soft shushing noise, cupping a hand to the back of his neck to pull him closer. The scent of his arousal is strong and heady, and the tip of his cock is slick as it nudges Eddie’s bottom lip. He opens up and eagerly presents his tongue. Waits.

Steve sighs, and the grip of his hand on Eddie’s neck goes a little gentler. “Alright already. You know I can't say no to you when you're like that. If you make it worth my while, I might consider letting you come.”

Eddie has every intention of making it worth his while.

He always does.

More Steddie Bingo

Ko-fi

#steddie #steve x eddie #steve harrington x eddie munson #steddie fanfic #steddie brainrot #fanfiction writer #fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #switch eddie week #switcheddieweek #steddiebingo2025 #steddie bingo #hype's steddie bingo

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loveyouprongs · 22 hours ago

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bringing up baby part 5

remus lupin x whimsical fem!reader | Buttoned-up grad student Remus Lupin has the rare chance to work under one of the top scholars in the country. But his carefully laid plans keep getting derailed by the scholar's free-spirited whirlwind of a daughter who seems determined to unravel both his plans and his sanity.

upcoming content: fluff, alcohol mention, food mention, minor fire

authors note: part 5 baby!!! i really tried to take it back to the beginning with their dynamic! this was so much fun to write!!! i hope you all love it :")

word count: 3.6k

series masterlist | masterlist

tagging (pls send me an ask to be added or taken off): @wrenisrad @daydreamandforget @jamesweather @oldhollywoodniall @sillygirlantics @shipwreckedlor @slutfortheblog @rulesareshadesofgrey @lettertovera @knew-better-forever-girl-three @siriusement @detmarmalade @turnmeintoaflower @soulshaped @lilians17 @rhettsluvr

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

Sirius let out a low whistle from the living room, not even having to look back to know that Remus was scurrying around their kitchen like a man on the brink of collapse.

“How’s it going, Rem?” James asked overly enthusiastically, and it reminded Remus of how his primary school teacher would talk to him when he would present a craft that was just a mess of glue and ripped up construction paper.

Remus looked up at him, hands on his hips, which only smeared more tomato sauce onto his trousers. It had already splattered across his shirt while he was stirring, and when he’d tried switching to the blender, the lid popped off and sprayed sauce everywhere. He panicked and tried to cover the top with his hands, which only left the sauce coating his arms and dripping down to his elbows.

Egg and breadcrumbs were stuck in his hair from when he’d dragged his hands through it in a fit of frustration, completely forgetting they were still coated in gunk. And the final straw was when the oil in the frying pan snapped with a hiss and spit directly into his eyes.

“How’s it going? Pretty bad, Prongs! Pretty bad!”

“Don’t say that!”

Sirius let out a bark of laughter, “Mate, look at him!”

“Alright, that’s it-”

“Don’t listen to Sirius,” James began, “i-it’s not as bad as you think it is!”

Any other time Remus would’ve appreciated his friend’s never ending support, but considering the fact that you were supposed to arrive for dinner in less than an hour and there was no food he wasn’t exactly in the mood.

“Oh, shut up!” Remus groaned, tossing the spoon into the sink with a loud clatter.

“The plan was to impress her. You know, look like a functioning adult who can cook a nice meal and use an oven! I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face and smearing sauce across his cheek.

Sirius wandered into the kitchen, arms crossed as he looked down into the surrendered pot. “Was this the egg thing or the pasta thing?”

“Yes,” Remus deadpanned.

Sirius gave it a slow stir, then quickly pulled back. “Alright, yeah, that’s- don’t serve that.”

Remus sighed. “I should just cancel.”

“No, you are not bailing,” James said firmly, steering him away from the stove before he could injure himself further. “You’re just overwhelmed. You always get like this when you care.”

“Which is funny,” Sirius added, “because you clearly do. Like, a lot.”

“Out. Both of you,” Remus snapped, pointing to the living room. “You’re not helping.”

“On the contrary,” Sirius said, already backing away with a grin, “I personally think we’re doing great.”

“Just ignore, Pads, he’s being annoying,”

“Oi!”

“and just clean up and start again, yeah? Come on Remus, you know how to make pasta. Just try one more time.”

Remus took a look at the sauce-covered blender, the trail of breadcrumbs across the counter, the smoking pan, and the slightly crooked stack of plates he’d meant to set. The whole scene seemed beyond repair.

And his defeat must have shown on his face because Sirius sighed and rested his hand on his friend’s back. “Listen Moons, think about who you’re seeing, yeah?”

“What do you mean by that?” Remus asked, a tad too defensive. He was less careful with hiding how he felt about you these days.

“I mean, do you really think she’s going to care about any of this? You could go put on your Gandalf costume and she wouldn’t care-”

“I don’t still have that.” Remus said, stiffly and both James and Remus gave him matching looks that they weren’t buying it.

“Yes you do. But, she wouldn’t care, hell, she’d probably prefer it, yeah? She’s fun like that!”

“Exactly Rem, you’ve finally got what you wanted, just have fun with it, okay?” James added.

“Yeah,” he sighed, and then again, with less doom and more determination, “yeah, yeah, you’re right. She’ll be here soon. And that’s enough.”

Sirius grinned. “That’s the spirit! Now go wash your face, and you have to change your clothes, you look like a butcher just back from the slaughter, dear GOD!”

“Alright, just get out!”

“Let us know when we can come back, if at all,” James quipped as he put on his jacket, waggling his eyebrows.

“Bye!”

Remus stepped out of the shower, freshly scrubbed and finally free of tomato splatter, breadcrumbs, and shame. A clean pair of trousers and a soft jumper were laid out for him on the couch, and the ingredients he hadn’t ruined were now neatly lined up on the kitchen counter, like little soldiers ready for round two.

He’d just begun to chop the tomatoes when there was a rhythmic knock on his front door.

Remus froze. His eyes darted to the clock on the wall. Eight o’clock. On the dot.

“This can’t be happening.”

He scrambled, hopping on one foot as he yanked on his jumper and fumbled to pull up his slacks. “Um! One second!” he called out, voice slightly strangled as he tripped over his own trainers on the floor.

“Remmy! It’s me!” You sang through the door.

“I- I know, love, I’m, oh damnit,” he swore under his breath, trying to not fall flat on his face as his long legs got tangled in his pants.

His hair was still damp and sticking up at odd angles, but he made it to the door in one piece.

He swung it open, slightly out of breath.

And there you were.

Remus looked down at you as the hall light tinged you in an orange glow. You donned a faded orange flowy dress, decorated in lavender stalks. A long necklace trailed between your torso, golden charms of shamrocks, berries, and stars hung off it. You looked like a comet that dropped from the sky and right there on his doorstep.

He blinked at you, a little dazed. “You’re early,” he said, though it wasn’t true. You were right on time. He was just very, very not ready.

You tilted your head with a smile, taking in the man before you. His sweater looked so soft you wanted to forgo dinner all together and just rest your head on his chest, and his sandy hair fell just before his rich eyes, and his neck was flushed from his soft, panthing breaths.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Me? Yes! Yes, totally,” he said, stepping aside to let you in. “Please, come in! Sorry.”

You giggled lightly, biting your lip at how nervous he was. Even though these past two weeks had been filled with the two of you kissing in corners, and whispering jokes and stories to each other over the phone late at night, he still reminded you of the first time you met, and how you thought you couldn’t wait to ruin him.

You walked past him, slipping off your shoes and taking in the scene with bright eyes. The apartment was tidy enough, candles flickering on the coffee table, the stack of plates now somewhat centered—but the dining table was bare, and there was a conspicuous lack of food.

Your eyes landed on the counter, where ingredients sat untouched beside a suspiciously shiny blender that looked like it had recently been hosed down.

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “Nothing’s cooking yet?”

Remus ran a hand through his still-damp hair, only making it worse. “Right, about that—”

You gasped.

“What, what, what?” Remus asked, panicked.

“Oh my god! Are we going to cook together!”

Remus hesitated. “Is… is that something that sounds fun to y-”

“YES!” You exclaimed, cutting him off and throwing your arms around him.

An oomf escaped him as your bodies collided. “Well then, good thing that was my plan all along, isn’t it.”

“What?”

“Nothing! Let’s get started, shall we?”

You clapped your hands and Remus swore he saw your shoulders vibrate a little.

“Remus, this is adorable!”

He blinked again. “It is?”

“Obviously,” you said, already heading toward the kitchen and rolling up your sleeves. “You get to show off your domestic skills and I get to boss you around. It’s perfect.”

Remus laughed, a wave of happiness all day washing over him for the first time all day. “My domestic skills?”

“Well yeah! I have to see how much your dowry should be. Cooking is worth at least ten goats!.”

“Ten?” Remus repeated, reaching for a chopping board. “That’s steep.”

“Well, I’d say five for personality alone, but you haven’t even chopped an onion yet.”

“I’m being bartered for livestock and you haven’t even seen my knife skills,” he said, sliding her a look.

“Go on then, show me,” you challenged, nudging the onion toward him.

Remus smirked and began to peel. “You know,” he said as he worked, “in some medieval Welsh traditions, dowries included things like wool cloaks and cows, not goats.”

“Wool cloaks? That’s so strange! Like, here’s my child and also a cape.”

Remus laughed, and decided not to comment on the fact that you were so excited about cooking with him, yet now you sat on the counter, a glass of fizzy strawberry wine in your hand. “Essentially, yes. The cloaks were a sign of status. And cows, obviously, meant wealth. Milk, meat, land labor and the like.”

“That’s so interesting that you know that, Remmy. What else?” You asked, popping a cube of cheese in your mouth. Watching him move around his kitchen,

Remus brightened, clearly thrilled by the interest. “Well, it depended on the region, but there were all sorts of specifics. Like, in some cases, the number of cows a woman brought into the marriage could determine how much legal say she had in household disputes. And the cloaks—those weren’t just practical, they were dyed specific colors to represent family status. Deep blue was especially prized, because the dye was expensive to make.”

“Wow,” you said, genuinely. “So she’d walk in like, ‘I brought you my finest cow and also I’m wearing blue, so you better listen to me’?”

He laughed. “In a way, yes. Oh! And there was something called the amber, stir this for me, love? A kind of fee paid to the lord when a woman married. It was meant to symbolize her transition from one household to another, but in practice it was basically just a tax.”

You nodded, stirring the sauce absentmindedly. “Fascinating. Do you think anyone ever said no to the girl but kept the cow?”

Remus blinked. “What?”

“I’m just saying, if she brought a really nice cow—like top-tier, shiny coat, good attitude—I feel like someone might’ve gone, ‘No thank you to the marriage, but I’ll be keeping the cow.”

“Wh—no, that’s—what are you talking about?”

“I’m just curious about the logistics. Would there be a court for that? Like ‘Your Honor, I already emotionally bonded with the cow. I named her. She knows my scent!”

Remus dropped the spoon on the counter. “I’m trying to tell you about medieval economics and you’re running off with some custody battle over a cow!”

You beamed. “You love it, Mr. Lupin”

He narrowed his eyes at you, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but now you’re picturing the cow in a little witness box, aren’t you?”

Remus shook his head, reaching for the pasta. “Absolutely not. And she’s wearing blue, too, isn’t she?”

You gasped. “You are picturing it!”

He sighed through a grin. “We are never getting through this dinner.”

Before he could say anything else, you hopped down from the counter, your bare feet making a soft sound against the tile as you stepped toward him, tilting your head like you were studying something behind his eyes.

“I don’t really care if we do,” you said airily, blinking up at him. “Your eyes look like tea left out in the sun. Did you know that?”

Remus blinked, ignoring your question. “What? What do you mean you don’t care? We’ve already started cooking! I planned this!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, he got hung up so easily.

You reached out and ran your fingers lightly over the edge of his sleeve, grounding him and also entirely ungrounding him. “I mean, I’d still be happy even if all we had was… I don’t know, burnt toast or something.” How much longer would you two have to talk before he kissed you?!

Remus stared at you like you’d spoken in Parseltongue. “Why would we have burnt toast?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“I made a whole menu!”

You smiled, stepping a little closer. “And I think you’re lovely. With or without your timeline.”

Remus let out a breath that hitched somewhere halfway between exasperation and surrender. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” you said sweetly, “I’m trying to kiss you.”

“Oh,” he breathed, very intelligently. “Well. In that case—”

And you were finally kissing again, smiling against his mouth as he pulled you in with more confidence this time. Your hands wound into his shirt and his fingers found the small of your back, gripping you in a way that made electricity shoot up your legs.

Lost in each other, and Remus growing rapidly fond of the honey lipgloss you wore, neither of you noticed the slow creep of smoke of the dish towel beginning to curl on the burner.

Remus leaned into you, his hips slowly pushing yours against the counter, with all the intention of pushing you back atop it, his mind clear of anything else but your warm body under his. His hands fumbled at your waist—warm, careful—before one reached out to steady himself on the counter behind you.

Clink.

His fingers knocked into the half-full bottle of white wine, sending it teetering, then tipping.

You both barely had time to react before it spilled, the liquid splashing across the burner where the dishtowel had already begun to smoke.

WHOOSH.

A sudden rush of flame flared to life, licking up the side of the stovetop and devouring the corner of the towel in seconds.

“Shit-!” Remus jumped back.

“Oh my god!” you gasped, scrambling for the dishcloth, but it was already half blackened.

“No, don’t touch it!” He grabbed a nearby pot lid and tried to smother the flame. It only made the fire sputter angrily, then grow.

“Why is it doing that?!”

“I don’t know!” Remus yelled, waving a wooden spoon helplessly.

Remus darted for the nearest pan, fumbling to get it under the tap.

But the second his fingers wrapped around the metal handle,

“Shit!” he yelped, yanking his hand back like it had stung him. Which, to be fair, it had.

Right then, the smoke detector let out a piercing shriek overhead. From outside the door, a rising murmur began, footsteps, voices, the slam of a door. Then another. Then another. The boys’ building was quite small, only 30 flats or so, so the smoke quickly alerted everyone.

“Remus…” you said carefully, watching the smoke coil toward the ceiling. “I think we have to go.”

He whipped around to face you, a little wild-eyed. “Just wait- wait, one second-!”

Before you could argue, he bolted into the hallway, nearly tripping, as he disappeared around the corner. You stood frozen, blinking against the sting in your eyes and nose, until he reappeared, clutching a bright red fire extinguisher.

With a hiss and a pathetic wheeze, the flames gave up. The pan was scorched, the towel was history, and the alcohol bottle had rolled somewhere under the fridge—but the kitchen was, technically, no longer on fire.

You stared.

Remus coughed once, setting the extinguisher on the ground with a wheeze of his own.

“Alright,” he said, blinking through the fog. “Crisis managed.”

But the alarm was still blaring overhead, and out the window, you heard the low, ominous wail of a fire truck approaching.

You gave him a flat look. “Remus.”

“I know,” he groaned. “We still have to evacuate.”

He reached for your hand without thinking, lacing your fingers together as the two of you made your way toward the door. The hall outside was already filled with neighbors filing out, most of them in pajamas, one in a towel, and someone else carrying what looked like a fish tank.

“Lovely,” Remus muttered.

You studied the side of his face as he led you both down the stairs and through his neighbors. The carefree smile that had graced his face all evening had now morphed into a disgruntled frown, his eyebrows furrowed harshly and his shoulders drooped. Your heart ached in your chest, having gotten so used to loved-up Remus, who would giggle when your fingers trailed under his shirt, just above his waistband. You hated seeing him so put out.

When you stepped outside, blinking in the flashing red lights, the usual crew was already gathered—Mrs. Ellison from 3A with her twin chihuahuas, the very stressed man from 1C holding two laptops and a half-eaten bowl of cereal, and a mom with her son who was crying his eyes out over clearly being woken up.

Remus stared at everyone, his face looking like a puppy that’s just been kicked. And that just wouldn’t do.

“Come on, Rem!” you said, tugging gently on his hand.

He blinked as you guided him away from the cluster of blinking lights and confused neighbors and over to the brick wall lining the front of the building. You dropped down first, tugging him down beside you, and he followed with a tired sigh, knees folding up as he leaned back against the cool stone.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just stared straight ahead at the firetruck with a dazed look on his face, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this wasn’t still part of some stress dream.

Then he let out a long breath. “I’m so sorry.”

You turned to him, frowning. “What? Why?”

“Oh, come on,” he muttered, tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “This was a disaster. I wanted tonight to be nice.” His arms rested on his knees, his eyes focused on the dirty sidewalk.

“It was nice!”

Remus snorted, but it was a quiet, sad sound. “You deserved better than this.”

You shifted to face him more fully, your knee knocking gently against his. “Hey. Look at me.”

He hesitated before opening his eyes.

“I had fun,” you said simply, voice soft but certain. “You opened the door looking like you just survived a food fight. We made a mess, you gave me a very passionate speech about Celtic cattle cloaks, we almost died kissing! Do you know how romantic that is?”

Remus gave a choked laugh.

“And, I haven’t stopped smiling since I got here. I like you, Remus.”

His eyes searched your face for a long moment. And then, finally, that sweet, lopsided smile returned.

“You like me even though I set things on fire?”

“I especially like you because you set things on fire!”

That earned a real laugh, one that shook his shoulders and softened every sharp line on his face. He leaned his head against yours and squeezed your hand.

“You’re the weirdest person I’ve ever met,” he murmured.

Before you could respond, a loud, “REMUS!” echoed from down the block.

You both turned to see James sprinting toward you, hair flying, eyes wild.

“Oh no,” Remus muttered.

“REMUS ARE YOU OKAY!?” James shouted again, skidding to his knees dramatically in front of him and throwing his arms around his shoulders. “I swear to God, if you died, I would never forgive you!”

“I’m fine, James, bloody hell,” Remus groaned, patting him stiffly on the back. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” James sniffled. “You scared me! What happened?”

Sirius strolled up a few moments later, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking to the flashing lights behind you. “You okay, doll?” he asked you casually, like this was any ordinary evening.

You grinned. “I’m great! Who knew Rem was such a bad boy?”

“Ha! You’re responsible for this, Moony? No fucking way.”

“It was just a kitchen fire. And we put it out before the fire truck got here.”

“With what? The fire extinguisher?” James asked, still breathing heavily.

“Of course,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“Good! Good! And you didn’t have any trouble with it like last time?”

“Prongs!” Remus hissed under his breath.

“What happened last time?” You asked.

“Nothing-” Remus started.

“I made us all practice using it during one of our roommate meetings, and Remus had the nozzle facing himself by accident,” James said, cupping Remus’ head.

Remus just buried his face in his hands. “I hate all of you.”

“I’ve been so scared ever since!”

“James,” Sirius winced, this was getting too embarrassing for Remus, even for him.

“But look at how he held his own!!” James cried, shaking Remus by the shoulders.

“He had a lot to drink at the pub,” Sirius added dryly.

James threw his hands up. “Let’s go back! All four of us!”

You jumped up, “I would love that! Remus and I still haven’t had dinner!”

“This is perfect!” James grinned. “I can get more Sangrias!”

Sirius turned, already walking. “If we’re not ordering cheesy chips, I’m not coming.”

The four of you began heading down the street, still lit red from the lights behind you.

“I never thought our first date would be a pub dinner,” Remus murmured beside you, leaning in close enough that your arms brushed.

You looked up at him with a mischievous smile, “Let’s make a scene there too!”

<- part four

#remus lupin x reader #loveyouprongs #remus lupin #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x whimsical!reader #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin blurb #remus lupin fic #marauders #marauders fanfic #marauders fanfic rec #remus lupin series #bringing up baby

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veryace-ficrecs · 2 days ago

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The Passenger (2023) Fic Recs Part 2

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

Find part 1 here!

Take The Back Seat by twoseas - Rated M

On Benson and Randy Bradley’s longest day, everyone gets to live. Eventually.

Matchmade by Coileddragon - Rated M

Benson Boudreaux is a veteran Jaeger pilot with a 100% kill rate in the Jaeger 'Savage Horizon'. The problem is he never keeps a Drift partner for long.

Man of the world by greendragon19 - Rated T

“You don't call, you don't write.” He crossed his arms over his chest feigning calm. Drawing Benson's attention to him. “And then I have to find out from my brother in law that you're getting released.” A myriad of emotion passed over Bensons features, recognition, annoyance, confusion, acceptance, a few others that Randy wouldn't dare to guess at. “Randy? The fuck are you doing here?” Randy smiled, dipping his head and looking up at Benson through his eyelashes. Something in the pit of his stomach warming at Benson’s voice and Randy’s name being the first thing he said as a free man. Twenty years after the shooting at the diner, Benson is getting out of prison. Randy goes to pick him up. Deals with somewhat more mellow versions of Benson and Randy after so much time has passed but both still equally co-dependent.

images of all that could be desired by pgndaze - Rated T

A week after Benson's death, a package arrives on Randy's doorstep.

Loves me like a dog by Syntheticpalindromes - Rated E

The woman at the school’s reception desk flat out refused to give them anything about Miss Beard, her hands laid on the countertop as she shook her head sadly. Big, plump bottom lip jutting out in what Benson might have known to be real sympathy if he had ever been presented with the emotion in a sincere way. Which he hadn’t. At least, that’s what he imagined, anyway. When she had removed her palms from the counter, the ledger beneath them had become stuck to one, slick with a nervous sweat that she hid all too well in the calm, collected way she had informed the boy she simply couldn’t give that sort of information away. The page was left greasy and she pointedly did not look at it. “And Mr. Bradley, I really think you’re doing the right thing. Good for you.” She had said, like she was his fucking grandmother. They don't make it to Miss Beard's place. Mr Sheppard lies in a pool of his own blood and Benson & Randy drive on, and on, and on, and on, and on.

Razor Sharp, White Teeth by mimomallow - Rated E

“I never watched that Twilight bullshit, Randy. Do you sparkle now or what?” or Randy has been starving since he was a child. Benson looks delicious.

did you get enough love, my little dove? by intheskywithamethysts - Rated E

The mop slapped wetly on the ground and slid across the grimy floor. Benson dug the head into the ground as hard as he could as he mopped. A sound like nails on a chalkboard ricocheted off the walls. It was agonizing to listen to. Benson didn’t care. It was the only thing louder than his thoughts. She’s not sleeping. She’s not sleeping. The sound of a door being pushed open. Two chimes. Footsteps. Benson looked up. “Hey, Benson.” Benson grunted and gave Bradley a nod as he entered. Well, at least he was working with Bradley today. (canon-divergence: Benson's Ma passes away the night before the beginning of the movie)

Side Effects May Include... by thenewgothicromance -Rated E

Listen, normally Benson’s not one to make somebody do drugs they don’t want. But they’re only three hours into the afternoon shift with another five to go, and if Bradley doesn’t chill the fuck out Chris will never stop bothering him. And if Benson has to listen to that all day, again, he is finally going to do something stupid they’ll all regret. It’s easier just to make Bradley take the pills.

Don't Forget the Joker by devovitsuasartes - Rated M

Randy had been driving home for about five minutes when he looked up into his rear view mirror and saw Benson staring back at him coldly from the back seat.

Can’t Help to Smile with those Eyes that Shine on Me (You’re Making Me Act Funny) by hellcat_shalalala - Rated T

"Thank you, Mr. Mustache Man.” She retrieves her blue crayon and scrapes it over the scribble of green she just made. “I’m sorry I dropped them. It was on accident.” A little smile twitches at the corner of his lips. Threatens to spread. He runs his tongue over his teeth to make his lips stop moving like that. “Them things got little legs," Benson continues dragging the mop. "Runnin’ off like that.” She’s delighted by that thought. “Little legs?” She repeats. She grabs one and twists it around trying to look for them. “Where?” He doesn’t respond. Just a laugh through his nose and a mindful push and pull of the mop, sweeping it under the seats. Yea. This is Bradley’s kid all right. or Randy has no babysitter for his four year old daughter, Seraphina, and has to bring her into work for his Saturday shift. His coworkers proceed to lose their minds over this new information. /pos Title is paraphrased lyrics from the song Picture Me Better by Weyes Blood

Doomsday is Close At Hand by riddlerapologist7 - Rated M

Randy’s eyes shoot open, he gasps for breath. He rips the comforter off of his body as he registers where he is: his bedroom. What? He was just at the diner. He could almost smell the greasy stench of the flat top grill mixing with the coppery scent of blood permeating the air. Could he have really dreamed everything that had happened? He reached up to feel his shoulder where he had been shot, where Benson had desperately been clutching to try and keep the blood from spilling out of him. He felt nothing, no wound, no pain, just the smooth skin of his shoulder and the cotton shirt he was wearing. He ran his hand over his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly beneath his skin.

Ranson time loop au!! I'm not the first to come up with this idea, but this is my take on it :)

Erasure Poem (or, The Narrator Writes the First Draft of the Rest of His Life) by thenewgothicromance - Rated E

Randy almost doesn’t understand how it happened, even though he’s the one who started it. Three weeks ago he’d never had sex with anyone, had never thought about doing it with a guy, didn’t think much about doing it at all. And maybe that means there’s something wrong with him, but he’s not stupid—Benson is into him. And if Randy can use that to keep him calm, keep them on track for a little while, maybe Benson will come back to himself. Will shake off the shock, and tell Randy what the plan is.

Like Splinters Under Your Skin by pissedoffeskimo - Rated M

Maybe Benson doesn’t know exactly where he’s going or how long it’ll be before this whole thing reaches its inevitable, bloody conclusion, but he knows he’s taking Randy with him. (Canon divergent from Miss Beard's house)

cold blue summer by visceravalentines - Rated E

Elliot Sheppard, a third-grade teacher at Central Elementary, abused children for many years before being exposed and taking his own life. Now, twenty years later, the school is being demolished, and something has awakened.... Strap in for the cruelest summer on record. An homage to classic slasher movies with a summer romance flair.

the driver by visceravalentines - Rated T

They’re about 50 miles over the Missouri border when Benson asks him. “You think you could drive, man?”

Or, Benson trusts Randy to take the wheel so he can get some sleep, and Randy spends the night thinking about Benson.

#veryace recs #the passenger #the passenger 2023 #randy bradley #benson the passenger #ranson #benson x randy #randy x benson #randy the passenger #stockroom syndrome #ao3 fic recs #fanfic recs #ao3 #the passenger fic recs

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mini-ism · 3 days ago

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#— SWALLOW MY PRIDE, SET MY HEART ON FIRE.

pairings: PHOTOGRAPHER!lighter x MODEL!afab!reader [MDNI]

words: 2,213

synopsis: lighter struggles to conceptualize that his muse is gaining popularity. as much joy as it brings him, it uncovers his deep jealousy brought on by his love. you’re the one bringing light to his dull grey world, after all, who else could possibly deserve you? they don’t see you the way he does. [photographer!lighter x model!reader]

warnings: AU, implied suicidal ideation, (brief) drinking, nude/lewd photography, light angst, hurt/comfort, jealousy, muse/artist dynamic, pining, nihilism and references to depression/misery, selfish lighter, implied sex. this fic is arguably tame even if tags seem crazy. lighter and you both just have big feelings.

notes: crossposted to AO3, this fic has like major early 2010s vibes, i wrote this to niagra falls (the weeknd) u will def know the vibe im talking abt if u listen to that or HOB mixtape looool gritty 2010s vibe save meeeee

there was this… almost intangible understanding between the both of you.

it was arbitrary, difficult to put into words, easier to act out. life was dull and grey. the mundane dregs and bone deep emotion was impossible not to frame when you were with him, impossible not to capture it ten, fifteen, fifty sum times.

lighter was exceptionally skilled, a raw and young talent waiting for recognition, the true getaway, for the monochromatic tint to bleed out. yearning for life to feel luxurious like champagne-gold, the comfortable glamour, to escape the wounds he’d rather not speak about, to be free of the life he’d rather not live.

he never said anything about death — or wanting to escape his life — explicitly. what he didn’t say could shine in his eyes, it could be said in one look. not everyone saw things the way he did. it was one of the reasons he held up that camera.

he held its weight in his hands, the instrument his anchor. it was kind of weird to say, to even think, but it might just be the only thing keeping him alive. sane, at its basest form.

you outstretched a leg, he watched through the small digital screen, your bare foot dangled off the bed. however provocative these photos may be, they were candid in a sense. the lights in his sad studio-apartment bedroom were off, the light of the sun filtering in through the busted blinds, the paint on the walls were sickly, a yellow stain. he didn’t even have a real bed frame, just a supporting mattress box, those hard ones made of wood and dressed up all nice in fabric-y cotton. the sheets fell onto the ground, and he had maybe two pillows. only one was on the bed itself, you could swear you’ve seen two, but where its twin went is beyond you.

lighter adjusted the zoom on the lens, taking another few pictures to flick through and edit. one could be too blurry, you could be blinking… you just look too perfect, even on camera. the in-person you was the best.

he probably liked you so much because you had that strange unspoken sadness about you that he did himself, you just… kinda knew. those fucking eyes, they said everything, they mirrored his. deep, provocative, almost edgy, a stare you could lose yourself in, a gaze that made you forget everything about yourself. the world needed to know you the way this camera did. he knew you’d get there one day, and hopefully soon.

he didn’t really question why exactly you wanted to model, it entirely made sense to him. those eyes, the curve of your jaw and cheek, your smile, the way you presented yourself. your vibe. it clicked, it didn’t need questioning, just gratitude.

lighter scrolled through the few photos he’d taken, his eyes drifting up, watching you take a drink from the nearly stale vodka on his ugly little nightstand. the way your throat moved, the already tousled look, it made the whole action that much more artistic, sensual. how could you move with that much unintentional grace? how weren’t you already famous? what did he do to deserve you?

his musings were intense, fervent, nearly frantic to capture your every move and every look. how did you manage to bring out life in stillness, in shallow dullness? how did you make silent misery look so good, so sexy? his brows were furrowed deeply, even as you continued posing. he’d let you borrow his only dress shirt, wrinkled with neglect and carelessness. you wore it unbuttoned, the shirt covering enough of your chest, plenty of inner sideboob for him to take pictures of.

it perfectly complemented the panties you wore and the way you kept your hair today.

does he even deserve to see you like this? artistically or not. he kind of has to ogle you, to get that angle and that shot that you plead with him to post on his shitty HTML-coded art blog.

he couldn’t shake that fucking trance, no matter how hard he tried. you were always majestic in his eyes, but how could he just ignore the real you for digital you? art could wait, let him wallow in his misery.

lighter set down his camera by the bottle on the nightstand, only now realizing how messy his sad little room was. the mirror was propped up against the wall, cramped next to a medium sized dresser that looked four times older than him. the walls were tight and almost greasy, clothes were scattered all over the floor, he hadn’t even bothered to take out the empty bottles and put them elsewhere.

he could feel your presence beside him, waiting patiently in his sheets, looking up at him, “so, are we done?”

lighter processed your words a little late, his response delayed, “do you want to be?”

you shook your head no, “not really, you’re my favorite to be around,” you trailed off, “i mean, would you believe more people wanna take pics ‘cause of your art blog thingy?”

he gave a soft hum, a gentle warmth brewing in his chest, a burgeoning sense of pride. his eyes wandered down to his unlaced boots, then back to you. it was wonderful that you were getting attention, recognition, budding fame, his pride twisting into a blossoming jealousy. they did realize that he was the first — the only — to show you off? that you were his muse first?

“that’s, um…, nice.” he responded quietly, letting the dilapidated mattress sink under his familiar weight. he let his elbows rest on his knees, his dark teal hair falling in his face, framing it handsomely.

it was quiet, stale, awkward, for some moments. he didn’t know how to voice his pride without letting the jealousy bitterly slip in. you didn’t know how to further the conversation.

he was happy, really, he wanted everything for you. the sensitive part of him hoped you’d let him be the one to give you everything, despite how unrealistic it was. it was like you knew everything, you knew what he was thinking, why did he assume you knew that, too? in reality, you couldn’t just read his mind, know his heart’s purest desires, even if it genuinely felt like you knew his soul inside and out. you were kindred to him, you somehow knew, even without words.

“but you know you’re…” you tried to say, even as your voice failed you.

“yeah,” he responded half-heartedly. his ego was barely being held together.

“…you’re still my favorite.” you murmured, attempting to make it a little better, a lot more digestible to him. is he getting jealous?

the silence stretched further, wearing you both so thin. you’d quietly hoped you didn’t just fuck everything up, he bit back his wounded ego and boiling jealousy. he wasn’t mad at you, not at all, but by god he never wanted anyone else to see you, to look at you, to worship you the way he did.

“i really hope i am,” his words were hushed, reverent and guilty in nature. he swallowed thickly, trying to quell the anxiety bubbling to the top of his conscious, “i-i don’t want anyone to like you… the way… i do.”

it slipped out before he could stop himself. he didn’t want you to understand anyone’s misery the way you did his, even if it was so painfully selfish, he didn’t want to share. it was the nature of a man to possess, to retain a lover’s loyalty even if proven a thousand times over.

“what do you mean?”

it was such a simple question, even if it innately frustrated him a little. you knew him, you certainly did, you knew him better than anyone else in his life ever did — and probably ever will. so, why didn’t you get it? you weren’t stupid, were you just choosing not to get it? how could he put it into words without sounding like the biggest douchebag ever? fuck, he loved you, he worshipped you, you were everything. you were the light of his life, you made dull grey cityscapes beautiful and his dingy ass apartment livable.

“you’re my muse, something like, um, that. i just… don’t wanna share t-that. it’s not that i’m unhappy for you, it’s…” lighter hesitated, dancing around the words the so desperately wanted to say, to call out your name and beg you to be his love until his bones turn to dust.

you looked at his with a placating look, that gentle encouragement kind of look. one that made him wanna scream and pull you in, one that made him want to tear his skin off and kiss you until his lips were raw and tasted like yours.

“fuck, i love you, okay?” lighter said sharply, his face frantic and red. you blinked, once, twice. somehow, this didn’t surprise you, you knew you loved him one way or another. there’s no way you can know someone like that and it’s not some form of genuine love. you just moved closer and put your head on his shoulder. you could feel the muscles underneath wound with tension.

“me too.” it’s all you could offer — the truth.

the tension in his body only grew with your closeness, he was jumpy and on-edge, despite the wash of happiness that flowed through him at your admission of mutual feelings. he subconsciously bounced his leg, letting you rest on his shoulder. you felt so snug, and would you be mad if he—

his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you in, letting you put your face in the crook of his neck. lighter shuddered, letting his fingers grip your side gently. lighter tilted his neck, eager for more sensation. your presence, however soothing, still drove him insane. his pulse quickened and his jaw clenched, attempting to console his eager body and anxious mind. he groaned when you leaned in so, so close and let your lips brush along the lateral part of his throat.

“baby, i don’t want you to go anywhere,” lighter pleaded, his hand slipping below the loose dress shirt draped over your body. his fingers dragged along the side of your body, desperately craving the soft skin underneath his fingertips all over him. he kept his touch soothing and devout, never too harsh or demanding. his soul screamed to devour you, keep you down until you were wholly him and he was wholly yours, to take and take until there was nothing left to give. a man’s instinct is never always pure, even if his hands are gentle.

lighter shivered with the anticipation of possibility, of maybe, finally, giving you what you deserved. finally, letting you take him entirely, letting you know how much he really loves you. the possibility of holding you, being more than just your admirer. you gave his life a meaning, you gave him beauty in the mundane, a honed passion and a gift to the world. he owes you everything.

his hand slid up to cup your breast. when you didn’t tell him to stop, when you nudged his neck, he squeezed it gently, feeling the weight and softness in his palm. they felt as perfect as they looked. you threaded your fingers in his hair, pulling him in for a soft kiss. lighter groaned into the kiss, his eyes fluttering closed and brows furrowing. his lips slid against yours, savoring the taste he’d dreamed of since the day he met you. he groped and kneaded your breast with each heated kiss, growing in passion and desire with each pass of lip and tongue.

he pulled you closer to his side with a quick motion of his arm, sweeping you with his well controlled strength. he rolled your nipple a few times between his index and thumb, the digits deft with pressure and precision. you whined, making him feel bigger than ever. you never made him feel so small in such a cruel world. you deserved to feel good.

he pulled back about an inch to speak, “do you wanna?”

his sentence was full of innuendo, you knew what he meant. you grabbed him by the shoulders, hands gripping the flesh of his traps, your expression playful and needy, “of course i want to.”

with that, you pulled him down on top of you. he positioned himself accordingly, almost excitedly with your enthusiasm. you look stunning even from this angle, those eyes staring back up at him with the same expression of awe and desire, deep and shiny with vulnerability. his shirt had left nothing to the imagination now, your chest on full display for him. no camera could capture your beauty appropriately.

an artist could only dream of a muse like this, pleading and smiling, eager to create the purest form of art for him. eager to bring color to the dull world, white-yellow light waning into yellow-orange. the sky burning made that disgusting yellow color on the walls tolerable, it created a bearable world where the only beautiful thing he needed was you, the muse.

the rest of it could go up in flames, so long as the walls of his selfishness can close in.

so long as it was you that stayed.

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serensama · 4 hours ago

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Thursday Banger: Dr, Who?

I can't believe how long we've managed to keep this up, what was just meant to be a funny/ridiculous meet-cute is turning into a fully fledged story O_O

My thanks to the incomparable @woundedsoul12 who created this tag - love you bebe! Thanks for the tag @jenn2d2 <3

Read on Ao3

(3.3k so yeah, LONG POST)

Rules for your Copy and Paste: Free form a blurb or drawing based on the weekly lyrics prompt. It doesn't have to include the prompt just whatever you're inspired to write, write it! Then tag some friends so they can play as well. It doesn't have to be finished on Thursday just post it whenever you can (you have a whole week between Thursdays).

"It's not a walk in the park to love each other, But when our fingers interlock, Can't deny, can't deny you're worth it" - Still Into You by Paramore

———

He had miscalculated. Again. What looked like a few casual steps from Illario's side became a forced march across polished floors and over-polished people, ending far too quickly in front of Viago, Teia, and their audience. He really should have taken the long way around. Teia and Viago greeted him with cordial smiles and chatter he barely caught over the pounding heartbeat in his ears. “...I’m thrilled for Teia and for Dellamorte Holdings, of course, it’s a great deal for both companies. But I forget my manners, Lucanis, please meet esteemed Professor Emmrich Volkarin and my little sister, Lilya de Riva,” Viago said, gesturing to the people to his right, noticing the strained smiles on those he had just introduced. Lucanis cleared his throat and nodded gratefully, not wanting to give too much gossip to any prying listeners around him.

“Ah, thank you, Viago,” he finally replied, taking another sip of his drink. “We’ve… uh… we’ve all previously met,” he said, trying to ignore the way Teia’s eyes gleamed sinisterly as she mouthed something to Lilya which could have been ‘oh that’s him’, ‘so bad, Tim’ or ‘throw that thing’... he really needed to work on his lip reading, something he and Illario learnt one summer as children to spy on Caterina. “It’s a pleasure to see you here, Professor.”

His therapist smiled and raised a glass of champagne in his direction. “A marvellous evening, Lucanis. What a wonderful celebration, a triumph on all fronts!” Lucanis turned stiffly to Lilya, who looked two shades paler than she had only a minute prior, knuckles white as she clung to the Professor’s arm. The only way one would notice that Emmrich felt any discomfort was from the tightness in his eyes and smile.

“Dr … uh, Lilya? Nice to see you again,” he said stiffly, bowing slightly, which only seemed to delight Teia but confused her date, who was looking between them all suspiciously. “I didn’t realise that you were Viago’s sister,” he added lamely, like that mattered at all.

Lilya shook her head and waved her hands at the same time with a stricken expression, taking a step forward and bracing a hand on his shoulder, only causing her brother to give them an even fouler look as Teia practically buzzed beside him. “No, of course. Why would you know that? I’m not one to tell anyone he’s my brother. Ever,” she said pointedly, casting a harsh look at Viago, who matched it evenly.

Lucanis laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I get the feeling, it’s the same with my cousin, Illario.” Lilya turned another shade paler and released him, wringing her hands together worriedly. “I… I was hoping to actually speak to you, if you had the time,” he said, finding his courage and offering his hand with a bow, like he was asking her to dance. “Please.”

Lilya looked between him and Emmrich, unsure of what to do, worrying at her bottom lip. Her eyes flicked to Viago. He was already watching her, mouth pressed into a warning line, jaw working like he was ready to intervene. She shook her head once, small but firm, and gave him a tiny smile- I'm alright, stay out of it. Viago’s nostrils flared. But he gave a tight nod back, conceding to her, a rare occasion indeed. “I- we should. We should talk-”

“That sounds like a great idea, Lilya. Go and get to know Lucanis,” Teia grinned, reaching over and taking the drinks out of both of their hands. “In fact, you should go dance! You can talk and dance at the same time!”

“No I-”

“Please, Lilya.”

“I-”

“If my sister is not feeling up to it-” Viago started, only to be quieted by his lover’s iron-like grip on his forearm.

“I think Lilya really wants to speak to him, Vi,” she grinned with a crazed look in her eye.

“We will, Lucanis,” Lilya finally answered, lightly touching his bicep with a concerned expression. “But this may not be the best place or time-”

Professor Volkarin coughed dramatically, clearing his throat and examining his nails.

“...Professor?” Lilya looked at him from the corner of her eyes expectantly.

“Oh? Hmm, if you two feel up for a chat and a quick spin around the ballroom, I’d say that’s exactly the right way to catch up,” he said, voice light but edged with that familiar no-nonsense tone she remembered from when he caught an Honours student plagiarising half his paper. Emmrich had warned him that there were to be no excuses, or the student would be back in First Year before the week was out. Who knew such quiet authority could come wrapped in so much kindness?

“But… I don’t want to cause any more harm.”

Lucanis smiled, re-extending his hand out to her. “You didn’t, and no harm can come from a dance between two old friends.”

Lilya nodded and looked back at Emmrich who took her purse from her, quickly whispering in her ear that perhaps fate had different ideas as to how and when it would be best for them to talk- and that he was always there to help Lucanis should he be needed. After taking a moment to smooth out her dress and wipe her sweaty palms on the fine material, she nodded and accepted his hand, shooting final looks at Teia, who flashed her a thumbs up. Viago glared at Lucanis, and Professor Volkarin gave her an encouraging smile.

He led her onto the floor just as the band played a tune they could waltz to, a respectful distance kept between them, both stiff and awkward in each other’s presence. Lilya was thankful that they were in a brightly lit area, so no one could claim she was doing anything untoward with him. Lucanis started the dance, and she followed easily, as etiquette and ballroom dancing lessons from her youth, which had seemed utterly irrelevant in her past, finally found some use.

They turned about the room, Lilya focused on counting the steps and following the beat instead of paying attention to Lucanis, who looked just as uncomfortable as she did. She was tempted to break the tension, but he was the one who wanted to talk, so she would let him end their silence. He knew that was how she worked… even if she was no longer his therapist.

“I-” he said, unsure of where to start, only to be startled when Lilya looked up at him, her eyes wide and alert at being spoken to.

“Yes?”

“Oh…” he said, eyes falling onto hers, the wheels in his quick mind churning a mile a minute as he joined the final pieces together. “I… well, that is to say… I’m doing well, Dr de Riva.”

Lilya’s eyebrows turned upward and her lips pouted, belying her gratitude under such a sorrowful countenance. “That’s so good to hear, Lucanis, I’m glad for you.”

“I know. I know you are.” He lightly squeezed her right hand in his in a reassuring grip.

“You have to know, I never meant to hurt you, or do anything that could have potentially hurt you at all. You were my patient, and your well-being meant, means, everything to me. Even though you are no longer under my care,” she said quietly enough, so only he could hear. Lucanis smiled in response and squeezed her hand again to confirm he had heard her, spinning her gracefully and pulling her back in, glad to see her shoulders relax a little. “If I had known he was your cousin, I would have never-”

“Dr… Lilya. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay-”

“Lilya,” he said more firmly to make her stop and really listen to him. “It’s okay.”

She shut her mouth after a moment, still staring at him, stunned. “You don’t have to make me feel better about this, that’s not your job, Lucanis. It was a mistake, and I regret the effect it may have had on you. But at the very least, I am glad you have Professor Volkarin in your corner.”

“And he’s been amazing, the only good thing that’s come out of this, really,” he said, wanting to soothe her worry. Lilya looked him in the eyes again, and a knowing smile began to form on his lips.

“Oh, there they are again,” he said mysteriously, chuckling to himself. “So obvious, really.”

“What? What’s here? What’s obvious?” she asked, curious as to what he was talking about.

“... Green,” he replied, tapping under his eye, which further confused her, as the woman looked around the room for a clue.

“Oh, you mean the decoration? Yes. It’s beautiful, so verdant and bright, a lovely choice, really,” she complimented- and she meant it. Whoever had decorated the room had an eye for beauty and style.

“Yes, you are very correct. Bright. Lovely choice,” he laughed, shaking his head with mirth, the woman clearly not understanding the theme had been inspired by her, by someone completely taken by the colours in her eyes.

Lilya shook his hand like an impatient child, a large smile on her face as she fought for his attention. “Lucanis Dellamorte, you must tell me what is so funny.”

Lucanis smiled at her so earnestly that she felt such a weight lift off her shoulders. The man had always been so expressive; she knew that he wasn’t trying to deceive her - he truly was well, and he didn’t hate her for what she had unwittingly done to him. “Dr de Riva, Lilya, it’s alright, you know.”

“What is?” she asked, not following his train of thought.

“I’m alright, with whatever happens moving forward. Whatever you choose. Whatever he chooses, I’m alright with it. I support it- support you both. I didn’t realise that you weren’t just another one of his careless flings. I thought he did it because he was being reckless again, or selfish, or he just didn’t care about the consequences of his actions… but now I know. I know that for a little while there, it was me being careless, me being selfish for not giving him a chance to explain, to understand. And I care, I don’t want that for him. Or for you. If the only reason you two aren’t dancing together right now is because of me, I don’t want that at all. I want the people I care about to be happy.”

Lilya slowed their turn and set her fingertips more firmly on his shoulder. “Lucanis, be honest. When you first saw me tonight … were you angry?”

His brows drew together, and his mouth opened, but he shut it quickly before nodding once. “For a moment, yes. Not at you. At everything. At myself.”

“Ah.” She let out a soft breath, half relief, half remorse.

He squeezed her hand and coaxed her back into the pattern of the waltz. “It passed. Shock can resemble anger - you told me that once, remember? The second it cleared, I was glad you were here. A little confused why, certainly, but happy all the same.”

“Happy?” The word came out small, incredulous.

“Of course,” his voice steadied. “You helped me reach this point. Seeing you across the room, how could that bring anything but happiness?”

Her shoulders loosened; colour crept back into her cheeks, a small but genuine smile pulling at her mouth at his kind words.

Lucanis felt the cold distance between them slip. Her sincerity shone through her awkwardness, and for a moment, he could almost pretend she was across from him again, just talking, like she used to, as someone he trusted. Someone who had only ever wanted to help him.

Lilya almost forgot how to stand; her patient, ex-patient, had confirmed everything she had dared to think of asking him without having to breathe a word.

“You… I will not deny that I do harbour some feelings toward him, but he isn’t my concern. Do you understand what you’re saying? What you’re consenting to? This isn’t something you should think so lightly about, Lucanis. Take a moment. Take a day, a week- even a year, or two! I will abide by whatever you say with no ill will. My private life is not up to you to save, okay? Do not do this because of any concern for me or my well-being, or a misplaced belief that you need to agree to anything because of our past. You need to do what is comfortable and what feels right to you.”

Lucanis spun her again and pulled her back in, a wry smile on his face.

“You taught me to speak my mind and my truth. Professor Volkarin has expanded upon that. And if I am allowed happiness, I should be able to grant the same opportunity to those I love. And... I love him. Even if he’s a pain in my ass, he’s always been my brother.”

“This is not about him or me, but you. Don’t say things on a whim or because you think it’s what I want to hear-”

“Doctor… seeing him unhappy for the last six months has not brought me joy.”

“Oh, no, of course not-”

“It’s a little hard, knowing you think I’m doing this for the wrong reasons. I chose this because it feels right, not because I’m slipping back into my old patterns. When you question that, it almost feels like you don’t see how much I’ve grown.”

Lilya wanted to hug him, but gathered herself swiftly. “I’m making a mess of this, I’m so sorry, Lucanis-”

“Yes, this is a mess. But trust me when I say, from the deepest parts of myself, that I am okay. I am good. That whatever happens between you two is fine by me, so please let me step aside. Do not make me a part of your decision process moving forward because you already know where I stand on this-”

“Please, think on this some more-”

“Oh, that’s Caterina-”

“If you have to go, we can continue this later-”

“No need- here, take over, will you? Caterina’s calling for me. So sorry, Lilya. I’ll speak to you soon, yes? Good to see you again!” Lucanis said hurriedly, manoeuvring her hands into someone’s hold as she nodded absently and tracked his path through the crowd toward Caterina Dellamorte. The woman stood with a stoic look on her face, but her sharp gaze shifted the moment Lucanis approached, cutting past him to land squarely on Lilya and her new dance partner.

She had barely noticed whose hands Lucanis had placed hers into until the hold changed, gentler and a little uncertain.

Of course. Illario. Of course.

Somewhere behind them, Lilya heard Teia make a noise suspiciously like a barely stifled cackle. When she glanced back, Teia raised her champagne flute and clinked it lightly against Viago’s glass, not even pretending it was accidental. Her friend’s eyes sparkled, triumphant and far too entertained at her expense, focused on them like a cat watching a pair of mice stumble into the same trap and licking her lips at the deliciousness of it all.

Teia caught her gaze and mouthed, ‘Illario?’ with an arched brow, a grin, and an exaggerated wink that left little doubt she was thrilled. Lilya spun quickly away, her cheeks warm. She knew she owed her a very long debrief once this night was over.

She felt Illario's breath on her cheek... warm and close. And what startled her most wasn’t the nearness, but how easy it was. How natural it felt to be in his arms again. That realisation struck deeper than she expected. Her fingers tightened by reflex, stiffening as if to pull away, something he noticed immediately. A flicker of doubt crossed his face, like he was bracing for her to disappear again. For a second, he didn’t move at all, holding her as lightly as he could, unsure of what to do next.

But she didn’t step away.

Their eyes met, and something held there between them, raw and irrepressible. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his grip, his sapphire eyes connected to her pale emerald. He slid his fingers between hers, weaving them together instead of resting palm to palm. It was no longer a formal hold. It was a memory, a reach, a quiet liberty taken. Scandalous, though she didn’t stop him… She let him. And for one quiet second, her ache to stay close overwhelmed the whispers of caution in her mind.

The touch settled between them with a weight it shouldn’t have carried. It wasn’t possessive, nor was it laced with hope. It was simply... sincere and unguarded. Their eyes locked, speaking volumes in the silence. Perhaps because neither knew the words, impossible to find in the moment, or because they feared that it would change everything for them once again. They had craved this, yet both were terrified that admitting it would shatter the fragile thread holding them together. To speak, would be to question, to confront a dangerous truth and hear answers they were both too delicate to risk just yet.

The band swept over their silence with a slow three-count. He guided her into the first turn, his posture immaculate, eyes dark, mouth tight, as if the measured steps of the dance were the only ‘words’ he could trust himself to voice.

Lilya thought she heard the click of a camera and whispers of her name, but she was probably just being paranoid. It didn’t matter. The delusion of privacy was shattered all the same. It was too public here. They were not cloaked in a shadowy club this time, surrounded by the safety of anonymity and faceless bodies who did not care about them; here, they were the show.

Their first turn of the floor was stiff.

One two three, one two three.

He left a polite inch of air between them in case she drew back.

One two three, one two three.

She counted beats because numbers were safer than emotions.

One two three, one two three.

The second turn had them soften in each other’s presence. Illario’s thumb brushed the back of her hand in a soundless question - is this okay?Lilya let her left hand settle on his shoulder, relaxing in his hold. With each step, they recalled what they had tried to bury and ignore. He moved her through a gentle pivot, and she followed without thought. The intimacy of their position was sweet and sharp, both of them teetering perilously on the edges of their good judgment once again.

The lights and discerning gazes reminded them both of the rules that still applied to them- not here, not now, not yet. Every shimmer of the chandelier felt like a spotlight; every whisper, a possible dagger in their backs. They danced on a stage where one wrong move could unravel them both.

Their final turn carried them past Viago’s guarded stare and Teia’s curious smile. Lucanis sat at the bar, resolute and unburdened, with Professor Volkarin beside him, proud of his patient and happy for his student.

The silence between them was louder than the music, thick with their tempered longing. The final notes from the band faded, and polite applause rippled across the room, giving way to cheery but inane chatter. Illario and Lilya lingered in place, barely breathing, hands still linked. She hadn’t noticed that she had stopped counting. Just that the dance was over, and she was still standing in his arms. Both caught between caution and hope, each waiting for the other to pull back first. Neither was ready to move away… or on. Not yet.

“Would you… Would you like to dance with me… once more, I mean?” Illario rasped, licking his lips like a man who had just been offered his first drop of water after being asleep for far too long.

Lilya nodded and shifted her hand more securely in his, taking a half step closer to him.

“Yes. Yes, Illario. I would like to dance with you.”

--- Softly tagging: @rookamell @davrinsleftpectoral @mythals-whore @thedissonantverses @talkmagically @kabsey @hedwigoprah @jukkaricity @seaglassmelody @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @serstolas @selennes @trash-nerd @gingervitus @hightowerqueen and anyone else who wants to play! :)

#thursday bangers #illario dellamorte #Illario x rook #illarook #Lucanis Dellamorte #some edits we die like men #emmrich volkarin #teia cantori #viago de riva #dragon age the veilguard #dragon age fanfic #LONG POST

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