#and you can request it from someone else or something

[mooningningg]

notes, I can smell the requests from a mile away.

genre. smut, MINORS DNI!

★ Roommate!Sukuna after crossing a line as roommates.

You weren’t stupid.

You knew what happened that night on the couch wasn’t just about heat. It was months of tension breaking open — long stares, petty fights, tight silences that dragged on too long, and finally, him, on your lips and in your throat like he’d been dying for it.

You thought maybe it would stop there.

A one-time mistake. A line crossed, then never spoken of again.

But then came the next morning.

You were in the kitchen, groggy and still wearing his damn t-shirt. Sukuna walked in, shirtless, scratched red from your nails, hair a mess. He looked at you for exactly one second before pulling you in by the waist and kissing your neck without a word.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he whispered, “C’mere,” and dropped to his knees again — right there by the fridge.

Didn’t even ask.

Didn’t need to.

That became routine.

A few nights later, it was the kitchen again. You were making ramen, talking on the phone, completely unaware of him watching you from the doorway with that expression — dark, hungry, smug.

The second you hung up, he was on you. Bent over the counter, shirt yanked up, mouth on you like he hadn’t tasted anything all day. You came shaking against the cabinets, one hand gripping the edge of the sink, the other shoved into his hair.

He didn’t say anything after. Just smirked, tapped your thigh, and told you to finish your noodles.

No sex. Not yet.

It wasn’t some agreement you made. It just hadn’t happened. He hadn’t pushed. You hadn’t offered.

But everything else? Fair game.

Showers together? Happening.

You’d be rinsing shampoo out of your hair, and he’d slip in behind you, hands on your waist like he owned the space. He’d press lazy kisses to your shoulder while lathering your soap onto your skin — never crossing the line, but toeing it so hard you sometimes had to leave the shower early just to breathe.

You tried to play it cool.

Tried to act like you weren’t thinking about his mouth constantly, like your legs didn’t shake when he brushed past you in the hallway, like your thighs didn’t clench whenever he muttered something low and smug in your ear.

But the switch flipped when you brought up boundaries.

It was casual. You were sitting on the couch, scrolling. He sat beside you, hand on your thigh — not doing anything, just there. Like it belonged.

You cleared your throat. “We should talk.”

He didn’t look up from his phone. “Talk about what?”

“This whole… situation. Whatever we’re doing. We should set some boundaries.”

That got his attention.

Sukuna glanced over at you, lazy smirk forming. “Boundaries?”

“Yeah. Like… no jealousy. No acting like this is something it’s not.”

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

“Right,” he said, nodding like he was agreeing with you. “Not a relationship.”

You felt a knot twist in your chest.

But you didn’t argue. You just said “right” and got up to make tea.

That should’ve been the end of it.

Except it wasn’t.

Because two days later, Sukuna showed up outside your job.

Not just waiting outside — leaning against the hood of his car, arms crossed, eyes scanning the sidewalk like a bodyguard with a grudge.

You blinked. “Did I ask you to pick me up?”

He looked you up and down, unimpressed. “Didn’t feel like waiting for you to Uber through creeps.”

The next day, it was his hand on your lower back when you were out shopping. The next, it was his arm slung around your waist in public. Then it was him glaring down a barista who complimented your smile.

You finally snapped.

“You’re being weird.”

He blinked. “Huh?”

You turned to face him in the hallway, arms crossed. “You said it’s not a relationship.”

“It’s not.”

“So why are you acting like my boyfriend?”

He shrugged, completely unfazed.

“Just making sure you don’t forget who you’re fucking.”

Your jaw dropped.

He stepped closer, mouth curling into a smirk, voice dropping low.

“Or do you want someone else to find out how good your legs shake when I’ve got my tongue in you?”

You shoved his shoulder. “Sukuna.”

He just grinned, eyes dancing. “What? I’m being respectful. Not like I’ve fucked you. Yet.”

You hated how your breath hitched at the word.

He stepped even closer, brushing hair out of your face with one ringed hand.

“When I do, though…” he whispered, voice like sin, “boundaries won’t save you.”

Then he kissed your cheek — slow, deliberate — and walked away.

Just like that.

Leaving you hot, bothered, and one hundred percent aware that your situationship had stopped being casual the second he got your taste in his mouth.

Taglist, @humeysaga @williamafton26 @aranisbaee @probablynotleahhhh @probablynotleahhhh. @beaniesayshi @levifiance @rinofcike @fushiguroooozzz @gojoscumslut @bellsoftheball @kunascutie. @after-laughter-come-tears. @minasuniverse, @chewiebee @ilovebeansya @drowsysausagedog, @shroomysstuff, @angel4-miba @paperalphys.

[syrecjh]

(A request: Project Partner Katsuki x reader)

You never meant to assume anything. Truly. You were the type to keep your head down, finish your notes, follow the rules (well, most of them), and definitely not fall into the trap of thinking a boy like Katsuki Bakugo could be watching you from across the classroom like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t solve.

But it was hard not to notice.

Like how he always managed to snag the seat next to you during lectures — even when Kaminari pouted and Kirishima tried to tug him into their usual row. Or the way he passed you the last pen when Aizawa asked for note-taking volunteers, his fingers brushing yours too slowly for it to be by accident.

And those eyes — sharp, crimson, relentless — you’d caught them on you more than once. Not just glancing. Watching. Like you were a question on the board he was quietly solving.

So when group pairings were assigned for the final project and your name was read aloud alongside his, your stomach did that traitorous flip — the one it did every time he said your name without looking at anyone else.

And now here you were. In your dorm room. At midnight. With him.

You told yourself it was because the common areas were packed — people sprawled across the couches and kitchen tables, yelling over each other and chugging instant coffee like it was oxygen. You told yourself it was strictly academic, strictly business. And yet.

Bakugo sat on your floor, elbows resting on his knees, leaning back just enough that his shirt tugged up at the hem. His notes were neat. His answers quick. But he wasn’t reading the textbook.

He was staring at you again.

You tried to ignore it. You really did. But the tension between you was a livewire — flickering at the edges of every silence, every time you passed him a book or clicked your pens in unison.

“Did you write down the—” you began, and that’s when you felt it.

His gaze.

Heavy. Hot. Real.

“What?” you blinked, meeting his eyes.

He was already looking at you like he was deciding something dangerous.

And then he muttered it — almost absent, like a thought that slipped past his guard.

“You’re pretty when you’re focused.”

Your heart thudded. “What?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in, elbows on his knees now, closer. The quiet hum of your desk lamp caught on the scar at the corner of his mouth.

“I said you’re pretty.” His voice was low, gravel dipped in certainty. “And it’s distracting.”

You froze. “Bakugo—”

“I’ve been tryin’ to study,” he cut you off, now crawling just a bit closer, voice going lower, “but all I’m thinking about is how close I am to kissin’ you.”

You blinked. “W-what?”

And before you could breathe, he was there — hands on either side of your chair, eyes locked on yours. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just hovered like a storm on the verge of breaking.

“Can I?” he asked.

You didn’t know what possessed you, whether it was his voice or the way your heart felt like it was cracking open — but you nodded.

So he kissed you.

And it was every bit the explosion he kept caged behind his scowl. Fierce, warm, tender in the way only Katsuki Bakugo could be when the whole world wasn’t watching.

When he pulled away, his breath was still on your lips.

“Be my girlfriend,” he said, like he was stating a fact. Not asking. Just finally saying it.

You blinked again, dazed. “What the hell?”

“I’ve been waitin’,” he muttered. “You knew. You always knew.”

Your cheeks were burning. “You could’ve—I don’t know—said something?”

He grunted. “I’m sayin’ it now.”

And in that moment — half your textbooks forgotten, your cheeks warm, your heartbeat sprinting — you could only laugh, breathless.

“You’re gonna have to work for it, Katsuki.”

He smirked, leaning in again. “Then I guess I’ll start now.”

And he kissed you again — softer this time, slower, like a promise.

Outside, someone knocked on the door. Probably Iida yelling about curfew. But for once, you didn’t care.

Because Bakugo had finally said it.

And you?

You’d been waiting too.

[glitterfingers]

Started as a silly crush from twelve? Thirteen? years ago. These feelings have existed for more than a decade. I live a quick jeep away from where i last saw you. I still recall your face between my legs in the blue room that December morning. I'm not sorry I didn't stay when you asked, but I regret being scared out of my mind when you requested tulog muna tayo, huwag ka munang umalis. My regrets are few and far between but I'll admit i regret not staying. For you I admit I remain a staunch defender of being absolutely selfish with my heart. I would not have survived you if you lied and pretended to want me when you didn't. But i can live through this pining. Thanks for rejecting the hypothetical but sincere request, for not being an asshole and using me for your ego (the bar is in the lowest circle of hell). After all those years of denying it to myself, you remain a constant ache in my chest. I still dream about you once a year and am hit with obscene longing every time. It would be comical if I weren't so disgusted at how much i want. And I'm so frustrated because it's been four years since I've last talked to you and it's you that i want specifically and only you. The blue room is long gone. That morning exists only in my memories. I've known no peace since. Thought time away would make the desire fade but it only gave the yearning depth. I've tried I've been trying i continue to try to let it go, let the wanting of you go. I endure raw desperation and this version is somehow the most amusing to my other friends, but the worst to you and you're not the cause, i just wish it were easier for me to have been your friend without simultaneously craving you.

But my long term longing is in your shape and the color of your skin and the tattoos you let me bite and how the morning sun hit your eyes and how we made each other laugh and i miss you all the time. How are your parents. What did you think about Senshi's story from Dungeon Meshi. What obscure movie are you going to recommend me now. Let's debate on why you said Junji Ito was for normies. I'll give you some of my tea and you'll thank me. Your friends probably still love you, even though your lives have all evolved, just talk to them. Will you let me kiss you properly just one last time? Don't let me kiss you, i'll probably never want to let go. I still haven't, but I swear I've tried everything I know though. Or do let me. I dont know. I've loved a couple people since the last time i thought i was in love with you. Apparently i cannot framework myself out of desire (who knew), but I've pried away the excess. I can love people without wanting them in my life anymore. Tell your parents you love them before it's too late.

I send a quick prayer for you every year on your birthday, i stopped greeting you because you never sounded like you enjoyed any of it, but it doesn't matter, the prayer is for my benefit, i never forget. I wish i could.

I wanted you before I knew how to be your friend. Maybe now I am paying that price. I like to believe I'm a better friend and lover now too, but we owe each other nothing. I love you anyway. I know you're not happy, but I hope you're content. I hope one day I'll see you out and about and my heart will stop feeling like it'll explode at the sight of your face. I'm a good liar but i know i can't help but look at you with reverence. Is that why you always looked like you knew something i didn't? I wonder what you saw on my face those last few times. I never did know how to covet without sacrificing and carving out a part of myself, but whatever spell you have me on means I've gotten better at loving myself too. I am no longer unhinged by longing and regret and aching. Time and space away from you (and everyone else really) has taught me that i dont need to bleed to prove my capacity to love. That sometimes the best way to love someone is to leave them the fuck alone because it'll be the best for everyone involved.

I'll see you. Probably next year in my dreams again.

Dedicated to the girl who continues to haunt my dreams even though it's been years since we spoke.

erin morgenstern/richard siken/stick season - noah kahan/not a muse: the inner lives of women: a world poetru anthology; "mountain nights" - rati saxena, edited by kate rogers and viki holmes/unknown/ @2j/unknown/do I wanna know - arctic monkeys/dear friend, - dayglow/ @etherealarte/we should be well prepared - mary oliver

[wonderlandwalker]

Fighting Dirty

𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 / 𝐭𝐥𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 / 𝐢𝐧𝐛𝐨𝐱

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: abby anderson x reader 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.4k 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Isaac’s golden rule: Loyalty above all. Abby’s spent years obeying it—until you, all sharp edges and I dare you eyes, make her question everything. 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: porn with plot, mdni, once again I know Ellie isn't part of the Seattle crew but this is fiction and here she is because I simply can't not include her

𝐚/𝐧: I really need to stop writing when I'm ovulating but here it is anyway so yeah (might come back and edit more when I'm less horny we'll see) oh and please let me know if there's any requests i've fallen down the rabbit hole with this one

It’s common knowledge at the WLF not to fuck with you—everyone knows it, though for two very different reasons.

One—you’re lethal. You move like a blade unsheathed: all controlled violence and sharp edges. The training yard is your proving ground, and the mat drinks blood more often than sweat when you’re on it. Soldiers twice your size hit the ground before they register the strike, their pride bruised worse than their ribs. Knuckles split, breath steady—you don’t hesitate. Not with cocky recruits who mistake silence for weakness, not with grizzled veterans who forget their place. 

Two—Isaac Dixon owns this city, and you? You’re his. Not by blood, but by something thicker—something carved into the bones of this ruined world. The man who raised you after everything fell apart doesn’t tolerate disrespect, least of all toward you. And if some idiot is stupid enough to cross you and lives to tell the tale? They won’t for much longer, not once Isaac finds out. And he always finds out.

Abby knows this better than anyone. She’s seen it firsthand—the way his grip tightens on your shoulder when some fresh recruit lingers too long on the curve of your smile, the way his voice drops into something lethal when your name leaves someone’s lips wrong. It should terrify her.

It does.

But not enough.

Not when she’s lying awake at night, replaying the sound of your laugh—low, warm—in the hollow of her skull. Not when she catches the flex of your hands during drills and imagines them dragging her closer by the waist, fingers digging into the softness beneath her armour. 

It’s treasonous.

You are treasonous.

The way your sweat-slicked skin glows under the flickering gym lights, the way your teeth graze your bottom lip when you’re focused—Christ, even the way you breathe feels like a provocation. Every glance, every accidental brush of your fingers against hers, every time you smirk at something she says—it’s all a slow, sweet torture. She shouldn’t be tracing the lines of your body with her eyes in the mess hall, shouldn’t be lingering outside the showers just to hear the hitch in your voice when you hum some old song under the water. She shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to press you against the wall of some abandoned storage room, her mouth hot on your neck, her hands slipping under your shirt while you gasp her name like a prayer.

But she does.

And it’s killing her.

Because wanting you isn’t like wanting anyone else. It’s not something she can exorcise with a rough fuck in a supply closet, not something she can walk away from with a smirk and a shrug. No, this feeling lingers. It festers. It follows her like a devil on her shoulder, whispering all the things she can’t have—

The way your breath would shudder if she bit down on your collarbone.

The way your hips would roll against hers if she pinned you beneath her.

The way you’d moan, soft and broken, if she finally, finally let herself take what she’s been craving.

It started with the glances—sharp, stolen things, like she was committing a crime just by looking at you. You’d catch them in the fractured seconds when she thought you weren’t watching: dark, assessing, lingering a second too long before she’d wrench her gaze away. Her jaw would tighten, teeth pressing into the soft flesh of her lower lip, like she was pissed at herself for looking, pissed at you for existing in her periphery like a thorn she couldn’t pluck out—or maybe more like a wound she kept pressing on, just to feel it sting.

And oh, how it stung.

Because then came the touches—small at first. The brush of her knuckles when she passed you supplies, calloused and deliberate even in its carelessness. The way her hands lingered a heartbeat too long during sparring, fingers digging into your hip to adjust your stance—her grip firm enough to brand you through your clothes. You’d smirk, and she’d snatch her hand back like you’d burnt her, muttering "Focus" like it wasn’t her own touch that unravelled you.

But the worst—the absolute worst—was the way she looked at you after. Like she was caught between wanting to wipe that smirk off your face and devouring you whole. Her jaw would clench when you smiled at her, teeth grinding like she was imagining all the ways she could shut you up. Her fist? Maybe. Her mouth? Definitely. Her thighs? God, yes. You’d seen the way her muscles flexed when she trained, sweat-slick and powerful, and you weren’t above admitting—at least to yourself—how badly you wanted her to put them to better use. Wanted her to pin you down and ruin you with them, just to see if she’d finally, finally lose that fucking control.

And then there’s right now—

The gym is a living thing around you: packed bodies and shouted bets, the air thick with sweat and the electric buzz of violence—or maybe that’s just the current arcing between the two of you, sharp enough to scorch.

Sparring matches are always prime entertainment here, but this? This is a spectacle.

Two of Seattle’s best fighters circling each other like the wolves they are, the mat a battleground of scuffed rubber and spit-shined pride. Abby shifts her weight across from you, rolling her shoulders in a way that makes her muscles flex under her sweat-damp tank top. The fabric clings to every ridge, every scar, and fuck, it should be illegal to look that good while also being fully capable of snapping you in half.

She’s stronger—all corded muscle and brutal precision, her strikes calibrated to bruise, not break. Every swing is controlled fury, like she’s holding back just enough to keep from wrecking you. 

But you’re faster.

You slip past her guard like you’re floating, twisting away before she can land a hit that would leave blossoms of violet and gold under your skin. The near-misses send your pulse jackrabbiting, your body thrumming with the thrill of almost. Every block sends a jolt up your arms; every graze of her knuckles burns, lingering a second too long, like she’s savouring the contact. Like she can’t help herself.

She lunges. You dodge. The crowd erupts as you pivot, using her momentum against her—but she recovers fast, too fucking fast, her body slamming into yours with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The mat hits your back with a dull thud, and then—

She’s there.

Thighs caging yours, her weight pinning you down like she’s been dreaming of this. The room dissolves into white noise; all you can focus on is the hot puff of her breath against your lips, the way her eyes flicker into something hungry, something desperate, just for a second—before she schools her expression back into that infuriating, ice-cold control. But you felt it. The way her pulse jumped when your hips rolled up against hers. The ragged hitch in her breathing when your mouth grazes her jaw.

"Going to admit you like having me underneath you," you murmur, "or do you want to keep playing pretend?"

Her grip tightens on your wrists, fingers digging in hard, and you watch the war in her eyes—the way her pupils swallow the colour whole, the flush creeping up her neck like a confession. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the sharp click of her swallow when your knee nudges between her thighs—

She knew this was a bad idea.

Knew it the second you stepped onto the mat, all cocky smirks and infuriating grace, like the fight was already yours. Knew it when the first brush of your skin against hers sent a spark down her spine, violent and bright, the kind that starts wildfires. Knew it when the crowd started chanting, their voices a distant buzz under the static in her ears—because the heat in your eyes told her you knew. Knew exactly what was going on in her head.

And now?

She’s fucking trapped.

Not by you—no, you’re the one pinned beneath her—but by the way your breath fans over her skin, by the way your voice curls around her like smoke, thick and intoxicating. By the way, your body arches into hers like you were made to fit there. By the fact that every cell in her body is screaming at her to either kiss you senseless or run.

A gasp tears itself from your throat—lost in the roar of the crowd, swallowed by the chaos. But you know she hears it, because her breath hitches, sharp and sudden, her body locking up like she’s been electrocuted. Her muscles coil so tight you can feel the tremor in her thighs where they bracket yours, her pulse kicking wildly under your fingertips. Her lips part—just to drag in air like she’s drowning. Like you’re the oxygen she’s starving for.

A ragged breath escapes her, and she swears under her breath—low, filthy, the kind of word that would’ve earned her a demerit from Isaac if he’d heard it.

Isaac.

The thought hits her like a punch to the gut.

Because you’re his. Not in the way she is—his soldier, his apprentice, his loyalty—but in the way that matters. The way that makes his voice soften when he asks if you’ve eaten. The way he barks at anyone who spars against you too hard. The way he watches you sometimes, like he’s memorising the ghost of someone he couldn’t save.

And Abby?

She owes him everything.

But then you move—twisting your hips, leveraging her distraction, and flipping her onto her back in one smooth motion. The crowd erupts—someone whoops, someone else groans—but all you see is the way Abby’s pupils blow wide, her gaze dropping helplessly to the rapid rise and fall of your chest. She stares at your lips, parted and panting, at the sweat glistening in the dip of your collarbone, a bead trailing down like an invitation, at the way your tank top has slipped just slightly, the fabric clinging to every desperate breath, and the hint of skin beneath taunting her.

You grin down at her, slow and knowing. "My eyes are up here."

Her hand snaps up, fingers curling around your wrist—too tight, too desperate—but she doesn’t shove you off. Doesn’t move. Just holds you there, her grip trembling with the effort of not pulling you closer, of not giving in to the thing clawing up her throat.

Her voice is a growl, rough with restraint. "You’re going to fucking regret—"

A particularly loud holler splits the air, reality crashes back in—and just like that, the moment shatters. Her grip slackens, fingers twitching like she’s been burnt. Her throat bobs as she swallows hard, too hard, like she’s forcing down something hungry and unfinished.  With a snarl she shoves you off with enough force to send you across the mat. She's on her feet in one fluid motion, her breathing ragged.

"That's enough for today."

The words come out clipped, military-precise, but her voice cracks on the last syllable. She won't look at you. Can't. The flush creeping up her neck betrays her, turning the tips of her ears the same violent red as a fresh bruise. Every muscle in her back is corded tight as she stalks away.

The gym holds its breath. Dozens of eyes track her retreat—some amused, some confused, all riveted. The air hums with unspoken questions, the kind that'll fuel barracks gossip for weeks. Then Ellie shatters the silence like a brick through glass: "Pay up, shitheads!" Her cackle cuts through the tension like a knife. "Told you she'd fold first!”

Afterward, things get...complicated.

Abby doesn't just avoid you—she wages war against your memory. For days, she becomes a ghost in the compound, her presence evaporating the moment you enter a room. She takes the longest patrol routes, the ones that leave her boots caked in frozen mud and her fingers numb enough to forget how they once trembled against your skin. She volunteers for back-to-back overnight watches, staring into the pitch black until her vision blurs and doubles, praying for raiders or infected—anything she can justify pummelling into submission.

She runs stadium stairs until her lungs scream for mercy, until her thighs shake so violently she has to clutch the rusted railing to remain upright, sweat dripping from her nose onto concrete below. The weight room echoes with her punishment—plates clanging, her grunts sharp and guttural as she lifts until her muscles shriek in protest, until the barbell slips from her sweat-slick palms and crashes to the floor with a sound like gunfire.

Sleep is a casualty in this campaign. When exhaustion finally claims her—if you can call those fitful two-hour stretches sleep—she collapses in the barracks instead of her usual bunk. The thin mattress does nothing to cushion the distance she's trying to put between you, the space that does nothing to quiet the guilt gnawing at her ribs like a starved animal.

But it's all useless. A fool's errand.

Because when the compound falls silent and her eyes finally close—

She still sees you.

No matter how far she goes, the realization follows—if she stops—if she so much as hesitates—she’ll have to face it.

So she runs faster.

The archives are quiet at this hour, the kind of silence that presses against eardrums and makes breath feel too loud. Flickering fluorescent lights hum their death rattle overhead, casting erratic shadows that jump across Abby's hunched shoulders like spectators to her torment. Paper rustles under her restless hands—mission reports, supply manifests, anything with enough dry facts to drown out the memory of your voice, your scent, the way your body had yielded beneath hers only to flip the script and leave her gasping.

Her braid drips onto the collar of her shirt, the damp chill doing nothing to soothe the fever under her skin. Three showers today—three rounds of near-scalding water that failed to strip away the phantom sensation of your hips rolling up against hers. The soap had turned her hands raw, but she still smells you in the steam: that hint of salt and something sweeter beneath, the scent that had flooded her senses when she'd pinned you down. When your breath had caught just enough for her to hear it. When your eyes had gone dark with the same hunger currently eating her alive from the inside out.

Fuck.

Her pen snaps between her fingers. Ink bleeds across the inventory sheet like a bruise. She drags her nails down her forehead hard enough to leave red trails, as if she could physically scrape the images from her mind—Your lips parting when she leaned in too close. The way your pulse jumped under her grip. The sinful arch of your back when she—

"You avoiding me or something, Anderson?"

Your voice is a lit match tossed into a powder keg.

Abby's spine locks. Her breath stops dead in her lungs. There in the doorway, haloed by the dim hallway light, you lounge against the frame with that infuriating half-smirk—the one that lives in her dreams now, the one that makes her want to either slam you against the nearest surface or flee this godforsaken compound forever.

She hadn't heard you approach. Hadn't sensed your presence until it was too late. Too busy drowning in the kind of thoughts that would have Isaac demoting her to latrine duty for a month if he ever guessed. 

The overhead light flickers again. In the strobe-like effect, she sees the knowing tilt of your head, the way your crossed arms make your tank top strain just so across your shoulders. Worst of all, she sees the way your gaze drops to her whitened knuckles, to the ruined paperwork, to the rapid rise and fall of her chest—reading her like one of these damned mission logs.

Abby goes rigid—muscles locking like she’s spotted a threat, a mistake, something she can’t afford. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A fucking mistake of nuclear proportions. She might be Isaac's apprentice, his razor-edged weapon honed to perfection, but you—

You're his pride. His joy.

The one who makes that permanent crease between his brows soften when you walk into a room. The one he looks at like you personally hung the goddamn moon and arranged the stars to match your freckles. His voice drops half an octave when he speaks to you, all rough edges sanded smooth—a tone Abby's only ever heard him use with one other person, back when there were still photos on his desk instead of empty spaces.

And her?

She's the soldier he trusts to keep her hands clean. The one he expects to be ruthless, disciplined, and unbreakable. Not the woman who fucks recruits in supply closets when the nightmares get too loud, who leaves a trail of broken hearts and rumpled sheets because it's easier than letting anyone see the cracks in her armour.

Isaac would kill her if he knew.

Not just because it's you—though that alone would be enough—but because he'd never believe this is different. That she's lying awake, aching for you in a way that terrifies her, because this isn't just hunger—it's something worse. Something that feels suspiciously like yours, like she wants to carve out a space inside her ribs just for you to ruin.

Why would he believe it?

She doesn't even let herself believe it.

"Why can't you just let this go?"

You've seen Abby angry before—fury is her native language—but this is something else entirely. This isn't the hot, reckless rage of battle; it's something slower, sharper, like a blade being drawn deliberately across skin. Her voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more threat than a scream ever could.

"You tell me," you counter, stepping closer until your shadow swallows hers whole. "You've been staring at me for months."

She knew you’d noticed—hadn’t exactly been subtle with the way her gaze lingered a second too long when you stretched after training, muscles taut and glistening under the afternoon sun. Hadn’t hidden the way her knuckles whitened around her rifle when you laughed at one of Ellie’s stupid jokes, your head thrown back, throat bared like an invitation—like a fucking feast laid out just for her.

But she hadn’t expected you to call her out on it. To strip her bare with nothing but a challenge in your voice and that goddamn smirk that’s been haunting her dreams.

"You’re imagining things," she lies, but her pulse is a traitor, hammering where your fingers could so easily press against her throat—where they have before, in the ring, when she pretended it was just combat and not coveting. When she told herself the way her breath caught was from exertion, not the way your nails dug into her skin like you wanted to leave marks.

"Am I?" You tilt your head, eyes dark with something that makes her stomach twist, her skin too tight over the wildfire in her veins. "Then why do you look like you want to fight me?"

Abby’s breath stutters.

"Unless", you murmur, stepping closer, close enough that the heat of your body sears through the space between you, "you’d rather fuck me."

Both.

She wants both.

To break you—to pin you down and watch that smirk dissolve into gasps, to see if you’d still be so smug with her teeth at your pulse.

To bend you—to make you unravel under her hands, to hear the way your voice would crack when she finally wrings the truth out of you.

To ruin you—to leave you just as haunted as she is, just as desperate, just as hers.

To be ruined—to let you strip her bare until there’s nothing left but the truth she hasn’t dared to say.

And fuck Isaac. Fuck his expectations. Fuck the way he looks at you like something precious, because she’s not his perfect soldier right now—she’s a woman starved, and you’re the only thing she’s ever wanted to devour.

One second, there’s space. The next—

Her hand fists in your shirt, yanking you forward so hard your body slams into hers. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, but you don’t care—not when her breath is ragged against your mouth, hot and uneven, her lips so close you can taste the coffee she drank hours ago, the faint metallic tang of blood from where she’s bitten through her own restraint.

"You don’t know what you’re asking for."

Her voice is low. Dangerous. A last warning—the final chance to back away.

"Then show me."

And fuck, she does.

Her mouth crashes into yours like a gunshot—

No hesitation. No delicacy. Just hunger and heat and months of denial exploding between you in a single, devastating kiss.

Abby kisses like she fights—all teeth and dominance, her tongue sliding against yours with a greed that borders on violence. There’s no softness here, no tentative exploration—just the bruising press of her lips, the sharp bite of her canines when you gasp, and the way her fingers dig into your hips.

She pins you against the desk, the edge digging into your thighs as her body cages you in. One hand stays twisted in your shirt, crushing the fabric in her fist like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go, while the other grips your hip to haul you onto the desk—no asking, no gentleness, just taking.

And, God, you love it.

Your hands tangle in her hair, tugging hard enough to make her groan—a rough, broken sound that vibrates against your mouth.

"Fuck," she growls, tearing her lips from yours to bite down your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin like she’s claiming them. Like she wants the whole fucking base to know you’re hers.

Her knee presses between your thighs, forcing you to grind down shamelessly against the hard muscle, the friction perfect, maddening. Abby’s grip tightens—possessive—her fingers digging into your waist hard enough to leave proof, while her other hand slips into your shorts with a confidence that makes your breath stutter.

She teases you first—cruel, calculated—her fingertips tracing slow, torturous circles around your clit, just enough to make your hips jerk, your nails claw at her shoulders. Then, without warning, she slides inside with a single, ruthless thrust, her fingers curling just so against that spot that makes you see stars.

"Fuck—Abby—"

"Gotta be quiet," she murmurs, nipping at your jaw, her breath hot and uneven against your ear. "Unless you want this to be over before I’ve even really started."

You bite your lip to stifle the whimper building in your throat, but it’s useless—your body betrays you, hips rocking against her fingers, chasing the pressure as she curls them just right, her thumb circling your clit in tight, relentless strokes.

She watches you with dark, satisfied eyes, drinking in every twitch of your muscles, every hitched breath, and every desperate roll of your hips. She knows exactly what she’s doing to you. How her fingers drag against your walls, how her palm grinds against you with every shallow thrust, how your thighs tremble when she slows just to hear you plead her name.

Your back arches toward her, your thighs clamping around her wrist like you can keep her there forever. But she doesn’t let up, her fingers pumping deep and steady, her teeth scraping your pulse point as she growls.

"Such a good girl for me."

Your body locks at the praise, a silent scream caught in your throat as pleasure wrecks you, wave after wave, her fingers milking you through it until you’re gasping, squirming, her name a broken chant on your lips.

But she still doesn’t stop.

Not when you whimper, oversensitive. Not when your legs shake so badly she has to tighten her grip to keep you upright. Not until your fingers are tangled in her hair, tugging weakly, your breath coming in ragged, uneven pants.

Then—finally—she pulls back, her fingers glistening as she drags them slowly over your lower lip.

"Look at you." Her voice is rough with something between awe and hunger, the words dragging across your skin like calloused fingers. "Fucking ruined."

Her thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your mouth open, and you taste yourself on her skin—salt and heat and her, always her. That distinct blend of gun oil and sweat and the cheap mint toothpaste from the barracks.

When she leans in to kiss you again, it’s deep and filthy, her tongue licking into your mouth like she’s starving. Like she’s trying to consume every gasp, every whimper you’ve given her, like she wants to carve herself into the very air you breathe, and you realise with dizzying clarity:

This isn’t close to enough for her.

Not when her free hand is already sliding up your stomach, thumb brushing over the curve of your chest in a possessive sweep, as if mapping every inch of you for later. 

Not when the growl in her throat vibrates against your lips, raw and unchecked, the sound of a woman who’s spent too long holding back.

She nips at your jaw, sharp enough to make you gasp, then soothes the sting with her tongue, slow and deliberate. Her breath is hot against your ear as she murmurs:

"Oh, baby…" A chuckle, dark and promising. "I’m only getting started."

There’s no hesitation in her touch now, no pretence of restraint. Just hunger, honed to a razor’s edge, and the unspoken truth between you: This was always going to happen.

[mrs-delaney]

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."

"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

[cuteandhughesy]

It’s You. ╰┈➤ AS37

summary: when your best friend needs a fake girlfriend for his cousins wedding, you are the girl he claims is his. after all, what’s the worse than can happen? well, after sharing a bed, an awkward conversation about sex with his family and an unexpected kiss, you and andrei are forced to confront feelings you thought you had been repressing.

[word count] 10.9k

warnings: MATURE! friends to lovers | fake dating | fluff | a lil angst | weddings | l kissing | reader is mentioned to have glasses | fade to black smut scene | drinking | mention of sex organs | mature themes and dialogue | read at your own discretion

a/n: the end of 2024, I put out a poll asking which players you wanted to see my write for (that I haven’t done yet) and svechy was one of the players you guys wanted to see! so I hope you guys love this 💋 this uses some scenes from a no-longer published fic—if it looks familiar, that’s because it is ❤️

🎵 perfect places by lorde, scared of my guitar by olivia rodrigo, must be nice by ruel, breakfast in bed by nessa barrett, carry you home by alex warren, it's you by zayn, best friends by 5 seconds of summer, delicate by taylor swift, + always been you by shawn mendes

andrei already knows that it's not the brightest idea he's ever had. actually, refrain that, it's quite possibly the worst idea he's ever had.

it's just—the idea passed through his system and fell out of his mouth before he could even blink. andrei's mother and aunt had practically ambushed him on a three way call just over three weeks ago—8 a.m in russia, 1 a.m. in carolina—which already had him in a frazzle. but then they immediately started asking about the dreaded (dreaded for andrei, more so than anyone else, obviously) plus one attached to his cousins wedding invitation.

the wedding that yes, was in fact only three weeks away. and a plus one attachment that andrei still hadn't confirmed or denied if he needed. because according to his very empty left side of the bed, and the singular toothbrush on his bathroom counter, andrei svechnikov is very much single and very much not needing a plus one.

but it just came out before he could stop it.

‘of course i'll be bringing someone to the wedding mama and tetr! in fact, i'll be bringing my girlfriend!’

and know here he is, 2 hours into an 18 hour flight from raleigh to his hometown in a first class seat that, despite its expanse of leg room, feels all too small. it's suffocating for no other reason than his own doing and sneakiness that he’s drowning in.

because you're next to him, happy and sipping on your third glass of champagne—skin radiating heat with the bubbly alcohol running through your bloodstream. you're halfway to tipsy and somehow completely oblivious to the way andrei's shoulders are still tight and ridged, something that normally subsides after take off.

as far as you know—because it's what your best friend told you, mind you—you're attending andrei's cousins wedding as his best friend. because since 2019, where you meet the russian hurricanes rookie downtown at a shitty dive bar playing music far too loud, you and andrei have been just that. best friends.

you suppose the friendship blossomed because of your common interests of sports and adam sandler movies and how the smell of coconut is one of your favourite things in the entire world. or perhaps it was your differences that had you and andrei forming such a strong friendship.

you hate rollercoasters, but andrei loves them.

you love tequila, but when andrei drinks tequila he ends up with his head inside a toilet bowl.

you would rather eat rubber than an olive, but andrei puts olives on everything he eats—much to his dietary staffs displeasure. salt is a killer people.

regardless, the both of you bonded over shitty honey garlic wings served with a side of ranch—sauce on the side per your request, to which he called you a weirdo for. whatever—and became fast friends.

so obviously three weeks ago when andrei asked if you wanted to come to the wedding so he, you and quote, 'doesn't have to be alone while he young cousins force him to play around the yard, and his distant family talks his ear off the entire weekend,' you easily complied. you booked the time off work that afternoon before leaving the office without so much as a second thought.

but andrei didn't tell you why he needed you to join him. not the real reason anyways. because what? he's just supposed to say, 'oh by the way, this weekend I need you to be my fake girlfriend because I told my family that's what we have become. boyfriend and fucking girlfriend.'

yeah, unfucking likely. and andrei knows that you're not going to kill him over his little lie. that's just not you. he's also sure that if he was truthful from the beginning with you, you would've agreed to the whole fake in love act with the snap of a finger. because you're giving and caring and so damn compassionate that it's almost sickly.

but andrei just couldn't. he kept pushing the truth back, telling himself that the moment would come and that’s when he would come clean. but now you're both on the plane to russia, wedding just a few days away, and you still have no idea that in 16 hours you're going to be sharing a bed and holding hands and maybe even needing to show a few kisses.

god, it's a mess.

"do you feel sick?" your smooth voice breaks andrei out of his stress whirling thoughts, lifting his palm off his sweaty forehead like he's been caught stealing candy. it's then when andrei realizes he audibly groaned out loud, which obviously did it’s part in grabbing your attention.

he swallows and sends you an unconvincing smile. "no, i'm fine." andrei feels sick alright, just not in the way you're picturing.

you blink like a baby deer at him from over the adjustable wall between your scoop like seats—your champagne glass abandoned on the fold away table in favour of clutching the edge of the wall between your manicured fingers.

a pout pulls at your lips before you reach out, touching his forehead with the back of your hand. "are you warm?"

andrei jerks back, worried that you’ll notice the misting of sweat dusting his hairline. "no, what? I'm fine, y/n."

you send him a skeptical look, "you look like you're about to blow chunks everywhere."

"that's gross."

"it's true," you chime. a beat passes, your gaze never wavering from andrei's wound up, tight expression, while the plane continues to easily glide through the clouds.

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, gnawing on the plump skin until it will undoubtedly go raw. andrei has to stop himself from reaching over to pull your lip out with his thumb.

"are you mad about something? nervous?" you push, determined to get your best friend to spill regardless of how tightly wound up he is. and obviously you've noticed that he's been a little...off, for lack of a better word, the past three weeks. andrei is your best friend, of course you noticed.

but you know better than to push him, and that andrei will open up when he's ready—like usual. but the champagne floating around in your head has your tongue slipping, and curiosity has gotten the best of you.

"is it something I did?" you swallow, something tentative in your tone that makes andrei's belly clench with guilt.

"no," he breathes before running a calloused hand down the front of his flushed face. andrei looks back over to you, eyes flickering between your wide and sad ones, and he just breaks. "I fucked up."

ever amused by his dramatics, you quirk a brow at his distress. the drunk haze has you unable to see his actual, very real, distress. "you get the sushi from that airport kiosk after I went to the bathroom, didn't you?"

but it's then —when andrei looks over at you with a guilt ridden, pouty raw lip, that you blink. hard. a wave of hot sweat rushing over your skin as every possible problem arises in your body.

andrei mutters your name in that deep, gravelly way and you think you might be the one who ends up puking.

"what is it?" you swallow, "what happened? are you okay?"

he groans again, no less dramatic than the previous display, head falling back against the plush first class cushioned head rest, giving himself a nice view of the hard plastic roof above.

andrei thinks back to the phone call with his family—more specifically, how pleased they sounded when he told them that you were the girl he was bringing home.

you, the girl he's cared for since before he could string a cohesive english scentence together.

you, the girl who his mom facetimes more than she facetimes her own son.

you, the best friend his family has had the pleasure of falling in love with and accepting as one of their own. but left disappointed when andrei said, no, nothings there between you.

just friends.

it's too late to back out now—for obvious reasons, clearly—but also for the fact that he can't take this away from his family now. not when his mother had said she's been waiting for the two of you to fall in love.

so fall in love you must. even if it's fake.

andrei's head lols against the headrest over in your direction, and he gulps slowly, adam's apple bobbing largely. before he can chicken out and do something crazy like jump out of the emergency exit, andrei's lips part with hesitation.

"we have to pretend to be in love," he pauses, "like in love."

at first you just blink at him, face completely flat and void of emotion, and then every so subtly, your brows draw together. "...why?"

"I just," andrei hesitates like he's not quite sure exactly what to say to you. he chalks it up to the way your soft eyes are unwavering—patient, even—and that's the reason andrei just spews.

he tells you everything. from the wedding invitation with the accompanying plus one he got in the mail a year prior, and all the way through the conversation with his mom and his aunt just a few weeks ago. the taunting plus one and lack of girlfriend that just bubbled up in his chest until the lie just fell off his tongue.

andrei takes a much needed inhale, his cheeks flushed like a little boys in the summer heat. "and when my mom asked for my girlfriends name...I don't know? you were the first person I thought of."

you nod after a beat, every so slightly that andrei is not sure if he's imagining it. you fall back into the large seat with a fluttering sigh, "oh fuck."

andrei can't help the disbelief laced laughter that rumbles through his broad chest, because, yeah, oh fuck is right.

you turn to look at him, face a little less flushed than the last time you did.

"if it makes you feel any better," he continues awkwardly, scratching the spot next to his heart like a nervous habit. "my mom was really excited that we're together now."

"andrei."

he winces, "are you mad at me?"

the question prompts a flash of deja vu from meer minutes ago, when the question was flipped between you. "no," you tell him after a beat, running a clammy hand over your untamed hair. "i'm just...trying to digest it all."

"right, of course." andrei swallows and sits up straighter in his seat, "and I know i'm springing this on you very last fucking minute. but i've already figured it all out, and i've got some sort of a game plan for us."

"a game plan?"

"yeah," he nods, "I've called it the 'andrei and y/n love affair 2025.'"

"that's good," you gulp, pulling your knees up against your chest. your matching cream sweat set all blends together in this position, and andrei thinks you look like a cute marshmallow—but he chooses to not verbalize that right now, because it may just push you over the edge.

even though right now, you're surprisingly calm and it's kind of freaking him out even further.

you continue, "I hope you have this said love affair plan written down because we really gotta figure this out before we get to russia."

instinctively his chocolate eyes flicker towards the map screen, stealing a glance at the ETA of the touchdown. andrei looks back at you, "oh, we've got time."

for the next hour and forty five minutes, you and andrei go through every possible nook and cranny of your fake relationship and nail it down. from the beginning right until the very end, the plan has been polished and repeated between you over 20 times. each.

throughout the conversation you started to come a little more to. it helped that andrei asked if you were okay every fifteen seconds—which any other time may be a little annoying—but right now, you accept his persistent with open arms.

knowing that he feels bad about the situation is enough, even though you could never actually be mad at him. not over something as simple as this. the amount of times andrei has picked your drunk ass up from a variety of different carolina bars over the years—or took care of you the next morning—let's just say you definitely owe him a favour or two.

besides, it's not like you're really worried about faking a romantic relationship with andrei. most of the time it feels like andrei is already your boyfriend, just without the kissing and…stuff. now that's making you a bit nervous. but you digress.

you've both had a few glasses of champagne now, allowing yourselves to relax a bit more—which was much needed. it also allows your usual banter and teasing to return between you and andrei, hushed laughter falling from your lips under the dim lights of the cabin.

"so," you muse, a little slurred. "when did you realize you liked me?"

"you're ridiculous," andrei snorts, earning a cautious look from the old lady on the other side of the plane. neither of you notice.

"what," you laugh, "i'm prepping you for the questions." you reach over and push his thick thigh with the tips of your fingers. he barley budges.

"'nobody is going to ask me that." andrei counters teasingly, nudging you back.

"they might!" you counter, a teasing smile still tugging at your lips, a sight that has andrei following suit with his own boyish grin.

"if they ask...i'll say," he pauses, making you wait with half baited breath, tucked under the first class blankets that andrei always thinks feel like toothbrush bristles. andrei shrugs casually, "i'll say always."

your head whips in his direction from where you previously started to flip through the dinner menu—always so easily distracted—so fast that andrei gets a whiff of your raspberry shampoo. it's a pleasant smell, one that reminds him of coming home after a road trip to you sleeping on his apartment couch.

his words settle over your skin like a prickling whisper, and you blink a few times in surprise.

but then, like he didn't just say something so heartfelt and beautiful, turns towards the airplane dinner menu, humming thoughtfully as he reads the three options. "I think i'm gunna get the steak."

—

carefully, but with precision, you roll your shoulders, bones and vertebrae squeaking and cracking in—a much needed, mind you—protest.

you can still smell the lingering champagne and the scent of plane on your skin, and on andrei's as he walks back towards you from where’d he’d been in the heart of baggage claim, both of your suitcases in tow—wheels squeaking along the weathered floor tiles.

andrei looks all but awake as he raises his eyebrows in question, "all ready?"

you groan sleepily as a form of answer, raising your arms in a limb stretching pull, tank top risings and exposing your lower belly to the bustling airport. you removed your fluffy hoodie as soon as you stepped onto the hot, sticky tarmac and it's now sitting comfortably around your best friends broad shoulders, making him look like he belongs in a country club.

oddly enough it suits him—when you said that though he gave you a look.

despite the way andrei urges you along, he too is fighting exhaustion. changing time zones is always a struggle no matter how many times a year andrei does it, and this weekend trip is no exception. there's matching eye bags under both of your eyes, and even though andrei knows that his family is waiting for your arrival, all he wants to do is climb into his small double childhood bed and pass out.

and you're in the same boat it seems, ugg slippered feet dragging on the ground beside andrei as you both step onto the descending escalator—suitcases clinging annoyingly at the change of surface.

the ride down is held for nothing but the whirling sound of the machinery as you and andrei stay quiet. not only are you both on the brink of falling asleep while up right, but you're both so damn nervous about perfecting your plan that speaking about it will only make it worse.

and if you panic, andrei will panic and it will just go to shit.

so silence is good.

once you're stepping off the escalator and onto the ground level of the airport, andrei automatically places his large palm on your lower back, steadying you as you both make your way towards the large exit doors that lead to the even larger parking lot.

a parking lot that undeniably has his family waiting for the both of you. suddenly you’re wishing you guys just called and uber.

your heart flutters anxiously, feet coming to an abrupt stop at the thought of the days ahead. you're supposed to be a girlfriend from here on out, and that has your tongue molding into a sheet of sand paper.

once he notices you’ve stopped walking, andrei spins to look back at you, his brows pulled in the concerned way he always seems to have when it comes to your well being.

"do I look okay?" you ask frantically, running your hands over your oily, yet somehow also frizzy, hair.

"you look fine," andrei soothes, pulling your hands away from your head and holding both of your clammy hands in one of his. stupid giant boy. "stop playing with it though, or else we will really have a problem "

you send him a deadpan look. "you're not funny."

andrei grins despite the sleep lacing his expression. he easily tugs you back into his side as you both begin to short walk towards the doors. finally. "you're right. i'm actually hilarious."

you roll your eyes and push the door open, a wave of heat washing over your already dewy skin and making you feel a bit woozy. andrei reaches over your head and pushes it open further, holding the door and allowing you to easily slip outside.

he continues, "you don't need to be nervous, y/n. you've met my family before and they are already obsessed with you." andrei makes a noise between an amused scoff and a laugh, "my mom texted me yesterday and said she's already changed your contact name to, future daughter in law."

"jesus christ," you exhale shakily, pressing a hand to your forehead. your eyes flicker up to his, "don't say that or i'll start feeling bad."

andrei holds off from smirking, "don't feel bad."

"too late."

"hey, just stop for a second." andrei gently takes ahold of your wrist, his index finger automatically stroking the outer part of your forearm. you know he's doing it to calm you, but unfortunately it only turns your stomach flutters up to a maximum.

andrei swallows, and all signs of his playfulness from mere seconds ago fades. his eyes swim with sincerity as he continues, "if this is too much just tell me and i'll handle it. I don't care if my mom whoops me with her shoe—if you're uncomfortable with this plan, i'll make sure it doesn't move forward."

you blink before managing to give one firm shake of your head. obviously you're nervous, but not enough to ruin your best friends entire trip. not over this. "i'm fine."

he looks skeptical, "promise me?"

"we're not 5." you deadpan.

"promise me."

you sigh—a mixture of reluctance and amusement. "I promise. i'm just...nervous. and overthinking everything. i’ll be fine once I get some sleep."

andrei's response comes easily, like he doesn't even need to think about reassuring you. "that's okay. just be you." he squeezes your wrist. "seriously."

your lips part in an attempt to deflect the wave of tenderness rushing between you and andrei—some sarcastic remark about him becoming a softly, surely. but the excitable gasp from across the surprisingly calm parking lot halts you.

"andrei!" his mothers voice is full of excitement as elena svechnikov bounces on her heels. both you and andrei look towards the commotion and find not only his mother, but his father, igor, and for some reason the family dog.

your best friend grumbles under his breath. "oh god."

you squint through the sunshine reflecting on the cars and distorting your vision. "is that a sign?"

he matches your squinty expression, even going as fair to shield his eyes from the sun with his gigantic hand. "that's definitely a sign."

his mother, ever to sweetest lady—seriously like purse candy, shirt of her back, treats you like her own kind of sweet—is clutching a piece of red and black decorated bristol board. canes colours obviously. a big and bold font that says welcome home smack dab in the middle.

you're pretty sure there are even a few pictures of you and andrei accompanying the words.

andrei's shoulders fall in what is probably exhaustion and the act of giving up. his eyes flicker towards your side profile, a careful expression on his face as he asses yours.

"we got this," you mutter after a beat, squinting through the blistering sun and away from his parents—up at your best friend.

"I hope so." without another passing second, andrei interlocks your fingers together, a soft yet confident smile overtaking his face as he pulls you both across the parking lot and in the direction of his family.

you don't even register the feeling of his hand in yours until his mother is greeting you both happily, pulling you into a bone crushing embrace that has the potential to crack your ribs.

"wow mom," andrei snickers playfully, ruffling the dogs overrun head of curls as it jumps up his thighs. "you must love y/n more than me if you’re greeting her first."

elena waves of his teasing before pulling andrei into a hug that mimics the one you just received. andries father gives you a polite hug and then takes one of the suitcases andrei wheeled up to the side of the car.

"how was the flight?" his mom questions, eyes darting between you both with the upmost twinkle of curiosity.

"long," you breathe a laugh.

andrei grins, "but we were fine. lots of talking to pass the time."

you shoot him a look, and andrei winks at you in response.

this guy.

registering your voice, the family dog bounds towards you next, its chubby legs and paws scratching at your legs, tail wagging happily while it pants up at you—clearly seeking affection. affection that you're happy to provide. always a sucker for animals, you crouch down and scrub behind the dogs ears. it earns you a satisfied rumble from its tiny body.

"you guys are definitely tired," elena clicks her tongue in displeasure, running a knuckle over her sons cheek like he’s a kid. "let's get you two home."

she gently pets your head before making sure her husband is packing the luggage in the car correctly—even though igor claims there's no correct way to pack a trunk. andrei's mother begs to differ.

the dog follows in her footsteps, leaving you. with a sigh, you place your hands on your knees and push up from your crouched position.

clearly you should've checked how close andrei was standing behind you, because your proximity has you completely grinding your ass against his crotch as you move to stand.

you gasp as andrei lets out a gentle grunt.

"sorry!" you wince quietly, but before you can move away, andrei arm wraps around your waist, fingers flexing against your lower stomach as he pulls you back into his chest, holding you in place and not allowing you to escape.

"it's okay baby." he says. you try not let your eyes widen at the nickname or the way you can feel his semi poking at your lower back. you're sure the blush you're now sporting is visible by anyone in the general vicinity and that's embarrassing enough.

elena hearing your voices, turns away from her husband and looks towards you. the sight of you embraced has her cooing, hands held to her chest like she's just seen the rebirth of christ himself.

"aren't you too so cute, I'm glad you two are finally together." it's clear she's not seeking any kind of response with her admiration because she turns and gets into the passenger seat before either you or andrei can attempt at closing your gaping mouths. you seriously look like fish.

the car door slamming shut has andrei blinking. he clears his throat once, and drops his arm from around your waist, and despite the heat of the sun, his lack of touch leaves you feeling cool.

you quickly move away from andrei and his...situation, allowing him the space to subtly fix his problem before anything else. you try not to think about it and pass your backpack to andrei's father, who is waiting patiently for the last bit of luggage.

"you okay sweetie?" igor sends you a weary coupled with amused glance, placing your pink bag on top of andrei's green suitcase. "you're looking flushed."

your eyes widen into saucers as your skin only warms further. jesus christ.

thankfully, ever your savour, andrei saunters up next to you, shoving his own carry on into the trunk with anything less than grace. he laughs, "it is summer, dad. we're both roasting." andrei jerks his head towards the front of the suv while the dog barks happily from his mothers lap. "go ahead and get in dad, run the air conditioner for a second. i've got the rest of the bags."

as soon as igor gets into the driver's seat, your both whipping in each others direction, looks of bewilderment on your faces as the last 5 minutes linger in the air.

"fuck i'm sorry," andrei whispers frantically, pretending to adjust the suitcases to not draw too much attention to either of you. "I don't know what came over me there. are you okay?"

you can't help your eyes from flickering towards his crotch. "are you okay?"

"I will be as soon as we stop talking about it."

you snort a laugh before quickly covering your mouth with your hand, concealing the sound. andrei sends you a harsh look which only makes you giggle more.

he shuts the trunk. "just...get in the car."

"such a gentlemen."

all earlier teasing and playfulness comes to a lull as the cool and plush leather seat envelopes you—the lack of rest and pure exhaustion quickly creeping back into your bones. it's truly game over when the car starts moving, lulling you into a much needed sleep.

not even the smell of airplane and greasy hair can stop the comfort of your best friends thick body pressed against yours, providing you with the most perfect pillow as you knock out, the beautiful city of barnaul passing through the window panes.

— day 1 BREAKFAST

you have very faint memory of climbing up the stairs of the svechnikov home after arriving back from the airport. andrei helped you out the car—sleep still clouding your eyes and your legs wobbly like a brand new baby giraffe.

the next thing you know, you're blinking awake, the sun shining through the sheer blue curtains and assaulting your eyes. you're not sure exactly what time it is, but based on the light and the smell of breakfast food wafting up the stairs, you can only assume you've slept through yesterday afternoon and night.

you blink a few times, squinting at the alarm clock on the bedside table until it becomes clear—7:08 a.m. you groan into the quiet room, the mattress squeaking under your weight while you shift into a more upright position. the navy blue plaid duvet falls to your hips. it unmistakably smells like andrei, and although it's a room you've stayed in before, being in here never fails to make you feel all warm and fuzzy.

there are posters up on his wall of ovechkin and a few other russian nhl stars. old hockey sticks sit collecting dust in the corner of his room, and next to them is your suitcase. andrei must've rolled it in after you got into the bed, where you undoubtedly knocked right back out.

you stretch the stiffness from your limbs before slipping out of bed. you're still in your travel clothes, so you make quick work of changing into something a little more appropriate—cut offs and an old shirt of andrei's because you really can't be bothered to dress up for 7 am breakfast—and cleaning yourself up.

after a quick trip to the bathroom where you speed run brushing your teeth and washing your face, you timidly make your way down the stairs, the noise of bacon sizzling on the stove and gentle chatter becoming louder as you enter the room.

evgeny, andrei's brother, spots you first from his spot already sitting at the dining table. he quickly swallows his gulp of tea before calling your name in welcome greeting, "hey, you're up. how was the flight?"

it causes a chain reaction really. elena and igor turn to look in your direction from where they're fussing over scrambled eggs and various meats in the frying pan—both greeting you warmly in a way that just sounds like one long jumbled scentence. evgeny's fiancee, sara, smiles and says your name in the bubbly way she does, patting the chair next to her as an invitation.

the dogs loudly barking and it's kind of a lot for this early, but you've done it all before, and easily navigate through the bustling kitchen, and the happy dog weaving through your legs, to take a seat beside sara.

"it was alright," you answer evgeny's question while sara wordlessly pours you some orange juice. it's your favourite, and elena always makes sure it's made fresh anytime you and andrei come visit. the thought of that alone has any lingering tiredness disappearing, and a absentminded smile blossoming on your face at the simple gesture.

he snickers and shoves some bacon into his mouth. "long, huh?"

"you can say that."

"sausage or bacon, y/n?" igor glances at you over his shoulder.

you hum, "bacon, thank you."

"you and andrei," his mother woos knowingly, "you're both the only people I know who love bacon as much as you do." elena holds a plate towards her husband, and once he piles some bacon beside the gooey eggs, she's placing it on the woven placemat in front of you.

"speaking of sleeping beauty," evgeny's playfully tone has you looking away from your breakfast and towards the archway that sits between the kitchen and family room. and there stands andrei,  sweatpants hung low on his hips, and hair messy like he's been running his hand through it.

you heart ticks as you lock eyes and the corner of andrei's lips turn upwards into a lazy smile.

"get enough beauty rest?" his older brother continues to tease him, earning evgeny a flick to his bicep courtesy of elena.

your brows furrow, as its only then you realize andrei wasn't in his childhood bed, but in fact, you were. "where'd you sleep?" it's not uncommon for you and andrei to share a sleeping place, even if he's on a half deflated air mattress, grumbling like a baby, while you snuggle in the cozy bed.

"the guest room — although," he shoots his mother a look, "it was hard with all the clothes that have seemingly taken over that bed." andrei rounds to the back of your chair, hovering over you while he playfully scolds his mother.

naturally you tilt your head back to continue looking at him, his mothers rebuttal comforting background noise.

he looks down at you, a half frown settling over his face. "you're squinting. you forgot your glasses, didn't you?" he reaches out and runs his thumb along the crease between your eyebrows.

the action is so soft and so sincere that you almost forget you need to reply like a normal person. "oh, right. yeah, I did."

you didn’t even realize you’d forgotten them.

andrei always notices.

he hums in what sounds like displeasure, taking his thumb off your face in favour of moving to sit on the unoocupied chair to the other side of you and sara. then andrei gulps down three huge gulps of your orange juice and just like that you forget about the butterflies in your stomach—snatching back the glass and shoving at his shoulder.

elena sits down across the table, breakfast plate piled high with eggs and fruit and sausage. it's just as mouth watering as your own plate. "you know," she starts, "you don't have to sleep in the guest room, andrei."

he shrugs, the kind of shrug that tells you he's listening to his mother but he's not actually hearing her. no, he’s too busy shoving eggs covered in pepper into his mouth. "it's no big deal," andrei stays through bites.

elena waves a dismissive hand, while she forks some cantaloupe with the other. "oh don't spare me son, I know you two share a bed, and It's alright to sleep upstairs with y/n." she pauses, a half amused and half concerned drawn look at her face. "well, I can imagine you do more than just share the bed."

you choke on your sip of juice at the same time andrei almost spits out the piece of bacon he just greedily scarfed. it earns you both curious looks from around the table. well, curious for everyone except evgeny, who looks all too amused with the way this conversation is headed.

"oh, that's okay-"

andrei cuts you off, a blush settling high over his cheeks. "mom, do not continue that thought."

"what?" she squawks, "it's completely normal for people who are together to make love."

"make love!" evengey relates with a laugh.

sara hides her face.

igor, used to his wife's antics, just stays silent. but the half smile on his face lets you know that he too is amused.

but you and andrei are like statues.

elena continues, "although i'd prefer if you didn't do anything in your childhood room, andrei. it's too nostalgic for you to just...strip it of its innocence." she forks some more egg onto her utensil, "but as soon as you guys get back to carolina, please, get to making me some grand babies."

"okay," andrei cuts her off before either of you can truly die from embarrassment. he scratches the spot near his heart awkwardly, and even in your own state of despair, you have to resist the urge to distract him. "can we save the sex talks until dinner." he trails off, muttering under his breath, "and the babies until the wedding."

it's sara who clears her throat, clearly also feeling the laughable tension—and snickering from her husband—tainting breakfast. she plasters on a smile, before shifting the conversation. thank god.

"I can't believe it took you guys so long."

you tilt your head, "what do you mean?"

sara laughs in a way that tells you she finds this whole ordeal cute. not sure if that’s the word you would use to describe it, but anyways. “to get together. you know, dating.”

"right!" you almost shout, blinking fast. without thinking, you toss your hand on andrei’s thick thigh, rubbing it briefly like some weird form of possessive affection.

at your touch, andrei tenses. you can feel it under your palm. if it wasn’t for his family all around, you would’ve face palmed right in that very moment. is this a normal thing girls do with their boyfriend? grope his thigh during family breakfast?

before you can remove your grip and regret your entire existence, andrei casually tosses his thick arm over the back of your dining room chair. his fingers stroke your shoulder over your (his) oversized shirt, wordlessly reassuring you that everything is fine.

it feels far from fine, especially with your hand starting to sweat.

“yeah,” andrei shrugs the shoulder that’s not beside yours, “guess I finally realized what was right in front of me.”

you shove some more eggs into your mouth, chewing slowly while your try to not freak out. and then andrei’s hand is on the back of your head, scratching your scalp like it’s an everyday occurrence.

why are you kind of wishing it was?

sara and elena gush, sharing knowing looks over the table. a look that says yeah, I remember falling in love with a svechnikov.

which on one hand is great—they are truly buying the whole fake dating thing.

but on the other hand—fuck, do you look like you’re actually in love with your best friend?

"I always thought the two of you would be cute together.” sara notes after swallowing her bite of whole wheat toast. “i've been telling y/n that since, what, like our engagement party in september?"

andrei makes a light noise, “is that so?” he tugs at the roots of your hair, “you never told me that.”

“mhmm,” you hum noncommittally, finishing off your glass of orange juice. you barley remembered that conversation with, at the time, newly engaged fiancée until this moment. you briefly recall you and sara, wine drunk and with a ring glittering on her finger—her smooth voice talking about you and andrei and how she thinks he’s in love with you.

you look at andrei, “didn’t cross my mind.”

“oh no?” he murmurs, voice all low and syrupy.

evgeny snorts, “get a room.”

you let out a laugh that sounds a lot like a grumbly breath, retracting your hand from andrei’s leg. you attempt to get the pitcher of orange juice but your best friend beats you to it, refilling your glass almost dangerously full—no doubt planning on stealing some more.

then andrei takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers and then resting them on top the table. it so sweet and domestic and if it wasn’t doing funny things to your head, you’d probably melt at the sight.

elena grins, “awe, they’re holding hands.”

and then—

“yeah soon enough they’ll be making babies in the bathroom.”

— day 2 REHEARSAL DINNER

andrei check his watch, not impatiently mind you, because when it comes to waiting for you, andrei has all the patience in the world.

plus his mother would kick him in the butt if andrei even breathed the wrong way right now about your current lack of presence. his cousins rehearsal dinner starts in an hour, and with a 45 minute drive to the vineyard, andrei is looking to leave like, 2 minutes ago.

which is fine, because he's not just waiting on you. sara is still upstairs with you, and his mother is changing out her purse on the kitchen island because her usual handbag isn't the right shade. andrei didn't even realize there were different shades of black. but whatever.

it’s just about as andrei is about to climb up the stairs and make sure you haven't burned all your hair off and are having a breakdown in his dinosaur themed bathroom , the sound of shoes clicking on the floorboards echo through the home.

and then you're appearing, in some breezy conversation with his brothers wife while you descend down the stairs. your dress, which is the perfect shade of summer blue, swooshes coolly around your ankles, making you look like a real life princess. your hair is styled perfectly, and you've even added a little extra glitter to your eyelids and andrei thinks you look fucking ridiculously pretty.

your eyes catch his, and you falter. time slows down like honey between you and andrei, warming your skin and making your knees feel heavy.

andrei's lips part like he's going to say something, but elena waltzes into the room, igor just being her—both sporting wide smiles as the height of the evening approaches.

his mother spots you and inhales sharply. "oh wow, don't you look beautiful. andrei, honey, doesn’t she look beautiful?"

it seems to break you both out of your locked, heated gaze. you smile naturally like being polite is second nature, closed mouth and with glossy lips as you continue the rest of the way down the stairs. you gravitate next to andrei instinctively.

"yeah," andrei breathes, a half smile on his face that says something words can't yet. "she does."

and then he ruffles your hair and everything shifts again. you smack him away form your freshly done hair, but andrei just takes your hand in his, interlocking your fingers as his parents usher everyone out the door.

—

the speeches go by in a flurry of laughter and emotion, warming your chest in a longing way you didn't release you held. there was one point when the best man started talking about how lovely the bride to be was, and your eyes got a little misty. which meant that there were fat tears rolling down your cheeks. andrei caught it, and instead of snickering at your emotion, he tugged you into his side, wiping your tears before they could continue to fall with his thumb, before turning his attention back to the speeches.

somehow, that was worse than him laughing.

thankfully as soon as the food came around, your stomach growled and the tears and sudden feeling of impending doom towards being single forever, disappeared. it's delicious and perfect and andrei keeps purposefully nudging his knee against yours under the table when someone makes a loud, stupid joke.

and that always ends up with you hiding your grin in his shoulder.

andrei, long clearing his own plate, snatches one of your brussels with his silver fork. right off your plate without a care.

your mouth goes agape, a half laugh falling from your lips. "hey!" you scold, "those are mine."

"sharing is caring," he reminds you, stabbing two more from the pile before raising them to his mouth.

"so?"

"so, do you want me to starve or something?" 

you quirk a teasing brow, "maybe if you savoured the taste of your own dinner, instead of scarfing it down like a neanderthal, you would actually be full."

"I can help it," andrei says around chewing, leaning in real close before continuing. "they're so buttery and delicious." clearly, andrei is trying to sound sudective and wind you up, but all you can hear is his chewing and it has you laughing, pushing him away as his voice tickles your neck.

"you're so gross." you laugh, grabbing the last full brussel that andrei was hoarding on the prongs of his fork, and then pop it into your own mouth.

he tongues his cheek as you chew up at him, a shake to his head so slow and soft that you're not even sure he's done. it's admiration, and amusement, and care—and it sends your heart into cardiac arrest.

andrei's gaze is so intense that it has a shiver running up your spine. the feeling making you straighten your posture and force yourself to look away. you don't see the way his face falls, or feel the way his heart drops.

and andrei doesn't know the way your heart has completely opened up to him in a different way. a way that reminds you of the feeling of home. of the past. of love.

"so, how'd you two meet?"

someone who you're pretty sure is a college friend of the groom, asks from across the table, looking between you and andrei curiously. his girlfriend has the same look on her face, hugging her man's arm fondly.

their display of affection makes you feel a bit funny considering you and andrei are supposed to look in love, but aren't even cuddling with one another at the dman rehearsal dinner like the very real couple.

so—awkwardly—you lean through the space between you and andrei, and wrap your arms around his bicep, your cheek resting against the crisp linen button up decorating his shoulder.

andrei shoots you a curious yet amused look. clearly he knows what you're trying to do, because he doesn't bring attention to your sudden affection. instead, he plays into it, large hand coming over your knee like this is something you two do all the time.

it must look natural enough because no one around the two of you bat an eye.

"we met at a bar." andrei says, "around the time I was drafted to the NHL."

"we've been friends for years." you add on without thinking.

a bridesmaid next to the couple nods, "and when did you realize you were in love?"

andrei laughs softly, rubbing that spot on his chest with his free hand. he swallows gently before answering the loaded question. "her laugh. that night at the bar, she was laughing at something one of her friends had said. I was naturally attracted to the sound. it was loud and real- it matched her perfectly."

andrei pauses, thumb twitching over the material of your blue dress. "and then when we started to chat, she was so patient with my broken english and bad flirting that I just..." he trails off, meeting your eyes from where you're softly peering up at him. "I fell for her that very same night."

you're pretty sure you stop breathing, and if you weren't surrounded by a bunch of strangers, you probably would've audibly gasped at that.

andrei blinks sheepishly, like he's only just taking account of what he's actually just said. he looks away form your gentle gaze and back towards the member of his cousins wedding party—who is staring at the two of you with a look he can't decipher.

andrei forces a chuckle and it's like a cold water bucket over your head. "only took me 7 years to admit it." he squeezes your knee in a way that feels like an apology mixed with truth. "but we're here now. right baby?"

"yeah," you clear your throat, his words and admission laying heavy on your heart. "we are."

—day 3 THE WEDDING

okay so you've kind of been avoiding andrei since the rehearsal dinner. and that was yesterday. it's just—you don't really know where to go from that.

even if andrei was trying to play into the whole fake relationship scheme, he literally admitted that he's been into since the night you met in that dingy raleigh bar almost 8 years ago. even if he didn't actually mean it, hearing him say those words cracked open the locked box in your chest.

when you met andrei many moons ago, you were quickly drawn to his dorky smile and shy persona. it was almost instantly that you developed some form of infatuation. and back then—drunk of course. you were in college. in a bar after all—you were much more confident.

you weren't going to let the russian slip away. not when the guy had you flustered and dipping your chin after two minutes of a half strung together conversation.

so you made sure to stay in touch. texting and calling and making andrei download snapchat so he could see how dolled up you'd get. for him.

you went out for drive thru dinners before andrei’s athletic trainer cared too much about the food he was consuming, and you watched movies with your legs tangled together in his apartment. fuck you even helped him learn english outside of his lessons.

but nothing ever happened. no moves were made because frankly, you weren't sure if he possessed the same kind of romantic interest in you.

so you pushed those feeling away. deep, deep, deep down into the spot in your heart you keep concealed to everyone, even to yourself. and you threw that damn metaphorical key in the toilet it and flushed it. twice.

friendship was good. and easy. and you could accept a friendship with him. because you still had him, regardless of your hidden feelings.

and you thought your feelings for your best friend had completely vanished in the last 8 years. until last night. when andrei and his sweet words and large mitt on your leg—stroking you and squeezing your flesh—started taking about falling for you the same night you fell for him.

surprise! feelings are coming back up the drain and soaking you.

and, oh god, the wedding. the venue which was stupidly packed and even more beautiful, decorated in lavender and baby pink, only made your feelings amplify.

because your avoidance for andrei didn't stop him from being the most patient and sweetest guy. he could tell you needed space as soon as you woke up this morning, and he walked into the bathroom to find you angrily brushing your teeth—and when you didn't send him a foamy smile from around the handle, andrei just knew something was up.

so he just sat beside you silently during the ceremony, wordlessly handing you a few tissues from his suit jacket when you began to cry during the vows. even when he didn't know your tears had nothing to do with the happy couple up at the altar, but instead the guy you've been in love with since before you knew the difference between tequila and vodka.

"you okay?" andrei asks during the journey to the ceremony outside, to the reception inside, words hushed against your ear while his hand hovers your lower back.

you nod, too quick and ridged. "just need a drink."

and drink did you ever. because two hours later once the sun has long set, and your shoes have been abandoned under the dinner table in favour of dancing, you can barley contain your drunken laughter and poorly timed singing.

you've probably had two bottles of wine to yourself.

and andrei can tell because your skin has changed shades and you no longer seem upset. which andrei knows is only because the liquor has coated your bloodstream, allowing you to forget whatever—or whoever—had upset you.

even though andrei is 99.9% positive that the reason for your cold shoulder is him. that, or the oyster joke evgeny made yesterday afternoon, but that was a long shot. it was most certainly him.

andrei watches with what he doesn't realize is a full blown pout on his face—like glistening, down turned lips, chin resting on his knuckles pouting—as you spin around with his sister in law.

not even the sound of your previous seat scraping against the floor pulls andrei out of his sad stare. it’s only when his brother nudges him that andrei blinks.

“so,” evgeny starts, voice low enough to keep the conversation between them, but still loud enough to be heard over the music. “y/n, huh?

“yeah,” andrei breathes, “y/n.” your name taste like sugar on his tongue.

evgeny nods in approval, but his lips are pursed in thought. a beat passes between them, nothing but the laughter of guests and synth pop song playing from the dj booth to be heard.

“can't say I'm suprised,” his brother eventually settles on, making andrei’s brows turn upwards in question while a rush of ice shoots through his veins. the inquiry and tone of evgeny’s statement has andrei feeling weary.

simply due to the fact that his older brother has always known andrei better than andrei knows himself.

he’s scratching at his chest again, but evgeny notices the nervous tic before andrei notices it himself. once andrei sees his brothers knowing glance though, andrei pulls his hand away so fast it’s like he’s been burnt, choosing to rap his knuckles against the table cloth instead.

andrei lick his lower lip before speaking. lis that a bad thing?”

“absolutely not,” evgeny reassures at the speed of light, voice steady. “it's just...I could tell that you loved her. always have.”

andrei laughs once—low and breathy—despite the way the words weigh on his chest. “I haven't always loved her. you're making me sound like a sad puppy or something equally as...” andrei trails off, but his brother is quick to fill the silence.

“pathetic?”

“yeah.”

“well, you are pathetic.” evgeny snorts, a playful edge to his voice that makes andrei sweaty. nervous. “when it came to her. always watching her, not subtly at all. and the flowers, and the birthdays, and that one year you couldn’t come home for christmas because y/n had the flu and you wanted to make sure she was okay.”

andrei shrugs causally, all while the weight of the truth sits like thick fog in the air. suffocating him. andrei doesn’t dare look over at you. not now. not when it will make him crumble and spill everything. “well i'm a good friend-and boyfriend.”

his brother doesn’t comment on the slip up. “I know that. but when it came to taking care of y/n and just being with her, it wasn't just about you being a good friend. it was about you loving her.”

fuck.

evgeny watches his brother carefully. he can see the way his words are affecting andrei, and the emotion pricking the heart on his sleeve.

it’s only then, when the conversation comes to another brief pause, does evgeny see the way andrei’s eyes flicker back towards your dancing, carefree frame. and instantly, he watches his younger brothers face changes.

it’s hurt.

it’s longing.

it’s unspoken love.

“it's okay to be in love andrei.” evgeny breathes slowly as if not to startle. “you've got a good one.”

a rough swallow and then andrei nods. “yeah. I do.”

“and mom loves her.”

that seems to do the trick, and it illicit a rough chuckle from andrei’s chest. “you don't say.”

“definitely more than you.”

andrei looks back at his brother, the start of an amused smile beginning to pull at his lips. “thanks dick.”

“you're welcome. and hey—now that you finally have her, never let her go.”

andrei isn’t oblivious to the underlying meaning of evgeny’s words. like he’s said, his older brother knows him well. but it doesn’t stop the panic creeping up andrei’s sternum, and the urge to deflect and deny is uncanny.

just as andrei goes to respond, you stumble into his eyesight, tripping over the air like it was a curb, and completely stealing andrei’s attention. thankfully you catch yourself before falling to the ground, but it still sends andrei’s heart into over drive.

"you okay?" evgeny asks you, his amusement clear. almost as clear as your level of intoxication.

andrei is on his feet before he even realizes that he’s stood up from the upholstered chair, standing next to you with his hand hovering over your back.

you nod with a lazy smile on your face, and your eyes completely glossed over. slowly, because you’re not completely all there, your eyes trail towards andrei. your smile grows tenfold while you grab onto his hips. “hey there. come dance with me?"

"I don't know," he breathes softly, eyes moving over your body as if he’s trying to assess you. regardless, he can’t stop the smile that blossoms across his lips. “I think it’s probably time we go? no?”

you frown playfully, swaying until your chest is pushed against his. "please? just one dance. please, I love this song."

andrei doesn’t recognize the song, and considering you play him every single song you like at least 20 times in a row, he knows you’re lying, and this is just an excuse to get him on the dance floor.

because you have seemingly pushed away your vendetta with him for the moment, andrei decides that he’s taking this opportunity to be with you while things are normal. andrei sighs reluctantly, yet with a hint of enjoyment, and that has your face lighting up—because you can see the answer before he says it.

andrei lets you lead him into the middle of the crowded dance floor and to a spot you seem acceptable before turning in his arms, wrapping your own around his shoulders while his find your waist, completely enveloping you.

the music has slowed down, casting the room with a slow, romantic haze that makes your limbs tingle.

"if you're sick of me after this week and never want to see me again, I understand." andrei mutters after a minute, thick fingers flexing around your body, like he’s fighting an internal battle. one that he seems to win, because he then is pulling you flush against him.

your eyebrows pull towards your nose. "what? no. nothing could make me never want to see you again."

“I hope this weekend hasn’t been too overwhelming,” andrei starts, voice no higher than a whisper due to your proximity. “and i’m sorry again for…springing all this on you—quite literally last minute.”

you shake your head. “i’m not upset, andrei. i’m fine, you really don’t have to worry about me.”

this time, it’s andrei’s brows that turn down. “i’m always going to worry about you, y/n,” he swallows thickly, knees bending ever so slightly so he can better peer into your drunken eyes. “you’re my best friend.”

maybe it’s the liquor, or maybe it’s pure exhaustion of fighting your feelings off for 8 years, but your bold question comes before you can deflect it. “and?”

your prompt makes andrei halt.

a beat passes and then andrei’s hand is running down the back of your head, smoothing your hair and you heart. “and.”

and right now—that unspoken knowing—is enough.

—

andrei brings you up the stairs of his childhood home two hours—and two chugged bottles of water—later. he gently guides you up the walkway, slowly and with his hand on your hip, guiding you and keeping somewhat of your stability in tact—your heels dangling from his index finger of his opposite hand.

he sits you on the edge of his navy bed once you’re back in the comfort of his old bedroom, ensuring that you’re okay before turning and shutting the bedroom door. your heels thump to the floor as he drops them next to the dresser.

andrei pulls his tie loose while spinning back on his heels. instead of the upright position he left you in, you’re now flat on your back, limbs all spread out and starfish like.

you’re not asleep. not yet. but rather grinning like a naughty child at andrei. your hair is fanned out against the covers, and there’s still some sweat lingering on your hair line from all the dancing and alcohol.

you’re quite literally glistening and andrei feels light headed.

"you can't fall asleep yet," he tells you, walking over to stand above you. with a delicate touch, he traces a finger over your thigh, and even through the material of your pale lemon dress, andrei can feel your body heat. "you have to change out of your dress, or else you’ll be mad at me when you wake up because it’s wrinkled."

you whine, "can you do it for me?”

your words are nothing but innocent, but his sex deprived brain doesn’t think the same way, and your whiny tone shoots right down to his dick. andrei swallows roughly, scratching at his chest twice before running his hand through his tousled hair.

you shift, the strapless hem of your dress slipping down just enough that it’s dangerous. andrei’s eyes instinctively dart away—just like the time they did three years ago when you’d been swimming at his place and your nipples got all pebbled under your bikini.

andrei curses under his breath.

you call his name and like the hopeless man he is, looks back at you. "please, i'm tired."

so, so hopeless.

andrei nods, grabbing ahold of your outstretched hands before pulling you back into your previous sitting position. your smile thickens and it has him feeling incredibly nervous.

"stand up for me." andrei requests quietly, and thankfully you agree with a simple nod, moving to stand on unsteady feet at the foit of the bed.

andrei doesn’t dare break eye contact. not when you’re so close that your scent is intoxicating and your bulging breasts are practically calling his name. without blinking or tearing his gaze from yours, his shaky hands reach around your body, blindly finding the clasp of your gown.

the clasp pops open, and you almost don’t catch the dress in time before it falls away to reveal your chest.

but andrei doesn’t stop there, his breathing heavy against you as he begins pulling down the small, yellow zipper. as andrei slowly begins tugging the zipper, revealing more and more of your bare skin, the more your breathing catches.

his knuckles graze against your skin, ilicting a hitched sigh from your plump, wine stained lips.

this exchange is quite possibly the hottest and most intimate thing either of you have every experienced, and nothing really has even happened. perhaps it the hesitant yet eager brushing touches that are making you light head. or perhaps it’s the eye contact between you.

it’s definitely the way your nipples have turned to diamonds, and andrei’s dick is sitting hot and heavy beneath his slacks though.

the zipper hits the end of the track with a soft clinking sound. andrei slowly lets the tag go, his hand smoothing over your hip as he begins to retract his touch.

you can feel his restraint. you can feel his desire.

"andrei," you whisper his name like a prayer. like a mantra. like it’s the password to the 8 year long puzzle between you. “i’m going to let the dress fall now.”

his gaze flickers. just far enough down to see the start of your dress and your barley concealed breasts. then, like gravity, andrei’s eyes find yours again.

“okay.” his voice is hoarse in a way that’s undeniable.

and then the dress hits the floor, the smell of your perfume puffing around you like a cloud as the material falls away. not even the smell of wine could over power your fruity scent.

he doesn’t look. he can’t. not when you’re still a little tipsy and he’s barley holding onto himself. instead, andrei brushes your hair away from your face, lingering on your cheek.

you swallow, “what are you thinking about?”

his answer comes like clockwork. “you.” andrei’s voice falters as you reach out, your much smaller fingers clumsily pulling at the buttons of his dress shirt. like your bodies know what happening before your heads do. as his summer skin becomes exposed, your hands find new home against his flesh.

andrei lick his lower lip and tilts your face up, towards his. "i'm always thinking about you."

and then, without hesitation or reluctance or anything else he’s been fronting since that night in that bar years ago, andrei slots his mouth against yours.

pushing up onto your toes, your grasp at his sides under his unbuttoned shirt, sighing against andrei’s mouth just as he does yours.

with his free hand, andrei grabs your hip, pulling your naked body flush against his, all while he expertly kisses and licks into your awaiting mouth.

after what feels like an eternity of switching between languid, slow kisses and heated hands and desperate kisses, andrei slowly guides you back down to his childhood bed, slotting between your open legs like it’s where he’s meant to be.

and perhaps, it is.

— day 4 THE MORNING AFTER

the sun beating on your back is what wakes you up the next morning. its bright and hot and too much for just opening your eyes. you groan out like a baby, pulling the covers up and over your head to further bury yourself in the cocoon of andrei’s bedding.

andrei.

your eyes snap open at a comical pace, and you sit up even quicker if that’s somehow possible. your eyes flicker towards the right side of the bed where just hours ago, andrei was curled against you. skin warm and bare against yours.

the spot is now empty.

the night comes back to you in movie like flashes. the drinking and the dancing. andrei’s calloused hands on your zipper and even more so on your skin. you sit there, still as a statue, as you remember how andrei kissed you—all over—and how his body rutted into yours like second nature.

the whispered praises and pleasure filled moans.

you remember it all.

and you remember, most of all, that you love him.

you don’t know if you should puke, cry, scream or just jump out the window. maybe all four.

you slip on the housecoat hung over the bed post, tying the string uncomfortably tight, just before slipping out of the bedroom. with last night still fresh, and your feelings practically drowning you, you know you need to find andrei—like yesterday—and tell him.

well, tell him as much as you can without choking on your own tears.

the smell of freshly brewed coffee hits your nostrils before anything else. you round into the kitchen and see elena and igor. they both grin politely, one of them offering you a drink—you’re not sure who because you’re too busy wondering where the hell andrei is to notice anything else.

the words tumble from you without a second thought, interrupting the dogs happy hopping at your ankles. “where's andrei?” and of course the cherry on top is your voice wavering.

elena’s eyes draw in confusion, her lips parting in wordless question.

“i'm here,” andrei’s familiar voice sounds from behind you. and instantly you feel like crying. he rounds to your front, looking freshly showered and clean in his shirt and athletic shorts. “you okay?”

“I just, I thought you left.” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself as embarrassment washes over you.

“no moya lyubov,” andrei coos with his native tongue, brows pulled tight in concern. he brings you into his arms despite the way your self hug makes it a little awkward. “just putting our bags in the car so it’s all ready to go for tonight.”

“oh right,” you nod, a little dumb. you lower your voice even more before continuing. “we should talk, right?”

“yeah, we should.”

you nod again, manoeuvring in andrei’s arms until you’re able to grasp at his fingers. “come upstairs with me? please.”

he hums. “of course.”

as soon as you’re back in his navy bedroom, and the door is heard softly shutting behind you, you’re nervously wringing your hands out. “you're my best friend.” you blurt out, robe slipping off your shoulder as it is inevitably, too big. as it is obviously andrei’s robe.

he fixes the shoulder so you’re covered again. “I know.”

you continue, heart racing and voice cracking despite andrei’s calm demeanour. “and I thought that these feelings I was pushing down were unreciprocated.”

“I know,” he mumbles, pushing your hair away from your neck. “me too.”

its something in the way he’s touching you—looking at you—that has you faltering. it’s like you’re his. like he’s in—oh.

“and now.” andrei continues.

“and now,” you breathe, “and now I want to kiss you again.”

andrei legs out a laugh. “you can.”

“but not just today,” you interrupt, “I want to kiss you everyday and wake up next to you everyday because I really fucking like you.”

“well,” andrei breathes, chest puffing as he takes an impossible step closer to you. he gently but confidently takes ahold of your face in his hands. caressing you like a porcelain toy. like a prized possession. like the greatest trophy in sports. “I really fucking like you too.”

you exhale.

but he’s not quite done with his love confession. after all, he has been thinking about it since 2018. “and I always have.”

your breath catches, curiously and hope gnawing at you like a moth to a flame. “since the bar?”

“since the second you stepped foot into that bar, y/n.”

a beat passes.

“this is kind of crazy, right? is this crazy?” you laugh in disbelief, continuing to look up at him like he’s hung the stars in the sky.

“absolutely,” andrei nods, thumbs brushing over your cheek bones. “but it's a good crazy. don't you think?”

“definitely.” you mumble through the beginning stages of a sheepish smile. your fingers itch to reach out and touch andrei, and unlike everyday before this one, you allow them to.

“okay then let’s bask in the crazy, yeah?”

A/N: okay. so! this definitely got a little rushed and I can only hopes this flows well enough to follow along with. and hopefully it makes sense and you catch the drift! I went through a writers block through this fic so a lot of the parts were spaced out (writing wise.

on another note—the rom com series is still happening. i’m just not sure when it will be out. i’m hoping for at least one before the summer ends, along with a few other goodies.

jo will girls and wyjo girls, get excited.

anyways this is just to say thank you for your patience and support like always.

[demie90s]

Girlypop i got you with the crazy b*tches requests😙😙

Someone starts arguing with Juju post game and the reader just appears from nowhere like stepping between them with that silent but deadly stare that says “say one more thing and ill beat your ass” and Juju holds her back like, “Don’t,” but secretly? She’s hoping reader throws one punch so she can make out with her in the locker room right after😛

Wooooo girl yo ideas😮‍💨. Kiss me!!💋

Her Way

Juju Watkins x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Post-game tension boils over when someone steps to Juju, and just as things get heated, someone appears like a ghost with a death glare.

Word Count: ~ 1k

Genre: Flirty tension, protective energy, sports drama, locker room makeouts

Warnings: Swearing, light violence, suggestive content, aggressive flirting

I’d been on my best behavior all night.

No techs. No looks. No petty fouls. Even cracked a joke with the ref once—and he laughed. Coach damn near gave me a high five on the way back to the bench. That’s how good I was being.

I balled, and I behaved. Clean game. Shake hands. Go home. That was the plan. Until shorty from Notre Dame started talking.

Now I’m not soft, but I know how to act. And even if I didn’t? I would’ve kept it cool for Coach. For the team. For Juju. But this girl?..She ain’t just talking. She walking up. Getting close. Hands moving. Voice getting louder. Like she forgot what building she in. Like she forgot what school we are.

And Juju’s just standing there—cool, locked in, chin raised like she’s letting it slide. But her jaw tight. Her hand’s balled. She only got one more sentence of patience left before she says something back.

Which is when I step in.

Real smooth. I don’t even rush. I just appear. Leaning into one foot like I’m waiting for the light to turn green. Chin tucked. Blank stare. My head cocked just enough to let her know you should stop talking.

I don’t say a word. I don’t gotta. That stare says it all. You got one more time.

Juju flinches a little—not scared, just surprised. She ain’t even see me move. Her hand comes up and presses lightly against my stomach like she trying to hold me back with nothing but skin and hope.

“Don’t,” she mutters under her breath.

But her voice drop when she says it. Like deep down she wants me to swing. Just once. Just enough to shut shorty up. Like maybe she mad she can’t do it herself. Like maybe she knows I’ve been itching for a reason all game.

“You good?” I say low, my eyes still locked on the girl like I’m checking her temperature.

“I’m good,” Juju replies, but she don’t move her hand. Her fingers press in tighter.

The girl from Notre Dame takes a step back like she just noticed the shift. Like she thought this was a game until I showed up. I smile a little—not cause I’m friendly.

Just cause I want her to give me a reason. Just one. Say something slick. Roll your eyes. Breathe wrong.

Juju shifts, trying to play it off. “Let’s go,” she says, tugging on my jersey like a leash.

But her voice got that edge. That buzz. Like she loved that I came. Like the only thing sexier than me playing the game clean was me ready to ruin it for her.

The girl walks off finally, muttering something under her breath.

“What she say?” I ask, finally dragging my eyes away.

“Nothing worth the flag,” Juju says, but she grins. She grins.

We head back toward the tunnel, side by side. Coach is yelling at someone else. The refs are trying not to look shook. Juju’s looking at me like I’m a whole-ass reward. Like I’m the prize you only win if you make it to the bonus round.

“I saw that look,” she says.

I shrug. “She lucky I ain’t have time to stretch.”

Juju laughs and bumps my shoulder. “Nah, for real. You came up fast. Like, ghost-mode fast.”

“Not ghost,” I murmur, just loud enough for her to hear. “Just mine.”

She don’t say nothing back. Just looks at me. All heat. All gratitude. All trouble.

The locker room’s silent. Till the door slams behind us.

I don’t even make it to my locker. Juju grabs my wrist, spins me around like I weigh nothing. And she just stares. Same way she looked at me on the court. Like I just did something that made her forget her own name.

“You really was about to swing,” she says, almost laughing—but there’s something in her voice. That edge. Like she mad and turned on all at once.

I lean back against the wall, letting her look. “Only if she said one more thing.”

Juju steps closer. Slow. Deliberate. She doesn’t break eye contact.

“I saw your face. You wanted her to.”

“I wanted you safe.” My voice is low now, quiet enough it hums between us.

Her lips twitch. Her hands slide up my sides, slow like she’s trying to memorize the shape of me. “I won’t lie..That shit was sexy,” she says, almost whispering.

I raise an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“I mean—” she shrugs, dragging her fingers down my jaw. “You don’t talk. You just show up. Like some protective ass shadow.”

“Thought you liked me quiet.”

“I do.” She leans in, mouth ghosting over mine. “But now I need you loud.” That’s all it takes.

She kisses me like I’m still standing between her and danger. Maybe stepping up for her got under her skin in a way she can’t let slide.

Her hands are in my jersey, gripping my waist, dragging me closer like she don’t want no space left. I grip her hips, flip her so she’s against the wall now. She moans, low and breathy, and I catch it in my mouth like I’ve been waiting for that sound all week.

“You good?” I mutter against her lips, nose brushing hers.

She nods, voice wrecked. “Better than good. Just—don’t stop.”

I kiss her again. Slower this time. Deep and steady like a promise. Like I mean it. I do.

She presses up into me like she wants more, but not here. Not yet. So I keep kissing her like I own her mouth. Like I didn’t just almost square up for her in front of half the damn arena. Like I wouldn’t do it again.

When we finally break apart, breathing hard, forehead to forehead—she laughs, low and hoarse.

“You tryna get me suspended.”

I smirk, brushing her braid back. “You started it.”

She grins. “You gon’ finish it?”

“Only if you ask nice.”

Juju shakes her head, biting her lip. “Later. Locker room don’t got enough space for what I want.”

I file that for later. But for now, I let her keep kissing me like she’s trying to thank me without saying it. Every damn time.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

[vitalverstappen]

Almost Ready - O. Piastri

summary: everyone sees it but them. one final summer left to admit the truth

pairing: camp counselor au Oscar Piastri x reader

warnings: swearing, use of y/n

word count: 8.6k

a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @piastriprincess 's fic under pink light in june and you all should definitely go check it out! i've honestly started writing a few more camp related fics so look out for them!

You were eight years old when you first met Oscar. 

The first thing you noticed about him was that he didn’t talk much. Not in the shy way some kids did, looking down at their shoes and whispering hellos. No, this was different. He looked like someone who had decided, deliberately, that silence was better than saying something dumb. Like words were coins and he only wanted to spend them if it was absolutely necessary. 

The second thing you noticed was that he had the best snack. 

You were sitting on a patchy, sun-warmed picnic blanket near the lake with your cabin group, poking at a sad sandwich someone’s mom had labeled in Sharpie. It was leaking something suspicious onto the paper towel underneath, and honestly, you were already regretting not just asking for a second granola bar instead.

Camp was still new. The sky was bright and buzzing with dragonflies, and everything smelled like a weird mix of bug spray, pine needles, and that sunscreen that made your arms feel sticky no matter how long it had been since it dried. Somewhere behind you, a counselor was trying to convince a kid that late water “technically counted” as a bath. 

Your socks were already damp from stepping on the wrong part of the dock. Your knees itched from the grass. You felt out of place and overly noticeable and kind of homesick in a way you didn’t want to say out loud. 

And then you saw him.

Across the grass, maybe a few blankets over, a boy with sandy-blond hair and knees covered in bandaids sat alone, munching on what looked like… chocolate covered pretzels.

Your mouth kind of watered. 

You didn’t know his name yet. You didn’t know what cabin he was in, or if he was the kind of kid who got into trouble or got ignored. But he had that serious, quiet-kid look. The kind of kid that noticed things. His baseball hat was too big for his head and slipped low over his eyebrows. His socks were pulled up to his calves in a way that would’ve gotten him laughed at anywhere else, but there, it just made him look prepared. Like he got camp in a way you didn’t yet. 

So you scooted closer. 

Just a little. Not directly toward him - more like a slow diagonal shuffle, careful and half-hearted, like if you got caught, you could pretend you weren’t doing it on purpose.

But he noticed. Of course he did. 

His eyes flicked toward you - quick and sharp, the same way a bird looks up from a feeder when it senses movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just watched.

Then, finally, in a voice not much louder than a whisper:

“What,” he asked, without looking away, “are you doing?”

You froze mid-scoot.

“...Sitting.”

“Okay,” he said, and popped another pretzel in his mouth like that was the end of the conversation. 

You watched him crunch. He chewed like someone with opinions.

After a second: “That looks really good.”

“It is.”

You waited. He didn’t offer you one. 

“Are you gonna share?” 

Oscar looked at you like that was a very big ask. Like you’d just requested access to his medical records or the secret formula to chocolate milk.

Then, with the world’s tiniest sigh, he plucked a single chocolate pretzel from the bag - slowly, precisely - and held it out toward you like it was an ancient treasure he wasn’t sure you’d earned.

“You can have this one,” he said, “but not if you’re gross about it.”

You blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Like… if your hands are sticky. Or if you eat weird.”

You inspected your palms. “They’re clean. I think.”

He handed it over like he was passing along a relic.

You popped it in your mouth and immediately lit up. The chocolate was a little melty from teh sun, and the pretzel was perfectly salty and sweet and crunchy. “That’s so good.”

“I know. That’s why I said don’t be gross.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “You’re kind of bossy.”

He shrugged like he got that a lot and didn’t care.

You sat beside him in silence for a while, both of you watching a pair of counselors try to stop a goose from stealing someone’s apple slices. The goose was winning. 

The sun warmed your back, and the sugar settled on your tongue like something safe. He didn’t talk. You didn’t either. But the quiet didn’t feel weird anymore.

Then, very softly, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud:

“I’m Oscar.”

You glanced sideways. “I’m Y/N.”

There was a pause. You could hear kids laughing by the docks. Someone was singing off-key in the mess hall.

“... Wanna split the rest of the bag?” 

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded and scooted a little closer, careful not to touch his arm. But he didn’t move away when you did. 

And in the weird,unspoken, quietly magical way that kids sometimes become friends, that was it. 

From then on, when the counselors asked where you were, the answer was usually the same:

“With Oscar.”

And that’s how it would be for the rest of that summer. 

And the next one. 

And the one after that. 

Each June, you’d find him on the first day - same too big hat, same socks pulled up too high, same quiet smile he only ever gave you. It was like pressing play on something that had just been paused, like time didn’t really move during the months you spent apart. You’d pick up right where you left off: racing canoes, swapping dessert at lunch, inventing stories about the birds that nested in the rafters of the arts & crafts shed. 

He never said much. But you always knew where to find him. 

But in between the summers, during the long, boring school years, you lost touch. 

You’d think about him sometimes. Usually when something small reminded you - chocolate-covered pretzels in a vending machine, someone with a funny accent in a classroom, the way a friend sat in the grass like he used to. Those memories would pop up, sudden and specific, like sunlight through the clouds on a gray day. 

You’d wonder what his life looked like the other ten months of the year. What city he lived in. What subjects he liked. If he thought of you too. 

But mostly, you waited. 

And when summer came around again, you’d arrive at camp with that quiet, nervous feeling tucked in your chest - is he coming back? 

And every year, the answer was yes. 

======

At sixteen, the cabin looked a lot smaller. 

Not in a disappointing way - just in the way everything from childhood eventually does. As if your eyes had grown up faster than the space around you. You stood just outside the doorway, a clipboard tucked under your arm and a box of name tags dangling from your wrist, staring at the same crooked window you used to press your face up against when it rained. The glass was still cloudy in the corners. You remembered tracing little hearts in the fog of it with your fingertip.

The bunk beds looked the same - scuffed and creaky and slightly too close together. The bottom bunk on the far left still had a carved smiley face near the headboard, and someone wrapped friendship bracelets around one of the support poles, faded and fraying from summers long gone. The wooden beams still had those pencil markings from campers long gone: height measurements, initials, hearts carved around other initials. You spotted your own name faintly scratched near the window frame. 

And even though your shirt said Junior Counselor, it didn’t quite feel real yet. You felt like a kid playing dress-up in someone else’s summer. 

Then you heard him. That unmistakable soft shuffle of sneakers on gravel, the quiet sound of someone who didn’t stomp or run, who simply arrived. 

You turned, and there he was. 

Taller now, his frame stretched out like it had only just started figuring itself out. His shoulders broader. Hair longer, a little messier, sun touched at the tips.His navy camp baseball cap now fit perfectly, this time flipped backwards. His name badge was clipped neatly to his collar: Oscar P. 

Still the same no-nonsense stance, still the same calm in his eyes. Like the whole world could be buzzing and Oscar would just watch.

And when he saw you, his whole face shifted - just slightly. A soft half-smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. The same one he used to give you back when you were eight and dripping wet from falling in the lake, cold and embarrassed, and he’d handed you his towel without saying anything.

“I was hoping they’d put us on the same rotation,” he said. His voice had dropped since last summer. Not deep exactly, but lower, steadier. Still distinctly him. 

You grinned before you could stop yourself. “They said I’d have a co-counselor who ‘didn’t talk much but knew how to fold blankets.’ I figured it was you.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said that once.”

“Yeah. And then folded mine for the rest of the summer.”

He didn’t deny it. Just stepped forward and leaned casually against the porch railing beside you. The wood creaked under his weight, the way it always did. The breeze rustled through the trees, bringing with it the familiar smell of pine needles, sunscreen, and something vaguely burnt from the mess hall kitchen.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. 

It was like being ten again, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a sun-warmed rock near the dock, passing pretzels back and forth and pretending you weren’t thinking about the end of summer. Pretending nothing would ever change. 

“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think too hard.

Oscar didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly. “Did you want me to?” 

You didn’t look at him, just shrugged, suddenly fascinated with the dirt curled in the grooves of the wooden floorboards. 

He stepped a little closer. 

Not close close. But close enough that his arms almost brushed yours. Enough that you could smell him - clean cotton and sun-warmed skin, with something faintly citrusy beneath it. Laundry detergent, maybe. Or shampoo. It made your head feel fizzy in the way feelings sometimes did before you had the words to name them. 

“I kept checking the cabin list,” he admitted quietly. “Thought maybe you’d decided not to come.”

“I always come back,” you said

“So do I.”

The words hung in the space between you - quiet, but not empty. It didn’t need to be said out loud. You both knew what it meant.  

Silence again. But not awkward, simply full. 

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled something out.

You blinked. “Is that-”

“Chocolate-covered pretzels,” he said, “First day tradition.”

You let out a laugh without meaning to. It came out too loud, and it echoed off the walls like a secret being let loose. 

“I can’t believe you remembered.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t bring any,” he teased and handed you the bag. 

The rest of the summer passed the way it always did - fast in the moment, slow in the memory. Sunburned days and firefly nights. You and Oscar fell back into your old rhythm so easily it scared you a little. It was like muscle memory, like a song you hadn’t heard in a year but still somehow knew all the words to. 

You still split snacks. Still walked side by side to the mess hall. Still found each other during free swim like gravity had its own opinion on where you belonged. 

But it was different now, too. 

You laughed longer when he said something dry and unexpected. He looked at you a beat too long when you weren’t watching. You noticed the shape of his hands - how they’d grown, how steady they looked. He stopped correcting you when you folded the life jackets wrong, even though he clearly noticed. 

Sometimes your shoulders touched when you walked, and neither of you moved away. 

There were moments- soft ones, barely there ones - when it felt like something might happen. A shared glance in the fading dusk, a lingering pause when he handed you your water bottle, the near-miss of a hug that didn’t quite happen at the end of a long day. All those almosts that buzzed under your skin long after you went to bed.

But nothing ever came of it. 

Not because you didn’t want to. 

Just… not yet. 

You hugged goodbye the way people do when they think they’ll see each other soon. It was quick, almost casual, your arms over his shoulders, his hands at your waist. Too short and too long at the same time. 

You didn’t make promises. 

He didn’t ask for your number. 

You didn’t ask for his. 

But you came back next summer.

And so did he. 

======

Over the years, your friendship became something quieter, deeper. 

Less about snacks and shared sunscreen and more about who you were turning into when no one was watching.

You stopped spending every second side by side, but somehow became even more important to each other. It wasn’t about lake games or flashlight tag anymore. It was midnight walks when you couldn’t sleep. Conversations on the mess hall roof during counselor curfew. The way his voice lowered when he asked “Are you okay?” and actually meant it.

You talked about the futures you were trying to figure out - half made plans and backup dreams. College majors. Cities that scared you. Jobs that didn’t exist yet but sounded good in theory. He told you how he didn’t like talking about feelings, but with you, it was easier. You told him how you worried about disappointing people. He told you he worried about never doing enough. 

You talked about your families. Your parents. What home felt like. What it didn’t.

The people you thought you were falling for - and the ones you knew you weren’t. About kisses that didn’t feel like anything, and moments that almost did.

You both dated other people. Sometimes briefly, sometimes not.

Camp flings. School-year maybes. People who made you laugh, people who looked good in photos. 

But not him. 

You didn’t talk about it much, not in detail. Neither of you ever asked for names, never wanted them. But sometimes he’d go quiet when you mentioned someone. His jaw would shift, eyes focused on something just past your shoulder. And sometimes, when the cabin was too quiet and the air was too warm, you’d lie awake wondering if he was thinking about someone else. If another girl had sat beside him in a different kind of silence. If she knew about the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was nervous. If she ever made him laugh that quiet, breathless laugh he only let out when he really meant it.

Still, every summer, you found each other. 

In the clearing behind the mess hall. In the pause before dinner. On the corner of the dock where the sun hit just right and no one else ever sat. You’d pick up like nothing had changed, even if everything had. You knew his favorite hoodie. He knew when you needed space. You could read his moods from across the firepit, and he could find your laugh in a crowd of twenty voices.

And every summer, you left without saying the one thing that had begun to burn quietly in both of you: It’s always been you. 

The words waited at the back of your throat like a secret. Like a truth too delicate to say out loud. Like something sacred you weren’t ready to ruin. 

So you’d hug goodbye, tight but brief. You’d tell yourselves there would be time. 

Next year. Next summer. When you were older. When you felt safer. When maybe, just maybe, he’d say it first. 

But he never did. 

And neither did you. 

======

You didn’t mean for it to be your last. But you knew it was. 

At twenty three, real life had gotten louder - jobs with titles you didn’t quite understand yet, cities with rent you couldn’t quite afford, commutes and deadlines and alarm clocks that didn’t smell like pine or damp earth. The world outside of camp had started calling you by your full name. Expecting things from you. Urging you to move forward.

You’d aged out of counselor cabins and color wars and group chants screamed across the lake. Your bunk had been replaced by a full-sized mattress in a sublet apartment with too thin walls. You drank coffee now. You packed Advil in your bag. The idea of chasing fifteen eight-year-olds through the woods made your back hurt a little just thinking about it. 

You were only back this year because the camp director had begged. One more summer she’d said over the phone. Help train the new kids. Make it special. 

You said yes. You weren’t even sure why.

Until you got there. 

Until you heard a voice behind you say, soft and familiar: 

“Same shoes.”

You stopped mid-step, duffel swinging lightly against your hip. The sky above the staff cabins was clear, hot, a shade of blue that only existed in June. You turned.

And there he was.

Oscar.

He looked different, but only slightly. Like someone who’d just finished becoming whoever he was always meant to be. His features were more defined now, jaw a little sharper, stubble ghosting his chin just slightly. His camp t-shirt clung to a frame that had filled out over the years - subtly, quietly, like everything else about him. His hat was still backwards. His hands were still in his pockets. 

He was older. Sharper. And still, unmistakably him. 

That same quiet certainty behind his eyes. The same stillness in the way he stood. That same crooked half-smile pulling at his mouth, only for you. 

And just like that, your lungs gave in. You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for months. 

He didn’t move. Neither did you. 

“Hi,” you managed, voice already softer than it had been all morning.

“Hi,” he said back, like no time had passed. Like this was normal.

And somehow, it was. 

You stepped toward each other. He held out his hand - not for a handshake, but to take your bag. You let him, even though you didn’t need the help. He slung it over his shoulder like it weighed nothing. Like you did when you were sixteen and he carried your art supplies up the cabin steps without asking.

“I didn’t know if you’d be back,” he said, watching you from the side. 

“I didn’t know if you would,”  you said. “Figured maybe you finally aged out of camp traditions.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You mean like bringing pretzels on the first day?”

You laughed - quiet and surprised and involuntary. It spilled out of you like something you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time. The sound of it made his smile deepen. 

You looked at him. Really looked. 

Maybe this was the summer you were going to say it. 

======

The mess hall was already too hot by 9 a.m.

A box fan rattled in the corner, groaning against its own effort, blowing warm air over a pile of unclaimed name tags. The smell of instant coffee and last night’s spaghetti lingered in the wood-paneled walls. Outside, the sky was an uninterrupted blue, the kind that promised bug bites and sunburns. 

Inside, ten brand-new junior counselors sat on mismatched benches, all elbows and nerves, sipping lukewarm iced coffee out of paper cups and pretending not to be intimidated. Most were fresh out of high school or in that dazed post-first-year-of-university fog. A few had already started sweating through their t-shirts.

You stood at the front of the room, clipboard in one hand, camp whistle looped around your wrist like a bracelet. Your name tag - handwritten, glitter-stickered, slightly peeling - clung to your shirt with the stubborn pride of someone who had absolutely seen things.

Oscar stood beside you. 

He hadn’t said much yet - he never did, not unless it mattered - but he was flipping through a laminated emergency protocol packet like it personally offended him. His name tag read:

Oscar - Senior Staff. 

All block caps. Clean, precise. No stickers. 

The difference between the two of you was… obvious to say the least. But no one could ever argue you didn’t work well together. 

“Okay,” you said brightly, clapping your hands together once. The sound echoed across the exposed raptors. “Let’s talk about cabin dynamics.”

A few groans rumbled through the group, low and reluctant. One girl tilted her head back and dramatically whispered, “Help me.” 

Oscar didn’t even look up from the protocol guide. “If you complain now,” he said, flat and dry, “you won’t survive the third graders’ tie-dye day.”

A couple of them laughed - nervous, uncertain, the kind of laugh that asked was that a joke? You glanced sideways at him and raised an eyebrow.

“Starting with a threat?” you murmured under your breath.

“Setting expectations,” he replied, not bothering to whisper. 

You bit back a smile.

You turned toward the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. “You’re going to live with these kids for ten weeks. They will cry. They will spill applesauce on your bed. One of them will probably try to smuggle a frog into the mess hall. The good news is: you get used to it.”

“The bad news is,” Oscar added, flipping a page with a snap, “you still have to clean up the applesauce.”

More laughter now. Slightly easier. You caught a few of them exchanging relieved looks.

You turned toward the whiteboard and started scribbling down a few bullet points: Routine. Respect. Rain plans. Each in big, bold letters.

Behind you, Oscar began handing out the cabin charts - color-coded, organized, and predictably immaculate His handwriting was still all-caps, neat to the point of intimidation. You wondered - not for the first time - if he’d ever been the kind of kid who used a ruler to underline things in notebooks.  

“Uh, question?” a voice piped up near the back. 

You turned. 

A new counselor - Jaden, you thought, skinny and sunburnt already - raised a hand tentatively.

“What if the campers don’t like us?” he asked, genuine concern in his eyes. “Like, what if they think we’re… lame?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “They will.”

You turned to stare at him. “Oscar.”

He shrugged, facing the kid. “At first. They always think you’re lame. Then one of them cries during lights-out, you sing them off-key lullabies, and suddenly you’re their hero.”

You shot him a side-glance. “You sing lullabies?”

He didn’t look away from the chart. “Once. By accident.”

You snorted and turned back to the group. “What Oscar’s trying to say is: they come around. Just be patient. Be present. And don’t lie to them - kids can smell fake nice like it’s blood in the water.”

They laughed again - louder this time. You could see them loosening up, tension slipping off their shoulders as the room warmed in the right way. 

A girl with pink sunglasses pushed up on her head - Ava, - raised her hand next. “How do you guys, like… know all of this? You seem really calm.”

Oscar leaned back against the table beside you, arms crossed, letting the question hand for a second.

You answered first. “We’ve been here since we were kids. Climbed the ranks. Went from campers, to junior counselors terrified of canoe duty, to now senior campers.”

Oscar added, “And we’ve made every mistake you’re about to make. Twice.”

That got a solid laugh, and someone clapped, ironically. The energy shifted. Less formal now, more like a team starting to take shape

You turned toward Oscar and caught it - just for a second - his eyes already on you, like he was waiting to see if you’d say more. You didn’t. Not yet. 

But your smile softened. And his did too.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

“Same thing, sometimes.”

He shook his head, but didn’t deny it. 

You turned back to the group and clapped again. “Alright. Time for a trust walk. Pair up, someone gets blindfolded, and no, we’re not liable if you fall in a ditch.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Is there a ditch?”

“There might be,” you said cheerfully, tossing him a bandana.

He caught it one handed. “Rock paper scissors to see who leads?”

You grinned. “You’re not blindfolding me, Piastri.”

“Then I guess I’m trusting you to not walk me into a tree.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

You walked out together, side by side, just like you used to.

And the new counselors followed. Not because you told them to. But because together, without ever trying, everyone thought you were the people who knew that you were doing.

Even if you were still just figuring it out. Even if neither of you had said what you really wanted to. 

The lake shimmered under the afternoon sun, soft waves lapping at the wooden dock like it was exhaling. Dragonflies flitted lazily across the surface, occasionally dipping low enough to skin the water, then zipping up again. Somewhere behind you, cicadas buzzed in the trees, a low electric hum that filled the stillness.

You sat in the tall white lifeguard chair, sunglasses perched on your head, whistle resting between your lips, and a bottle of blue Gatorade sweating by your ankle. Your feet were bare, propped on the lowest rung, toes already dusty with sand. 

It was midweek, and the swim zone was empty - for now. Just you, the heat, and the occasional creak of the dock shifting under the sun. 

Your clipboard was balanced on one of the arms of the chair, weighted down by a clothespin and a crumpled receipt being used as a bookmark. It was filled with cabin swim rosters, band color notes (a very serious system of shallow, middle, deep end), and a scribbled reminder to find someone to patch the kickboards before the next round of kids turned them into medieval weapons again. 

You exhaled slowly, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back. The sun warmed your shoulders, your collarbones, the bridge of your nose. This was the best part of the day: the quiet before the cannonballs.

Then - 

“Please walk.”

The voice was familiar. Steady. Slightly annoyed.

Your eyes opened. There he was, half chasing his cabin group down the hill toward the lake like a reluctant sheepdog. Oscar had one hand wrapped around a stray pool noodle and the other gripping the back of a camper’s shirt who was dangerously close to face planting. 

You watched them make their way towards the changing stalls, the kids shouting over each other about who could swim faster, who was gonna do a triple flip off the dock (they weren’t_, and who saw a fish the size of a shark yesterday (they didn’t).

“And here comes the chaos,” you muttered to yourself.

He heard it anyway. “This is the refined version of chaos,” he said, releasing the kid and sending him toward the changing stalls. “You should’ve seen snack time.”

You leaned an elbow on the side of your chair and smirked down at him. “Someone cried again?”

“Two of them,” he said, flipping off his sneakers and kicking them towards the bench. “One over a broken granola bar. The other because his was too perfect, and he didn’t wanna ruin it by eating it.”

You snorted. “That’s camp philosophy right there.”

Oscar shaded his eyes with one hand and looked up at you. “You’ve got sunscreen on your nose.”

You rubbed it instinctively. 

“No,” he added, and you caught the edge of a smile, “I mean you did a good job. Usually you forget it.”

You rolled your eyes but your lips tugged upward anyway. “You gonna swim or just pace dramatically on the shore?”

“I’m supervising,” he said, pulling off his shirt and tossing it over the bench. You’ve seen him a thousand times before, but your eyes couldn’t help but linger. “But if someone starts fake drowning again, I’m going in.”

You raised your eyebrows. “That one kid yesterday deserved an Oscar.”

Oscar deadpanned, “He had my name.”

“Don’t hold it against him.”

The campers began trickling into the water, a few of them shrieking at the initial cold before dunking under, splashing one with another with wide, clumsy arcs. You counted heads out of habit, tracking colored wristbands, mentally noting who needed to be watched near the ropes and who’d already made a beeline for the floating platform. 

Oscar sat on the bottom step of your lifeguard stand, forearms resting on his knees, his bare feet digging into the warm, grainy sand. He didn’t speak right away, just watched his cabin with a kind of focus that had always made him a good counselor - steady, patient, present. 

“You’re good at this,” you said softly, not even sure if you meant for him to hear it.

“I’m tired,” he replied, glancing up. “Is that the same thing?”

You shrugged. “Sometimes.”

A pause. Then:

“You’ve always been good at this,” he said. “The way you just… know what they need before they even do. It’s like magic or something.”

You looked down at him, caught off guard. The way he said it wasn’t teasing - it was earnest. Quiet. 

“It’s not magic,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. “I’ve just been here a long time.”

He was quiet for a second. Then, without looking at you: “Yeah. But you care. That’s the difference.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you didn’t.

You just watched a camper try to climb onto the floating dock, fall off twice, and then get boosted by two friends, triumphant like he’d summited Everest. 

“Thanks,” you said, finally. 

Oscar nodded. “Anytime.”

The sun glinted off the lake like shattered glass. Your knee, bent against the frame of the stand, brushed gently against his shoulder. He didn’t move. Neither did you.

The whistle stayed silent. No one was drowning. No one was crying. 

But somehow, it still felt like your heart was treading water - just waiting, waiting, waiting to touch solid ground.

It wasn’t camp unless there was a critter found somewhere. 

Sometimes it was a raccoon in the dumpster. Once it was a squirrel in the arts & crafts cabin. And one year, someone swore a possum had tried to climb into their sleeping bag. 

And like most times, it started with a scream. 

A sharp, glass-shattering one that cut across the quiet of the evening like a knife through marshmallow fluff. You were halfway through brushing your teeth at the outdoor sink when it happened - spit and mint foam still in your mouth - when the sound rippled across camp. Your toothbrush froze mid-brush.

Then came a second scream. Louder. Somehow wetter. You didn’t know how a scream could be wet, but it was.

You spat, jammed your toothbrush back in its case, and turned just in time to see the bathroom door slam open. Two campers bolted out like they were being chased by a ghost. 

“THERE’S A BAT!” one of them cried, arms flailing. “IT’S IN THE SHOWER STALL. IT’S LOOKING AT ME.”

You blinked. 

Before you could ask anything else, Oscar was suddenly at your side like he’d teleported there. Hoodie half-zipped, hair a mess, and holding a half-eaten granola bar like it might help.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice calm but alert.

You pointed at the door. “Apparently, Dracula’s moved in.”

Another scream echoed inside - this one more dramatic, echoing off tile.

Oscar sighed, already rolling up the sleeves of his crewneck. “Okay. I’ll handle it.”

You grabbed his arm. “Oh no you don’t. You’re not going in there alone.”

“I’ve got a towel,”

“That’s not a shield.”

“It is if you believe in it.”

“You’re going to get rabies.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “Not if I duck.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed. Still, when he stepped forward, you followed him. Of course you did.

The air inside was warm and damp, thick with that distinctive camp-bathroom mix of humidity, faint mildew, and watermelon shampoo. The lights flickered like they were trying to create mood lighting for a horror film. The scent of fear - kid shampoo, wet flip-flops, and adrenaline - clung to the walls. 

Near the showers, someone had knocked over an entire shelf of toiletries. Conditioner bottles were strewn like casualties across the floor. A towel was draped dramatically across the floor like someone had used it to defend themselves and failed. 

Silence loomed over, tension thick in the air. 

And then - fluttering. 

You both froze. 

It came from above. From somewhere behind a warped ceiling tile near the corner light fixture, something small and winged squeaked once, then again. 

“There it is,” you whispered, squinting upward. 

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s kind of cute.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He raised the towel like a net. “Alright. We’ll trap it. Then we let it go. No panic.”

“No panic,” you repeated, heartbeat clearly disagreeing.

Another flutter. It was getting ready. 

“Okay,” he said, positioning himself below the ceiling corner. “On three. One. Two…”

He didn’t get to three. 

What followed was nothing short of a disaster film in fast-forward: wings flapping in manic loops, the bat doing aerial acrobatics, your scream bouncing off the tile, Oscar swearing, the towel flying, you flying (backwards into a sink), and the bat careening once, twice, before shooting out through the cracked window with one final screech like it was late for a party. 

Silence.

You and Oscar stood panting, eyes wide, surrounded by fallen toiletries and questionable dignity. Your shoulder was pressed tight to his arm. His hoodie had slipped halfway off. You were both breathing like you’d just run a mile. 

“I think,” you said between gulps of air, “I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Oscar ran a hand through his hair. “Mine said, you’re gonna die in a camp bathroom.”

You started laughing, real laughing. Bent slightly at the waist, catching your breath, shoulders shaking. He looked over, eyes crinkling at the corners. And for a second, it was quiet again. 

“Thanks,” you said finally. “For not letting me get attacked alone.”

He shrugged, but softer this time. “Always.”

Then, from the hallway:

“DID YOU KILL IT?!”

“CAN WE NAME IT?!”

“CAN WE KEEP IT AS A MASCOT?!”

You both groaned at the same time. 

Oscar gave you a side-glance. “If you tell them it laid eggs in the shampoo bottles, they’ll never step in here again.”

You smirked “You’re a menace.”

“But a helpful one.”

You shook your head, smiling in spite of yourself. “That was worse than the squirrel-in-the-arts-cabin year.”

“Still not as bad as glitter day,” he muttered

The bat was gone. 

But for the rest of the summer, that night was ingrained in your campers heads. Legendary. Mythical. Immortalized in popsicle stick retellings and glitter-glued reenactments. 

It started innocently during arts and crafts. 

The sky outside was a heavy, pewter gray, thick with the kind of rain that hadn’t fallen yet, but was waiting, smug, somewhere above the pine trees. Camp was on rain schedule, which meant a hundred damp-footed, sugar-laced children were now crammed into the rec hall for the past hour and a half making lopsided friendship bracelets and glitter-glued name signs that would absolutely not survive the summer. 

Oscar sat at one of the long tables, hunched over a piece of cardboard and a pile of googly eyes. He wasn’t crafting so much as supervising, but someone had handed him a glue bottle and now he was very seriously assembling a bat out of pipe cleaners, complete with glitter fangs.

You were perched on the opposite edge of the table across from him, one knee tucked under you, snipping pieces of yarn for a friendship bracelet for a camper. 

A lull settled across the room, punctuated only by the sound of scissors and low-level supply disputes. 

Then, from the far side of the table, came a voice.

“Miss Y/N,” a voice piped up beside you. It was Sophie, one of the louder, bolder girls from your lake group. Her pigtails were lopsided and her arms were glittery. “Are you and Oscar in love?”

You choked on air. “What?”

Across the room, someone dropped a popsicle stick. Chairs squeaked. Heads turned like it was a courtroom drama. 

Sophie didn’t back down. “You always sit next to each other.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re in love,” you said, trying for neutral, cool. The effect was… questionable.

“But you laugh at his jokes even when they’re not funny,” a boy chimed in from the next table over. 

“And he gave you his last Cheez-It yesterday,” another added solemnly, like that was definitive proof of eternal devotion. 

You shot a glance at Oscar. He hadn’t looked up from his craft yet.

“Technically,” he began, holding up the bat to inspect it, “it was my second to last Cheez-It.”

That. Did. Not. Help. 

“SEE?” Sophie crowed, practically leaping onto her bench. “He remembers! That means he cares! He’s in looooveeee” 

Oscar finally looked at you. Raised one eyebrow, lips twitching like he was seconds from breaking.

You, however, were going down swinging. “You guys are wild. People can care about each other and not be in love, you know.”

One of the ten year olds across the room cupped her hands around her mouth like a megaphone: “YOU GUYS TOTALLY LIKE EACH OTHER.”

Oscar leaned back on his bench and sighed dramatically. “This is what I get for participating in bat-themed crafts.”

“Miss Y/N!” Sophie tugged your sleeve, starry eyed. “If you do get married, can I be a flower girl? I have a sparkly dress already.”

You shook your head “We are not getting married.”

“But if you did!” She insisted, now practically vibrating with excitement, “would there be cupcakes? And a petting zoo?”

Oscar set his glue bottle down and said, deadpan, “Only if I get to ride into the ceremony on a canoe.”

That broke the dam. The entire table burst into delighted chaos.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m deeply uncomfortable,” he replied dryly. “But the image of a wedding canoe has potential.”

The kids started chiming in again, overlapping:

“Can we decorate it with streamers?”

“You have to have s’mores at the reception!”

“What if the bat comes back and officiates the wedding!?”

You buried your face with your hands. 

Oscar nudged your knee under the table. 

When you peeked through your fingers, he was looking at you with that same soft expression he always wore when he thought no one else was watching. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Just for you. 

“You know,” he said, “I would trust you to pick the playlist.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m going to drown you in the lake.”

He grinned. “How romantic.”

And then - “SEE?! FLIRTING!” came the high pitched wail of confirmation from behind a mountain of yarn.

You groaned, but despite that, you were smiling. 

The rain began to fall soon after. Soft at first, drumming on the tin roof like applause from the universe itself. The kids went back to their crafts, now glancing between the two of you with renewed suspicion and barely contained glee. 

Oscar reached over and placed his completed bat in front of you. It had a lopsided smile and crooked wings. One googly eye was already sliding off. 

“For you,” he said, mock-serious.

You stared at it. “This is hideous.”

“It’s symbolic,” he replied, straight faced.

You snorted. “Of what?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Emotional dysfunction.”

And from across the table, a chorus of giggles rose up again. 

They didn’t need to know the truth. That your hands brushed under the table. That you hadn’t stopped thinking about the way he looked at you during free swim. That maybe they were more right than you were willing to admit. 

You tapped the bat’s head, glanced at him sideways, and said, “Fine. But if we get married, we’re not naming our first kid ‘Cheez-It.’”

Oscar didn’t even blink. “Middle name. Compromise.”

And somewhere behind you, another kid whispered. “This is better than a soap opera” 

You should’ve known something was up the moment your campers offered - completely unprompted - to “take over swim check in,” armed with clipboards, dramatic salutes, and suspiciously wide eyes.

“Go take a break, Miss Y/N,” Sophie said, blinking innocently, standing a little too perfectly between you and the path up to the cabins. “You’ve done so much. We’ve got this.”

That alone was suspicious. Sophie once fake-cried for ten minutes to get out of rest hour. And now she was volunteering for extra responsibility?

But before you could question it, she was already corralling the younger kids, her voice unusually commanding. “Line up alphabetically by how cool your swim bands are!” she declared.

Your eyebrows furrowed. “That’s not how alphabet-” 

Too late. A distraction had been launched. 

Five minutes later, Sophie came bounding back, glitter streaked across her cheek like war paint and a folded piece of paper clutched in her hand like it was a top-secret message. 

“For you,” she said, trying (and failing) to keep a straight face. “Step one.”

You raised an eyebrow but unfolded it anyway.

CLUE #1:

Where the bat once flew and shampoo bottles died,

A clue awaits, if you dare go inside 

(P.S. It’s not back…probably)

You stared. “Is this a scavenger hunt?” 

From halfway up the hill, Sophie turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “OPERATION CANOE WEDDING IS A GO.”

“Operation what?!”

But she was already gone

You looked at the paper again, then sighed. Of course they started with the bat bathroom.

Inside the girls’ showers, the light flickered in that same ominous way it always did, like the building was haunted by the ghost of shaving cream past. The tiles were still chipped from that one epic prank war, and a suspiciously large spider occupied the upper corner like it paid rent. But there, taped to the mirror with a concerning amount of glitter glue, was the next note. 

CLUE #2:

You watch the waves, you guard the shore

But maybe love has something more?

Go where you sit to count the heads,

And maybe think about what’s left unsaid.

(Omg that was deep)

You snorted and muttered, “You dramatic little gremlins.”

It kept going. Notes slipped under doors. Hints chalked in bubble letters along the path. A lopsided origami heart wedged between canoe paddles. One kid handed you a paper flower and said, “For your emotional growth,” before vanishing behind the gear shed

You found Oscar sitting beneath the tree by the firepit, a clue resting in his lap like it had personally offended him. 

He looked up when you approached, brows raised. “ Let me guess. You got roped into this too?”

You held up your own collection of glittery rhymes. “Apparently we’re soulmates and they’ve decided to force fate’s hand.”

He made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “They made me solve a riddle in order to unlock the ‘next phase of my heart journey.’”

“They made me dig under the paddleboards. I got a splinter”

You both stood there for a second, then fell into step without thinking, like always. Same path. Same rhythm. Comfortable silence broken only by the chirp of cicadas and the occasional far-off shriek from what was probably a pillow fight going rogue.  

The final note had been taped to the dock’s railing, sealed with an alarming amount of heart-shaped stickers. 

FINAL CLUE: 

You’ve reached the end. Now take a seat,

He’s waiting for you (and your heart’s skipped a beat).

No pressure or anything. 

(P.S. WE KNOW!!)

You sat beside him, legs swinging over the water, shoes kicked off. The sun had started its descent, casting long golden streaks across the lake. The world narrowed down to the creak of the dock and the way his pinky nearly brushed yours.

“They’re really committed,” you said after a while. 

“Too committed,” Oscar replied, exhaling slowly. “I think Sophie threatened someone into drawing a map.”

You laughed softly. “I feel like I’m on some weird rom-com TV show and the campers are the writers.”

“Terrifying thought.”

Then, quieter: “Do you think they actually believe it?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, watching the sun dip behind the tree line. 

“I think…” he said eventually, “kids see things we’re too scared to say.”

It landed between you like a stone in still water. 

You turned your head. His profile was golden with the last of the light, his jaw tight like he was trying to keep something in. 

“But it’s just a joke. Right?” He asked, not quite looking at you.

You nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Obviously. It’s… camp drama. They’re bored.”

“Right.” His voice was soft. Neutral. Careful. “It’s nothing.”

“Exactly.”

You both stared out at the water. 

The moment stretched. The lake lapped gently below. Your foot dipped in, just barely, and set soft ripples outward. But neither of you moved. Not really.

Because it wasn’t nothing. 

Not even close.

You cleared your throat. “I should… probably get back. Before they start assigning roles in the fake wedding.”

Oscar stood first, brushing his hands off on his shorts. “For the record, I’m not wearing a flower crown.”

“You’d look good in one.”

He paused, looked down at you, that unreadable half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

“So would you.”

And maybe that was it. Maybe that was the closet either of you could get.

You stood and walked back beside him. Not touching. Not talking. But the space between your shoulders hummed with everything that hadn’t been said. 

And behind you, in the shadows of the trees, you knew your cabins were watching - waiting, whispering.

But you didn’t turn around. 

You weren’t ready. 

Not yet. 

The fire cracked and popped like it had secrets to tell.

It was the last night of camp. The kind that didn’ feel real until you were already halfway through it - the air heavy with smoke and memory, the faint echo of a summer’s worth of inside jokes still lingering between the trees. The kids were finally asleep - tired from crying during cabin goodbyes, from trading lanyards like currency, from trying to memorize phone numbers they’d never actually call. 

The counselors lingered in the firelight, a scattered collection of silhouettes and worn sweatshirts, clutching mismatched mugs filled with lukewarm cocoa and the ache of endings. Someone strummed a familiar song on the guitar, the chords slightly off, but no one cared. Someone else lit a sparkler and traced a heart in the air. And someone retold the story about the raccoon that once stole an entire box of graham crackers and disappeared like a ghost into the woods.

You sat on a fallen log, knees pulled up to your chest, hoodie still warm from a last-minute run to the laundry cabin. Your eyes tracked the sparks curling toward the stars, but your focus wasn’t really on the fire. 

Oscar was on the log across from you, legs stretched long and a twig spinning absently between his fingers. The light from the flames caught in his hair and painted gold at the edges of his face. He hadn’t said much all night - not because he was distant, but because he was watching it all like he was trying to memorize it.

Every summer ended. You both knew that. But this one was the last chapter of something sacred. Twenty-three didn’t leave much space for cabins and campfires and inside jokes about bats. Not when real life was baning on the door. 

As the fire burned lower and the group around it slowly thinned - some peeling off toward cabins, some lying back in the grass - you caught him watching you. Finally, really watching. 

“You okay?” you asked, voice low.

He nodded once. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He huffed out a soft laugh. “Not this time.”

You waited.

He looked down at his hands. “Just that this is the last one,” he said, his voice barely above the fire’s whisper.

It didn’t need explanation. You both knew what he meant. 

Camp had always been the place you came back to. The reset button. The middle ground.

There was a long stretch of silence, broken only by the occasional pop from the logs and the far-off whoop of someone cannonballing into the lake, last-minute swim rules be damned. Then-

“I’ve been thinking about that too,” you said. 

Oscar glanced up. 

You shifted on the log, suddenly aware of every inch of space between you. “And I keep wondering if I’ll regret not saying something.”

That got his attention. The twig stilled in his hand. His brow furrowed. 

“But maybe you don’t feel the same,” you added quickly. “And that’s okay. I just didn’t want to leave this place without-”

“Wait,” he said suddenly, standing like the ground had given him a jolt. “Come here.”

Your heart tripped. 

He stepped away from the fire, toward the edge of the woods where the tree line opened up just enough for the stars to peek through like secrets. He didn’t turn to check if you were following. 

But you were.

The noise of the fire and the others faded into the background. The pine needles cushioned your steps. The scent of smoke clung to everything. When you reached him, Oscar turned, hands shoved in his pockets.  

“I do,” he said 

Your brows knit. “Do what?”

“I do feel the same way.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, a little out of breath. He looked nervous, but not unsure. Like he was done pretending. 

“I’ve felt that way for a long time,” he said. “Years. But everytime I thought about saying something, I talked myself out of it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had. You’re my best friend.”

“You’re mine too.”

His voice dropped. “And I almost kissed you on the dock.”

“I know,” you whispered, a small and sad smile formed on your lips.

“I wanted to. I was going to. But then I thought… if I do this, and it’s not what you want, it’ll change everything.”

“I was scared too,” you admitted. “But Oscar -” You took a breath. “You were never going to lose me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Like he was taking in every inch of your face, memorizing it like the way he watched the fire earlier. Slowly, deliberately, he reached for your hand. His fingers bruised yours, tentative.

You didn’t pull away.

And when he laced your fingers together, something in your chest settled. 

When he leaned in, it wasn’t rushed. It was a quiet question. And your kiss was the answer. 

Soft. Steady. Years in the making. 

The kind of kiss that felt like it had always been waiting there - between games of capture the flag, behind whispered goodnight jokes in the staff lodge, just under the surface of every late-night swim. 

When you pulled back, the air felt clearer. The stars looked closer. His forehead rested against yours. 

“So,” he murmured, voice brushing your skin. “What happens next?”

You smiled, thumb grazing his knuckles. “We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Always.”

And in the hush of the last night of summer, beneath the stars and pine trees and the weight of something finally said, you knew - 

You were ready. 

So was he. 

[sinsxo]

symphony. —itoshi rin

cw. mdni! nsfw, fem!reader, toxic relationship dynamics, angst, degradation, emotionally charged arguments, make up sex, rough sex, soft aftercare.

based on this request.

note. loved writing this. had the perfect song in mind — symphony by highvyn ft. JEY.

synopsis. another cold war. unresolved arguments. you and rin can’t seem to talk without it ending in a fight — or something worse.

wc. 2.3k words, not proofread.

again.

you sighed, slumped on the couch in the living room of the apartment you shared with rin.

cold, bitter, and alone.

just like what your relationship had become.

you checked your phone again — looking for anything. a text, a missed call, even a single-word reply — just an update from rin.

none.

figures.

you and rin were in another cold war. tension high, wounds fresh from your last argument — yet neither of you did anything to fix it. it was just quiet now. empty.

the sound of the front door opening pulled you out of your spiral. rin walked in, fresh from training, the same blank expression on his face.

“didn’t think you’d come home,” you muttered, eyes still on your phone.

“don’t start.”

you scoffed. “don’t start? you do know you have a phone, right? a simple text would’ve been greatly appreciated.”

“didn’t think you’d care,” he replied flatly, already walking toward the bedroom without looking back.

you followed.

“you’re right. maybe i shouldn’t care next time,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “couldn’t even spare five seconds for a damn message? i’m supposed to be your girlfriend, but i don’t know where you are half the time — your schedule, your plans — nothing.”

he exhaled through his nose. “can we not do this right now? i’m tired.”

“yeah? when are you not?”

he stopped by the dresser, jaw clenching. “my schedule’s packed even during breaks. i come home to this — to you — picking a fight. i leave for france again in two days, and you can’t give me a fucking break?”

“i’m not picking a fight, rin. i’m asking for basic communication!”

“and using that tone that makes it worse,” he snapped. “it’s always about you, and i’m so fucking tired of it. drop it — we’ll talk next time.”

you stared at him, chest heaving. “next time? it’s always next time, and it ends like this every time. i hate it. i hate you.”

“good,” he said coldly. “the feeling’s mutual.”

and with that, he slammed the bathroom door behind him.

you stood there, seething. for someone so cold, he sure boiled fast.

you slammed the bedroom door shut behind you, throwing yourself onto the bed. lying on your side, you curled into yourself, your phone abandoned beside you.

how did it get like this?

every fight followed the same cycle.

you argued, you avoided, then you ignored each other until something snapped and it all spilled over again.

you let out a loud sigh. then another.

and by the third, the bathroom door opened.

“can you not?” rin’s voice came from the doorway of the master bathroom. “your sighing is so loud. it’s annoying.”

you rolled over, finally looking at him. “what? i can’t breathe now?”

he didn’t respond at first. just stood there, jaw clenched, putting on his clothes.

then he sighed. you understood him now, because that pissed you off too.

before you could say anything else, he walked over and sat beside you on the bed, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“look,” he said, voice low, tired. “i’m sick of this too. it’s not just you.”

you had your eyes closed, trying to shut everything out. but he saw the scrunch in your expression, your trembling lips.

“i don’t mean to give you the silent treatment,” he continued. “but the more we fight, the more i avoid you — not because i don’t care, but because i don’t want to say something i’ll regret. i know my temper, and i know yours. it’s like… fighting fire with fire. no control, and we both get burned. i just wish we’d just let our pride go sometimes.”

his voice dropped even lower.

“i know you don’t mean half the shit you say when you’re upset. but it still cuts deep. and i know i do the same too, no excuses for that. i just… i’m done pretending this is normal. that we’re fine.”

you slowly opened your eyes, then sat up, ashamed.

“i don’t mean to pick fights,” your voice came out small. “i just get so overwhelmed sometimes. we barely spend time together anymore. and when you come home exhausted, i feel like i can’t even talk to you. like i have to hold it in so you won’t get tired of me too.”

your voice cracked. “i didn’t mean to become the thing i feared. i didn’t mean to push you away.”

you looked at him then — eyes filled with guilt.

“i don’t want to be the reason you stop loving me. but sometimes i feel like i already am.”

“is that what you’ve been thinking?” he asked softly.

“yeah,” you whispered. “i’m scared you don’t need me the way i need you.”

rin leaned in, brows furrowed. “so that’s what this was about.”

you looked up, confused. “what do you mean?”

but before you could finish, he moved — leaning over you, arms caging you in as your back met the mattress.

“you could’ve just told me,” he muttered, voice low. “but no. you chose this way.”

his expression was tight. angry, yes — but not at you. not really. maybe at himself, for missing it. for not seeing it sooner.

before you could reply, his lips were on yours — rough, desperate. all emotion, no control.

maybe anger. maybe guilt. maybe frustration. maybe love.

your arms wrapped around his shoulders, tugging at his shirt. he broke the kiss only long enough to take it off, doing the same to you — undressing you with trembling hands.

then he was kissing you again. deeper. like he needed to.

you kissed him like you were afraid he’d leave mid-breath, and he kissed you like he was trying to make you stay.

“for someone who says they hate me,” he mumbled against your lips, “you sure hold on tight.”

“shut it,” you whispered, pulling him back into a kiss.

he groaned low in his throat, his lips trailing from your mouth to your neck, collarbone, chest — every inch of you. everything felt so raw, like you were making up with each other with touch instead of words.

you couldn’t even remember the last time you touched each other like this. not even a hug. not even holding hands.

and now you clung to each other like you’d shatter if you let go.

he spread your legs open before you realised.

you inhaled sharply, your thighs twitching under his touch.

“keep them open,” he muttered, voice low, warm breath ghosting over your inner thigh.

you tried to close them on instinct, flustered, unsure if you were still mad at him or you were just that needy, but his hands were firm, prying you apart again.

“don’t be difficult now. you’ve been doing that all day.” he looked up at you with that same cold, condescending stare he gave you during fights — but now it made your stomach flutter.

“fuck off.” you tried to sound strong, but your voice wavered.

“mm,” he hummed, fingers brushing over your heat, slow and teasing. “still got a mouth on you. but i wonder how long that’ll last.”

you reached down to swat his hand away, but he caught your wrist midair.

“don’t,” he glared at you. “you’ve talked enough for one night.”

he didn’t wait for a reply.

his mouth was on you before you could form a thought — tongue working slow circles that had your legs shaking in seconds. you gasped, back arching, one hand clutching the sheets while the other tangled itself in his hair, tugging hard.

“ah— fuck, rin—!”

he sucked harder, the pressure making your hips buck. he held them down with one hand, the other slipping up to your chest, pinching your nipple just to hear you gasp again.

“such a mess already,” he said, pulling away just enough to talk.

his lips and chin were slick with you. “missed me that much?”

you glared at him through your haze. “hurry up and fuck me already...”

he raised a brow. “so needy,” he sat up, grabbing you by the ankles and yanking you down the bed until your hips hit the edge. “spread.”

you did — barely — still glaring, defiant.

“you know this is all we ever do,” he muttered, voice sharp as his fingers dug into your thighs. “fight until we’re so fucking drained, then fall apart like this.”

his jaw clenched, eyes flickering over your bare body beneath him. he looked angry.

not just at you. maybe even more at himself.

“what the hell are we even doing?” he asked, voice low as he dragged two fingers along your slit, watching you squirm. “we tear each other apart just to crawl back like this every time.”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

your breath hitched as his fingers circled your clit — teasing you, like he was taunting you.

“you hate me,” he said — like he was reminding himself. “you say it all the time. say you’re done. say i’m not enough.”

then he pushed two fingers in — without warning — and you cried out, hips lifting from the bed before he shoved them down again.

“but here you are.”

your fingers curled into the sheets, the burn between your legs making your thighs tremble.

“every fucking time,” he hissed, curling his fingers until your back arched. “you hurt me. i hurt you. and we still end up like this.”

you bit your lip. your voice was shaky.

“what do you want me to say?”

he laughed — sounding bitter — before pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the thick press of his cock, dragging along your folds before pushing in all at once.

you screamed, nails scratching down his back as his hips were flush against yours. he didn’t ease in. didn’t ask. just pushed forward until he bottomed out and you cried out beneath him.

“don’t say anything,” he groaned against your neck. “just shut the fuck up for once.”

you bit his shoulder hard, and he moaned — gripping your hips hard enough to bruise before he started moving.

“so fucking tight for me,” he gritted as he thrusted into you roughly.

you choked on a moan, head spinning.

his pace didn’t slow — it grew rougher and sloppier — frustration spilling out in every thrust, every smack of skin, every breathless insult laced with something more. something like love mixed with anger.

his hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back.

“you make me fucking sick,” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw. “i hate what you do to me.”

but he kissed you anyway — deep, tongue sliding past your lips as he fucked you even harder. and you kissed him back like he was your oxygen, nails digging into his back like you needed to anchor yourself to him or you’d drown.

“this is the only time we don’t lie to each other,” he muttered. “when you’re under me like this.”

you couldn’t deny it. didn’t even try.

because he was right.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, dragging him closer, making him fuck you deeper until your cries turned into sobs — broken and breathless, like your pride was cracking at the seams.

and maybe it was. maybe his was too.

he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath stuttering against your lips as his thrusts turned frantic, rough and filled with everything he couldn’t say.

“hate you,” you gasped, eyes glassy as you reached your release.

“i know,” he whispered, letting go inside you. “me too.”

but he kissed you again — tongue tangling with yours as your bodies moved in sync, like the fighting never mattered. like nothing ever did, except this.

you didn’t know what this was. maybe love. maybe something worse.

but whatever it was, it destroyed you every time. and you always came back for more.

then silence.

just the sound of your ragged breaths, coming down from both of your highs.

sweat clinging to skin.

your hand still tangled with his as he hovered over you.

he didn’t speak.

but he didn’t leave either.

rin pulled out slowly, watching the way you winced — watching your body twitch from the aftershocks, trembling from everything he gave you and everything he took.

then he cleaned you up without a word.

not rough. not soft.

just careful.

like he was trying not to be cruel anymore.

like it was the only apology he knew how to give.

you were in a daze for a bit until your eyes fluttered open — barely.

just enough to catch the tension in his shoulders, the tight line of his jaw, the way his brows furrowed as he wiped your skin with a warm, damp towel.

when he was done, he tossed it somewhere off the bed, pulling the blanket over you both before slipping in behind you without a sound.

and then he wrapped his arms around you.

tight like he didn’t want to let go.

desperate like he couldn’t.

you exhaled softly, the last of your strength giving out as you melted into him. his chest met your back and you pressed closer, instinctive, vulnerable.

he kissed your shoulder, then again. softer. like he didn’t mean to. like the ache inside him needed a place to rest.

you weren’t facing him.

but his hand found yours beneath the covers and linked your pinkies together — the way he always did when he couldn’t say sorry — when the guilt sat too loud in his throat and too heavy in his chest.

and even though not a single word passed between you, even though the air still pulsed with all the things left unsaid, you fell asleep like that.

this kind of love made you feel drained yet aching, tethered by one fragile finger and everything you both refused to say. but at this moment, with the both of you tangled in each other’s touch, nothing mattered — not the damage, not the distance — just the ache of holding on anyway.

because in two days, he’d be gone again.

just like he always was.

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[corroded-hellfire]

Hello🥹 I’m new to your blog and I’m loving the AYW series. I honestly got hooked on the Ryan’s Birthday party one shot, could I maybe request a follow-up to Steve’s and Eddie’s conversation of “you should be fucking the babysitter”? maybe Eddie accidentally bumping his head against the car he was working on and coming out and sharing a beer with Steve starting with “no man, no way”, and then sharing feelings about his relationship with Brittany and with her? Maybe confessing he has somewhat of a crush on her? And then coming home to find her after that conversation with Steve? Maybe Steve is the one who drops him home and comes inside the house for a bit? Haha sorry if it is too specific 🥹💖 I’m really loving the series

It was time for some more of this dynamic duo. This picks up right at the end of Ryan's Birthday

Words: 1.5k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“So, uh, question for you. Are you fucking the babysitter? Because between you and me? You should be.”

Eddie’s head bumps against the hood of the car he had just begun to work on again. His throat goes dry, words failing him as he stares into the face of his best friend. “What?” he finally rasps out. “W-Why would you ask that?”

Steve can’t help but roll his eyes. Munson can’t act for shit and Steve wonders how he never noticed the man’s crush on the younger woman before. 

“Oh, cut the bullshit, it’s me,” Steve says. 

The bangs and whirs of the garage around them suddenly seem too quiet to Eddie, like everyone in the building will hear anything he says out loud. But what is he going to say? He’s never uttered a word about his feelings for you out loud. The guilt already ate at him that he had these feelings at all. It was hard enough to admit how he feels about you to himself, he isn’t sure how to vocalize it, even if it is to his best friend.

“I, uh…” Eddie clears his throat and takes the grease-soaked rag off his shoulder just to have something to do with his hands. 

“Dude,” Steve says. “Do you think I’m going to tell anyone? What, I’m gonna go to Brittany? I hate talking to her about anything at all; I’d never voluntarily do it. Just spill it, I already know.”

“H-How?” It’s the only word Eddie’s able to utter.

Steve huffs a laugh, amazed by his friend’s obliviousness. 

“You weren’t subtle. I mean, maybe to someone who doesn’t know you. But I was there back in those days when you fell in love with Brittany. Shit, you look at the babysitter with way more love than you ever did her. I thought I’d see little cartoon hearts in your eyes.”

Heat blooms in Eddie’s face, both in embarrassment and nervousness. His eyes shift from left to right, his mind running all over the map. If Steve noticed, who else did? Wayne did give him a look at the end of Ryan’s party the other day. Of course the old man knows, he knows Eddie better than anyone. 

Wait, if Steve clocked this, did Nancy? Oh God, she must think he’s the worst. Having these thoughts and feelings about a woman who isn’t his wife. A woman who is so much younger than him. Did Max notice? Did Lucas? Did you?

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill the hell out,” Steve says, waving a hand in front of his friend. “Stop that brain from going into panic mode.” “Do you think anyone else–”

“No,” Steve says before Eddie can finish his question. “I started to look out for it once I noticed. Then it was painfully obvious. You look like a God damn puppy when she smiles at you.”

An involuntary goofy smile grows on Eddie’s face, and it’s all the confirmation Steve needs—though he really didn’t need any at all. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re really gone for her.”

Eddie looks around to make sure there’s no one close enough to hear his words. The last thing he needs is someone else learning about his shameful secret. “I really fucking am,” Eddie says. “Shit, I feel like I’m going crazy.”

Steve huffs a small laugh and shakes his head. 

“She’s a good kid. Oop, sorry. I’ll choose my words more carefully.”

Steve winces when Eddie glares at him.

“She’s not a kid,” Eddie states.

“How old is she?”

“Twenty.”

Steve considers for a moment, and Eddie takes in every little minute detail of the expressions on his face. 

“Holy shit, calm down, will you? I’m not judging you. Or her. I mean, Jesus, do you remember what I was like in high school?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I have no room to judge anyone. And besides, it’s not even that big of an age gap.”

“Twelve years,” Eddie says with a shrug. “And it’s not like she’s a teenager.”

“Yeah, I don’t know why, but something about that would make it seem weird. Never mind the difference is only a few months.”

“You’re not helping,” Eddie grits out.

Steve waves his hand in the air in a dismissive manner.

“I already said I’m not judging, damn. She seems pretty mature for her age, too.”

“She is.”

The smile on Eddie’s face warms Steve’s heart—not that he’d ever tell him that. But he’s watched his best friend deal with a shitty marriage for almost a decade now. The light in his eyes went out around the time Ryan was born, and Steve hasn’t seen it since. So Steve doesn’t care if this woman was eighteen or eighty, she made Eddie happy, and that’s something Steve worried he’d never see again.

“But you’re not fucking?” Steve asks just to clarify.

“No,” Eddie says, both of them picking up on the disappointment in his tone.

“Would you leave Brittany for her?”

And there it is. The question Eddie’s pondered on those nights when sleep just won’t find him and he’s staring at the ceiling fan spinning round. It’s all so much more complicated than just that simple question. But if Eddie can’t even come up with an answer to this, how would he be able to figure any of the other shit out? Thoughts of his sons and everything that would put them through go through his head, and he can’t bring himself to say he’d willingly inflict that kind of pain on them. 

“I don’t know.”

Eddie’s voice is quiet, uncertain.

“Would you cheat on Brittany with her?”

This is another question that’s swirled around in Eddie’s head. One that’s much easier to answer, in his opinion.

“After she’s been cheating on me for more than half of our relationship? Hell yes.”

“You’d feel guilty, though.”

It’s not a question; Steve knows him.

Eddie sighs and throws the rag over his shoulder again. He kicks his scuffed boots against the floor of the garage and rests his hands on the open hood of the car.

“I think I’d get over it.”

“Oh, I know you would,” Steve says with a knowing smirk. “The minute you find out that she has feelings for you, too? Shit, you’re going to forget you even have a wife. And that’s not necessarily bad with you, honestly. Because in a lot of ways, you don’t have a wife. She’s not been a real partner for how long?”

Eddie scoffs. “Ever?”

Steve snorts a laugh in agreement. 

“Man, I’m not telling you what to do…”

“But you are,” Eddie says with a smirk.

“Maybe,” Steve says with a shrug. “But go for it with the babysitter, yeah?”

Eddie sighs and shakes his head as he looks down into the engine bay of the car he’s supposed to be working on.

“You say that like she’ll want me.”

“Feel it out,” Steve suggests. “That’s what flirting is for, no? Not like you’re not already doing that.”

“What?” Eddie looks up at his friend in confusion.

Steve can’t help but let out a breathy chuckle and roll his eyes at how utterly oblivious his friend is.

“You’re shitting me, right? When you threw her in the pool?” Steve raises his eyebrows. When Eddie just continues to look confused, Steve rubs at his brow. “Wow. The way you held her and looked at her? You practically eye-fucked her.” 

Eddie scoffs a laugh, and his cheeks turn red.

“What? No way.”

“Whatever man,” Steve says as he shakes his head in exasperation. “Here, just take this.”

Steve takes his hand out of his pocket and holds it out towards Eddie. The mechanic frowns in confusion and he extends his hand palm up. The foil of a condom falls against his dirty and greasy hand. Eddie’s eyes widen as he quickly shoves the small square in his pocket before someone else can see it.

“You think I don’t have these at home?” Eddie hisses.

“It’s been a minute,” Steve says, and Eddie doesn’t know if he’s kidding or not. “They’re probably expired.”

Eddie groans as he drops his head back. 

“God, you might be right. They’re probably older than Luke.”

Steve would laugh if he didn’t think Eddie was serious. 

“Better toss those so you don’t accidentally use one. The last thing you need is to knock up the babysitter.”

Instead of automatically agreeing like Steve assumed he would, Eddie chokes on his own saliva and avoids Steve’s eyes. He gets weirdly quiet before he sputters something about having to get back to work. The red face is enough of a clue for Steve, though; a clue he never wanted nor asked for.

“Alright,” Steve says with a nauseated expression on his face. “That’s a conversation for another day. After, like, five drinks.”

[gothicfied]

hi!! i LOVE your writing! i was wondering if you could write something about dae ho meeting reader in the game, maybe she doesnt speak korean? like theres a whole language barrier thing and he sort of becomes her unofficial translator? something cute like that <3 thank you!!!

Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 with a foreign reader

Pairing: Kang Dae-ho / Player 388 x foreign!reader (SEASON 2)

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Mentions of gunshots, killing, death (Typical Squid Game stuff), this is set in Season 2, Reader doesn't have a specific ethnicity/race and is just said to be foreign to South Korea, other than that it's just fluff, not proof read (English isn't my first language... how ironic)

A/N: Alright, so this request is literally like 6 months old AND I AM SO SORRY TO THE ANON WHO ASKED THIS😭 this has been sitting here in my drafts, unfinished until now. Season 3 came out today and I obviously had to binge watch the entire thing. I won't spoil anything, but I'd rather take S2!Dae-ho over S3!Dae-ho and I can definitely write more about the former. Anyway, I'm glad you enjoy my writing and I hope this doesn't suck lololol

This place was so bizarre. You didn't speak Korean, or at least not well enough to understand what was really going on. When you came to South Korea to study, you didn't think the living experience would be so expensive and exhausting. Coming here, being put into these uniformly tracksuits and only being talked to by your number gave you an eerie feeling.

If it wasn't already hard understanding what was going on — Because you certainly didn't expect this when the guy in the suit gave you an opportunity to win money — it's definitely going to be hard now: When other people started looking at you funny. Because you're not from there, they recognized it straight away. With your broken Korean, you understood whispers like "Look, a foreigner.." and "What's someone like that doing here?" It made you feel even more left out.

From context clues and certain English words the other players used while talking, you kind of picked up on what this thing is. You play games, if you win you get to go to the next round, if you lose... you're out. And you single handedly got to experience what it meant to 'be out'.

No one told you anything. No pink guards, no other players, no one had the decency to let you in on things. While nervously standing in this big arena, walls painted to look like grass with a baby blue sky and a big doll-like statue standing roughly 20 meters on the other side, you suddenly felt a tap on your shoulder.

You quickly snapped your head back to see a guy with the number 388 printed on his jacket. "It's Red Light, Green Light." He told you, his English sounding better than you had expected. You felt so relieved when finally hearing a familiar language and you expression immediately softened while looking at him. "What?" The man pointed at the statue on the other side. "You know.. the game? You go when it's Green Light, you stop when it's Red Light."

Your eyes followed the direction his finger pointed at and nodded like you understood him. "Thank you." The man smiled at you and patted on your back, saying something back in Korean you could hardly make out.

The language barrier made you miss the whole frenzy monologue the guy with the number 456 had before the game started. When looking around, all you could see is shocked faces, people in distress or the complete opposite: People not taking him seriously. You didn't know what was going on, but as soon as the statue of the girl turned to the tree behind her and a jingle started to play, everyone made a move in her direction. You did too, what else could you do?

Then suddenly— Pang. A gunshot, really loud, echoed through the arena and killed a girl. Frozen in shock, you watched as the other players around her started to freak out and move, getting shot one by one, orchestrating an absolute massacre.

It's a miracle you made it out.

On the way back to the sleeping area, or whatever this was, you felt a familiar tap on your shoulder behind you. "Hey," It's Player 388. "You made it!"

"Yes. Thank you again.. I just. I don't understand, they literally killed these people. I don't understand anything, what is going on here—?" Dae-ho saw the discomfort and fear in your eyes and decided to tell you what Gi-hun had previously yelled at all the participants. The things that went down at the Game were gruesome, but man, he couldn't even imagine trying to survive while not even understanding the language.

"So.. wait, you're telling me that when you get eliminated during one of those Games you get killed? Like they fucking shoot you?" You asked Dae-ho, who had now also introduced himself to you, and he just nodded. "He said that." He pointed in the vague direction of where Gi-hun had retreated once in the sleeping area again. "Dude, no this is so fucked up.. I gotta go! We can't die in here, they can't do this?"

You started to hyperventilate. Die? In this shithole? Oh my god, why did you even say yes to this stupid thing? It should've been suspicious enough that a guy in a suit would play a traditional Korean childhood game and slap you if you lost. But.. you needed the money. Carefully, Dae-ho placed a hand on your shoulder and looked around to see if anyone was listening in on your conversation.

"I will help you." He said with the most calm expression ever. Sure, he was scared himself, scared shitless even. But, seeing a young woman — A foreigner — in such distress.. it reminded him of his sisters. And he always swore up and down that he'd protect them, too.

"They don't," Player 388 pointed around the area, "Speak English well. I will help you, okay? I can tell you things." His Korean accent was quite cute whenever he spoke, which made you calm down a bit more and smile. You, again, expressed your gratitude to him and sniffled a bit. "Is there no way out of this?"

Dae-ho shook his head. Well, he didn't know, but he just assumed there wasn't. He went on to ask you more about yourself in general, why you were here, where you came from. It was nice having a conversation in English after trying to learn and speak Korean for months on end.

"I'm so sorry. Korea made a bad impression on you." You chuckled a bit and shook your head. You knew how to appreciate the country, it's culture and it's people. But this was definitely weird and definitely illegal. Dae-ho was here for you, though. He made you that promise now.

"I will protect you and help you, okay?"

Slowly, you raised your hand and held out your pinky for him to interlink with his. "Pinky promise?" The man looked at your hand and then back up to you with a confused look on his face. "Pinky... promise?" You smiled when you understood that he doesn't quite get what you mean. Or maybe he just hasn't ever heard of the expression before. "Like.. pinky promise, you do this," With your other hand you took his to make the same motion and interlinked your pinkies, "And now you're not allowed to break the promise."

Dae-ho grinned. "Okay, pinky promise."

[snowstormarts]

Can you write a Yandere Eddie and Volt x Homeowner who is in a relationship with someone else*not a Dateable/object* and is planning to propose to them inside the house

First DE Yandere promt, ooh I couldn't wait to write for this one tbh. Especially since it's with two of my favorite boys, my own Yandere Headcanons can wait a little longer xD Also I got sick so it might take me a while longer to post fics, promts & co, sorry about that

Likes & Reblogs are appreciated, my inbox is open for Requests & Asks

"Our love can't be denied, so stop struggling"

[Yandere!Eddie & Volt x GN!Reader][Divider Credit]

[⚠Warning; Yandere Content, reader dosent have a good time Minors DNI⚠]

It started after Volt saw you walk through the doors of the Breaker Box. Something in his chest sparked to life at first he couldn't place it, whatever he felt it was intense. It craved you, demanded you to stay here forever, far from anyone else who would try and rip you away from him. And yet at the same time it lusted for your happiness, just imagining you being sad broke his heart and made his fingers itch with the need to claw at anyone who dared to make your smile disappear.

He only realized what it was exactly after a few regulars started teasing him, saying that any time he saw you walk in he would B-line it straight towards you like a clingy puppy or a love obsessed teen.

He was in love with you, not the regular kind of love he had experienced before. This was more intense, it was pure, obsessive love for the one who had caught his heart in a vice grip. And he wouldn't have it any other way, he was yours and you were his even if you didn't know it yet. He was sure you would come around soon.

And so whenever you visited the Breaker Box, Volt would not hesitate to greet you with a kiss to the back of your hand and his regular "It's always a pleasure to see you, Live Wire~" You saw it as a simple friendly yet somewhat charming gesture but to him? It was anything but friendly, it was a claim, so everyone knew you were his and he wouldn't share you with anyone else...Well maybe he would share you with one other person, his other half, Eddie. He was sure it wouldn't take long until you melt the walls around him and catch his heart for yourself as well.

True to his words it didn't take long for Eddie to join Volt in his growing obsession with you. All it took for him was that one moment, that short moment where you fell into his arms. You fit perfectly into his hold, how you clung to him as smiled, the light blush tempted him to just kiss you right there and then. You had sparked something in Eddie that he thought he would never experience again but here he was now, walls melting as he imagined your future together.

So now whenever you walked through the doors of the Breaker Box Volt would come over to greet you with his signature hand kiss and bring you to the VIP area. Sometimes Eddie would be there waiting for you, other times you would meet him after the show and on rare occasions both would join you before the show started. You never really realized how they looked at you with this burning hunger, the desire to have you for their own, to pamper you and keep you 'safe' in a their arms. Keeping away anything and anyone they thought could harm you, in the end you only needed them and nobody else, right? They knew how to treat you right, you would never want for anything as long as you were with them. They would fulfill your every wish no matter how small or big, if you wanted you could even insult them, scream at them as you lay your hands on them. They would need to reprimand you verbally but that's it and in the end they know you will come back to them. Kissing them and apologize for your outburst and they would forgive you, they always do.

To them the mere idea that you could do anything wrong was nonsense. If you were angry it was of course because someone provoked you and whoever did this would get a stern, hands on talking to from both of them. If you're sad, they won't hesitate to comfort you and ask whats wrong. If it's person, they better pray that the boys feel merciful and let them get away with a new set of broken bones and some electricity scars. Are you feeling overwhelmed and just want some peace and quiet? Don't worry they will be sure to guard you and keep everyone else away from you unless you say otherwise. Anything you want they will make sure you get it, even if it takes weeks or months of their time or money, seeing you smile is all they need.

But then one morning you walked into the Breaker Box, they were still busy with cleaning up the place, so Eddie was about ready to yell at whoever walked in to get out. Only to stop shortly after seeing you in such a chipper mood, a small blush covered your cheeks as your fingers fidgeting with your clothes non-stop. It was an adorable sight that made Eddie's mind spiral and jump to the conclusion that this was it, you were about to confess your love to him.

'This is it, isn't it? You're so adorable when you're nervous, Live Wire. Will you also confess your feelings to Volt? Or are you just here for one of us? Would you change your mind if you knew who we truly are? Would knowing it make you excited or make you freak out and never come back to us?' Eddie's mind came to a stop as he saw Volt walking towards you two, probably to greet you like he usually does.

But it never got to that point, you didn't even notice Volt was there frozen just like Eddie as they heard about your plan. You wanted to propose to your partner, in the safety of your home and it needed to be perfect. You asked them to keep the power steady, you had it all planned out, a nice dinner under some fairy lights (you refused to have Scandalabra there), a fancy meal made with the help of Stefan as you shared a light conversation and when the time is right, you would go on one knee and ask them to marry you.

Their eyes met and you could feel the sudden tension rise between you three, the smell of ozone filled the air as Volt walked closer, standing right behind you. Caging you against the bar that Eddie had just finished cleaning.

"Oh, our mischievous, Live Wire. You know we love you and would do anything for you, right?" Volt's electric hair brushed against your skin as he leaned in closer. You nodded hesitantly, not wanting to risk making the situation even more tense then it already is.

"Then you must know that we love your teasing and jokes, they light up the place even more then you usually do." You tried to turn your face towards Volt but Eddie had other plans, he leaned closer and kept you in place so you could only see him and his cold, yet caring grey eyes.

"Then you must also, surely know that this goes a bit too far even for you, don't you think? Making up a partner who you want to propose to? Did you want to make us jealous for neglecting you the last three days or did someone set you up to this? Was it the stupid lamp with another one of his challenges?" Eddie asked, clearly annoyed at the thought of Lux having yet another challenge that he wants to try out and hooked you in again.

You shook your head "No, no Lux has nothing to do with this, well they did say they would help me with some preparations and set the mood but nothing else. No challenges or trends, just a friend wanting to help me out...Also what do you guys mean by 'making you jealous'?"

Volt hummed, his fingers tapping against the bar as Eddie continued to talk. "Well we were quiet busy with the Breaker Box in the last few days, a sudden influx of customers who all wanted unique drinks and another large group that wanted to socialize exclusively with Volt. We barely had any time to catch our breath let alone spent some time with you, so it only makes sense that you wanted our attention but couldn't ask for it for some reason. Did we scare you or hurt you somehow, little light?" Eddie's voice was filled with concern, his hold loosen as he gently ran rubbed your cheek with his thumb.

"Guys, you didn't hurt me or scare me, really. I know this place can be busy sometimes and I'm ok with that, there's always another day to see you two. I'm not some jealous friend-" All of a sudden you could feel the tension rising once more, the smell of ozone intensified making your stomach churn as a light spark tickle your exposed neck.

"Friends? Is that all what you really think we are?" Volt asked, your body was screaming for you to flee from here. To lock the door to the Fuse box or to throw the Dateviators away and never look at them again but even if you wanted to follow through on your bodies warnings, you couldn't.

Volt was behind you with his arms blocking your left and right side and even if you did duck under his arms and run towards the door, there still would be Eddie. Who could easily run after you from behind the bar and catch you, so you had to be sneaky, play along until the right moment strikes where you can deactivate the Dateviators and escape.

"Aren't we just friends? Or do you guys like...Secretly hate me?" Play dumb, hope they get so worried that they focus more on explaining themself and then you can 'comfort them' once their guard is down, it will be your time to strike.

"No, we could never hate you little spark." Eddie replied his hands sliding down towards your own but you quickly pulled them away, refusing to look at him.

"Eddie's right, Live Wire. We could never hate you, for you have won over our hearts. You have both of us in a vice grip, we would do anything for you...Well mostly everything, a few things we could never do, even if you asked them off us."

You turned to face Volt, curious about what they wouldn't do "And what are those things?"

Eddie and Volt looked at each other, it felt kinda of intimate, like it's something you shouldn't watch but at the same time you couldn't look away. Not to mentioned the growing ozone smell that was starting to make you feel queasy, the quiet didn't help either it only intensified your anxious mind, so you were grateful when finally one of them decided to speak up.

"We will never hurt you or scare on purpose." Eddie started, you wanted to reply that they were making you anxious right now but before you could Volt continued to speak.

"We will always love and protect you, no matter how small or big the threat is."

"We will make sure you're happy here, we will give you whatever you want if it means you will stay here with us."

"And most important of all..." Volt and Eddie suddenly spoke at the same time, sending a shiver down your spine as their words echoed in your mind.

"You belong to us, no one else can have you." And then Eddie continued to speak while Volt started to pepper kisses against the back of your neck. "And if anyone tries to steal you away from us then we simply have to make them go away. You belong to us and we belong to you, Little Spark. So please just accept our love and we can forget about what you've said about that supposed 'partner' of yours."

You couldn't answer, this was no longer some misunderstanding between friends. No, you knew what this was, you were caught between two, love sick yanderes who would do who knows what to have you...But it's also the perfect moment to get their guard down and give you an opening to strike.

"...You promise you will forgive me?" Both of them nodded, as you let your hand rest on the side of Eddies face which he immediately nuzzled into. "Then I will gladly accept your two's love for me and all that is included with it, no take backs now boys."

It took a while before their guards went down, you were showered in kisses and sweet nothings as they told you how long they had loved you. How they had watched from afar not wanting to overwhelm you or push you before you were ready to confess your true feelings for them but growing ever more impatient.

You nodded along, saying your own sweet words and joking with them until you saw an opening. Faking a yawn you stretched your arms high above you and you lowered them, you struck. Your hand flew to the Dateviator ready to throw them against the wall (sorry Skylar) if it meant getting away from those two. But just as your hand brushed against the cool metal frames, your wrists were caught and slammed down onto the bar.

Biting back a hiss of pain you glared at Volt while trying to free your hands from his steel grip, you even considered trying to bite him for a moment. But that didn't guarantee he would let you go, more likely then not he would simply switch to let Eddie hold your wrist. Not to mention the electric shock you could get from biting the literal embodiment of electricity. So you put that plan on the back burner, only using it if you get desperate but for now you choose to speak your mind, you were tired of all this.

"Listen up you two, let me go now! I don't wanna be here, I'm tired, I'm scared and quiet frankly I am loosing my patience with both of you!" All you wanted right now is to get away from them and talk to your partner, you just needed to hear their voice.

"We're sorry, Live Wi-"

"Dont." You snapped at Volt who recoiled from your harsh words and a glare that would even make a Tiger quiver in fear. "I wanna go back into my room, please..."

Everything was quiet, it felt lime an eternity to you before one of them finally spoke up and broke some of the tension in the room.

"We can't let you go, little spark" Eddie whispered, his hand running through your hair in a comforting gesture, that did anything but comfort you.

"We will have to keep you here until we...Fix that little 'friend' issue of yours." Volt murmured against your ear. "Now tell us, wheres your phone? We need to have stern talk with the one who thought they could steal you from us, Live Wire.'"

It felt like a bucket full of cold water was just dumped onto you, you wiggled from side to side, biting Volt's arm in a desperate attempt to escape. Ignoring the pain that rattled through your teeth, you didn't even want to think what they would say or do to your partner.

A hand grabbed your jaw and pulled you harshly to the side, you could taste the familiar taste of metal against your stained teeth.

"Fuck, Volt are you ok?"

"Don't worry about me, Eddie."

"Don't worry? They just bit you, for all we know it could get infected!"

"I will go to Farya after we've dealt with our Live Wire here." With a defeated sigh Eddie nodded and turned back to you, clearly pissed but yet his obsession kept him from lashing out on you.

"Don't worry little spark, we know this isn't how you usually are. We forgive you but don't do it again or else we will have to punish you. Maybe we should visit your dear 'partner' of you misbehave once again and show them that you are ours."

"And if they don't listen? Well, let's just say that every home has electricity, it would be a real shame if something happened to your 'close friend' right, Live wire?~" Volt grinned, his hair sparked wildly and you knew that there was a clear threat.

"So answer us, Live wire" their voices mixed together once more. "Do you love us?"

[freak-accident419]

'i wish you were a girl'

Rhett Abbott x Reader

Summary: Rhett comes to you for help. You always had this weird relationship with him—a weird in-between of platonic and romantic. However, Rhett had a reputation to hold, meaning you could never go too far with him. The worst part, however, is that he truly likes you as much as you do.

Word Count: 1.1k

Content: (drabble-ish), non-woman!reader, male!reader, non-binary!reader, genderqueer!reader, inspired by 'as you are' film, influenced by 'brokeback mountain' film, are they lovers? worse, closeted Rhett Abbott, forbidden love, no happy ending (feel free to request a 2nd part), kissing, comfort, cuddling, events canon to the show, this is my pride month fic xx

-

Rhett Abbott was straight.

At least that's what the default assumption was in Wabang, Wyoming.

It was a western, conservative territory. Otherwise, there was an unspoken "don't ask, don't tell" etiquette among townsfolk. It wasn't too much of a burden to be queer, considering there was an out lesbian as the Deputy Sheriff. But that didn't mean Joy Hawk hadn't faced any hardships at all because of it.

Rhett Abbott was raised to be a "real man." He instantly got fixated on the concept of bull riding in his childhood and he was always teased by his elders whenever there was a girl his age right next to him.

There was nothing wrong with being queer. Rhett was taught to be respectful and kind, and that's what the Abbott family was all about. But if Rhett was queer? It was never a conversation. He was "too masculine, too much of a ladies' man" to be, so there were no concerns there.

Surely enough, that statement would soon be challenged once you came into the picture.

You were Rhett's close friend, knowing him for a few years now. It all started with you helping him shotgun a Miller Lite at a lively bonfire party. He fucked up with the first can and wound up spilling it all over the ground. As you witnessed his pathetic endeavor, you decided to assist him with a new can, puncturing the hole for him. Obviously, you both got drunk that evening, but Rhett seemed to be more hammered than you. The friends he came with were nowhere to be seen, so you stayed with him the entire time, driving him home once you finally sobered up. Ever since that night, you never left his side.

But that was years ago. Now, you had a much deeper connection, one that was more unconventional than anything. Don't take this the wrong way, it was beautiful. But it also wasn't comprehensible. It reached places farther than just friendship, yet it didn't quite meet the criteria for a real, romantic relationship either.

There was one thing for certain, however. Rhett Abbott simply couldn't be with you. It was well known—rather, well assumed—that he was straight.

So he didn't question this very moment; his head on your lap as you stroke his brown locks. Apparently, Rhett got into serious trouble. He wasn't specific about it as he blabbered to you in a panic, but he also knew you weren't the kind to pry. You would just do things for him without asking.

"Will you be my alibi for last night?" You could hear the urgency over the phone just through his anxious inflection.

He needed you. "Yeah. Sure."

And so, he came to your place in pursuit of solace. And you provided. After all, that's what friends were for.

Rhett lightly shifted his position on the couch, continuing to revel in your touch. His blue eyes bore into the wooden wall across from him, feeling the stress from his brother's actions slowly fading away.

He knew he shouldn't feel anything for you. He knew it wasn't right, to fall for his close friend. He knew it wasn't right to fall for someone like you.

"You okay?"

But he couldn't help it.

"What?" Rhett huffs in alert, slightly turning his head to face you.

Your hand that was in his hair lightly pushed him back in position to convey he had nothing to worry about. "You've been quiet," you mumble, gentle fingers continuing its ministrations, "something else bothering you?"

The man on your lap sighs deeply. "Everything's just so fucked up," he mutters bitterly, almost nuzzling your thigh with the slight stir of his nose.

Rhett was six feet tall, weighing around 150 pounds. He would frequently work on the ranch, having his fair share of chores. He would get into bar fights and he rode bulls for a living. But none of that mattered right now; he felt like the smallest person on earth as long as he was in your arms.

"Thank you for doing this," he mumbles, shutting his eyes briefly in exhaustion, "I know it's very... inconvenient."

"Yeah, well," you scoff softly, "you should know by now that I'm used to your troublemaking tendencies."

He let out a quiet chuckle in response, inhaling deeply in order to ground himself.

"Mm. Yeah," he sighs, before a bittersweet thought crossed his mind. "What would I do without you?"

Rhett sat up, untangling from your arms. He was beside you on the couch, searching your eyes with a hint of desperation. He needed to be close to you.

He felt like a magnet. It felt like you were falling—an excruciatingly slow fall towards him. You weren't sure what came over you, because your face moved closer and closer to his until your lips touched.

He kissed back.

You were kissing Rhett. And Rhett was kissing back.

Your hands were limp as your mouth moved with his, feeling his gentle, moist lips meshed with yours. He was lost in the sensation, exploring the foreign territory of intimacy with you. He kissed you deeply, his tongue already parting your mouth to taste you. Yet, while it felt like a millennium, the kiss concluded promptly.

Rhett sank back into his spot on the couch, and the two of you just stayed there motionless, processing what had just happened.

It's always been deemed so wrong, but it felt so right. He wasn't supposed to kiss a platonic friend. He wasn't supposed to kiss someone who wasn't a woman. He wasn't supposed to kiss you. No matter how much his body seemed to crave it.

Women were his forte, and that was the end of it. From childish crushes on girls in grade school, to hopeless yearning for Maria Olivares in high school, he's always liked women. And sure, his cowboy peers may have looked fairly attractive to him. And maybe that librarian always seemed to have a pretty smile on their face. But it didn't mean anything. There was no way it could have been sexual attraction. Rhett Abbott was straight. He had to be.

After all, everybody expects the bull-wrangling, church-going Abbott offspring to be a well-respected, good old fashioned role model of a man.

Rhett gulped, overwhelmed with a sense of guilt and regret as his next words would break the long streak of silence.

"I wish you were a girl," he murmured.

He wasn't looking at you, as his eyes were glued to the floor—glassy and scintillating.

You expected this of him. You knew it in your heart that you loved each other. But Rhett was stubborn and he had a reputation to hold. He never wanted to risk being a disappointment. Even if that meant hurting you.

"I'm sorry," he utters.

You always knew it was never going to work out.

"Me too."

You just didn't expect it to be this painful.

[abiatackerman]

(request)- Where Levi comforts his girlfriend during a thunderstorm

It was a sweet request, I felt so cozy while writing this... Anyways thanks for requesting, I hope you'll enjoy!

The storm can't touch you here

Summary: Levi comforting you during a thunderstorm!

Tags: @theremainsof @spouseofleviackerman @levisbrat25 @itsnathateasy @violentvaleska @meowmewow7 @dreamerofthewest @mikabella7 @satorella @sugacor3 @darkstarlight82 @derealizationns

🩷If you wanna be tagged let me know🩷

✨Masterlist✨

⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️⛈️

The thunder cracks again—louder this time. Sharp, violent.

It splits through the silence of the night like a whip across your nerves.

Your heart skips, thuds, then begins its fast, uneven rhythm. You toss the blanket off, climbing out of bed like a ghost, barefoot and dazed. You know you won't sleep. Not like this.

Not with the storm howling just outside your window.

You wrap your arms around yourself, moving quietly down the hallway. The barracks are still and dark, the flickering lanterns casting long shadows on the stone walls. You don't know where you're going—just that you don't want to be alone.

Your feet carry you toward the mess hall.

Maybe someone else is awake. Maybe a distraction. Anything.

You push the heavy door open slowly and freeze.

There's only one other person in the room.

Levi.

He's sitting at a table near the corner, where the light hits just right. A small ceramic cup rests between his hands, steam rising lazily from the top. His posture is relaxed but upright, legs crossed neatly beneath the table. His eyes lift to you the moment the door creaks.

He doesn't look surprised. Just… observant.

"You're up late," he says plainly, voice quiet, cutting through the stillness like a knife through silk.

You shift awkwardly in the doorway. "Yeah. Couldn't sleep."

Before he can reply, the sky flashes white through the windows. A second later, thunder cracks, long and angry. You flinch—hard—shoulders jerking up. Your fingers grip the edge of the doorframe. You almost yelp.

Levi's eyes sharpen.

"Tch. Scared of thunderstorms?"

You swallow and force a nod, cheeks warming. "Yeah."

He doesn't mock. Doesn't smirk. Just gestures with a short tilt of his chin to the chair across from him.

"Sit down."

You hesitate, then walk over and lower yourself onto the wooden chair, folding your hands in your lap to hide the slight tremble in your fingers.

"I know it's lame," you mumble, not meeting his eyes. "I mean—who still gets scared of thunder at this age? It's ridiculous."

There's a beat of silence as he lifts his cup, sips, and sets it down again with barely a sound.

Then—calmly, evenly—he says, "Everyone fears something."

Your eyes lift to him slowly.

"The strongest people I know," he continues, "have things that keep them up at night. That make their hands shake. Fear's not weakness." His gaze settles on you, unreadable but steady. "There's probably a reason behind it."

You look down, a small smile tugging at your lips. That's all he says—he doesn't ask what happened. He doesn't dig. He just… leaves space.

It feels like breathing room.

He shifts slightly, then nods toward the counter. "Want tea?"

You glance up again, surprised. "You're offering me tea?"

"Don't make it weird," he mutters. "You're already in here like a scared stray cat. Might as well stay warm."

You laugh under your breath—quiet, but genuine—and nod. "Okay. Thanks."

A few minutes later, the warmth of the mug seeps into your hands as you sit across from him in silence. The storm continues to rage outside, but it feels distant now. Like it's happening somewhere else.

Here, with Levi, everything is still.

And maybe because of that your eyes start to grow heavy without you realizing it. The late hour settles into your bones. The comfort lulls you. At some point, your head drops against the cool surface of the table.

You didn't mean to fall asleep.

But the next thing you know, you're drifting—soft, weightless, surrounded by the faint scent of black tea and something familiar: clean fabric and a trace of cedar.

You don't feel the cold.

Because sometime in the quiet, Levi stands up, steps beside you, and lays his jacket gently over your shoulders.

He watches you for a moment—silent, unreadable—but his expression softens slightly at the sight of your peaceful face.

He doesn't wake you. Doesn't speak.

He simply returns to his seat, tea in hand, eyes drifting to the window where lightning flashes once again.

The thunder still growls.

But here, in the warm glow of the mess hall, beneath his jacket and steady gaze—

It never touches you.

[keirareidss]

sugar and spice - s.r

♡ summary: penelope sets up spencer and her baker friend on a blind date pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: fluff dialed up to the max, reader wears a dress, just two lovesick cuties wc: 1.8k based on this request

Penelope was a matchmaker at heart. She loved to see her friends happy and if pairing them up with someone else she knew made them happy, she would do it in a heartbeat.

Penelope frequented a bakery called 'Crimson Confections' and the nice baker woman she met behind the counter had become a close friend of hers. The two of you went out for lunch often, walks in the park occasionally, and sometimes you went to the movie theater together. You'd like to call Penelope your best friend and you hoped she thought the same of you.

Penelope considered many people her 'best friend'. Her and Derek were the close flirty best friends, her and Spencer were like two peas in a pod, her and JJ were girl talking, shopping date best friends... she could go on and on.

You, Garcia thought, shared some similarities with Spencer. You were both dorky, adorable people, you both loved Star Trek, and you both were... a bit awkward. Maybe a little more than 'a bit'.

She made her usual trip to the bakery, excited at the prospect of seeing her friend coupled with the discounted sweets you always gave her. The bell rang as she walked through the door, a cloud of fruity perfume and colorful accessories.

"Hello!" She greeted you in front of the counter, smiling brightly.

"Penelope! I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow." Your eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"I decided to come today. I want to talk to you about something."

"I already told you, I don't know how to make a cupcake with your dogs face on it-"

'No, it's not about that, even though I know you could figure out how to do it if you just tried-" She saw your glare and quickly switched subjects. "It's about your love life." You rolled your eyes with a sigh.

"Pen-"

"Just listen. I know a cute guy, he'd be perfect for you, I can set you up on a date this weekend."

"Penelope, I'm don't really want-"

"Come on, please? One date. And if you don't like him, you'll never have to talk to him again." You thought it over. It couldn't be that bad. There's no way your friend would set you up on a date with someone she knows is an asshole or anything like that.

"Fine." You sighed and she squealed, bouncing up and down in excitement.

"I can already picture it! The two of you are going to get married and have adorable little babies together and-"

"Penelope! I don't even know who he is yet. And who says I want kids?"

"Oh just you wait." You chuckled, getting her usual order for her. A blueberry scone for her breakfast, a pink frosted cupcake that she puts in the fridge for later, and a chocolate sprinkled donut for someone else.

You handed her the pastries and she was on her way, leaving you wondering just who this mystery man was. You hadn't been on a date in ages, your last three having been with immature mommy's boys or arrogant mansplaining dicks. But you trusted your friend and you knew she wouldn't set you up with someone so clearly wrong for you.

~

"Come on, Spencer, she's perfect for you!"

"Garcia, I just don't know if I'm in the mood for another bad date." Spencer sighed as Penelope followed him back to his desk.

"That's the thing! It won't be a bad date. She's my friend, I know her and I know you, and I know you'll have a good time. Please? For me?" She begged, giving him puppy dog eyes from behind her bright blue glasses.

"Fine." He sighed and she grinned brightly. She was already thinking about what dress she would wear as a bridesmaid at your wedding.

You strolled up to the front of the restaurant. Penelope had made the reservations, texted you the info, and gave you a small description of who you would be looking for. You wouldn't be surprised if you spotted her sitting at the bar, watching the two of you.

You wore a simple outfit, jeans and a nice fuzzy sweater, your hair tied half up in a matching bow. You didn't normally get the chance to dress up, always covered in flour in your apron at the bakery and when you got home, you immediately changed into sweats to lounge on your couch.

The restaurant was one big room, a bar along the right wall, warmly lit with vintage hanging lamps. You scanned the room, searching for the man described to you. Spencer. Short brown hair, probably wearing a sweater vest, adorably nervous.

You spotted him. No doubt in your mind it was him. He was in fact wearing a sweater vest, a cute brown and blue one and he was fiddling with his fork, taking an anxious sip of his water as he looked around the restaurant.

He made eye contact with you and his shoulder deflated slightly in relief as he gave you a small smile. You returned it, carefully making your way through the tables to him.

"Hi, are you Spencer?" You asked.

"Yeah, you're Penelope's friend?" You nodded, telling him your name as you sat down across from him.

"Nice to meet you. I've heard good things."

"Oh, really?" You chuckled.

"Yeah, every time Penelope gives me a donut in the morning she raves about your baking skills."

"I was wondering who those donuts were going to. I'm glad you like them."

"I really do." You took a sip of the water he'd ordered for you, hoping this date goes as well as it's started.

"So you work with Penelope, are you an agent?"

"Yes, I'm a profiler." He explains his job to you and your eyes widen. You hadn't dove deep into Penelope's job all that much, not realizing her and her team caught serial killers. All she said was she was in the FBI and maybe it was on you for not putting two and two together.

"Wow, that sounds... insane."

"You kind of get used to it." He mutters and you both fall into that first-date-awkward-silence before he speaks again. "So you're a baker, right? Tell me about that."

"There's not much to tell. I'm usually coated in batter by the end of the day and go home smelling like sugar."

"That doesn't sound too bad." You laughed. The two of you had an instant connection, the awkwardness quickly disappearing as your conversation flowed easily.

Turns out, you both had many things in common. You both liked the same shows (you made a mental note to schedule another date to show him all the ones you brought up that he hadn't seen, case in point: Dexter, The Good Place, Severance, you could go on), and a couple of the same books (he was already making a mental list of all the books he wanted you to read or, rather, him to read to you if you got that far).

You chatted about your interest, hobbies, all things classic first-date talk. And when you finish dinner, after splitting a chocolate lava cake for dessert and then Spencer covering the bill all gentleman-like, you exit the restaurant. Instead of heading for the parking lot, you turn the opposite way, deciding to keep the date going with a walk in the park. Your hands brushed against each others as you walked side by side.

"I'm really glad Penelope set us up." You glanced at him, smiling affectionately.

"Me too. This was really fun." You fall into a silence, different this time, not awkward but, comfortable. His pinky gently wraps around yours and you glanced at him, noticing the blush on his cheek and the way he avoided looking at you. You took the leap, taking his hand fully in yours.

"You wanna do this again sometime?" You asked, stopping on the path and turning to face him.

"Yeah, I'd like that."

♡ BONUS:

You stood in front of the mirror, inspecting yourself. All day, your bridesmaids had said you looked perfect, that they wouldn't change a thing. But something felt off to you.

Not your dress, the color and the length were exactly what you wanted. The veil, lacy and pretty, was not the problem either. You sighed, frustrated at not knowing what was causing your disquiet. There was a knock on the door behind you and you heard your fiance's voice.

"Angel? Are you okay in there? Penelope said you were feeling off."

"I-" You sighed, turning to face the door, wringing your hands in front of you. "Can you come in here?"

"Are- are you sure?" He asked warily.

"Yeah, I don't give a shit about superstition, I need to see you." He opens the door, quickly shutting it behind him so that only he can bask in your radiance.

"Are you alright?" His expression was filled with worry before he took in your appearance. "Oh... you look so pretty." He said, enamored by you. You chuckled as he stepped closer. "Really, I mean, seriously, you're gorgeous."

"Thank you, Spencer. You look very handsome too." You said, reaching up to smooth down his lapels when he reached you. Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer.

"Is something wrong? Are you getting cold feet? Cause we don't have to do this-"

"No, no, it's not that." His arms snaked around your waist. "I actually feel a lot better now."

"Really?" You nod, leaning up to press a kiss to the closest place you can reach, his jaw. "What changed?" Spencer asks, his eyebrows furrowed. You turn around, looking in the mirror again. You'd realized what was wrong, what was missing. It was Spencer. What was missing was your fiance on your arm.

Now that you had Spencer, everything felt right. Not even just today, but in your life. It felt like once Penelope had introduced the two of you, everything had fallen into place.

"Do you remember our first date?" You asked, leaning back into his chest.

"Of course I do. Look who you're talking to." He grins and you affectionately roll your eyes.

"I've been thinking about that night lately. Where I would be right now if that night hadn't happened."

"Look, I could sit here and tell you everything I know about how the sensitive dependence on initial conditions in which a small change in one state of a deterministic nonlinear system can result in large differences in a later state, but... all I'm gonna say is that, right here, right now, I love you. And you love me. And we're getting married. We don't need to think about anything else." You smiled, catching his eye in the mirror.

He pressed a kiss to your cheek, careful not to mess up your makeup, and rested his chin on your shoulder. You thought over his words, knowing he was right. It didn't matter what could have happened in this past because you had this now, and you weren't letting it go.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni

[strwberri-milk]

Hiya! So I just read the post about the arranged marriage trope qith Sylus and Zayne x reader (non-mc), would it be possible to request the same but for Caleb, Rafayel and Xavier? If Three is too much then just Caleb and Rafayel? 👀🥺

Thank you!! I love your writing 🧡

Caleb could be manipulated into it if something else is at stake. If he weighs the value of his happiness as less than the happiness or benefit of the outcome, then he'll agree. You would be able to tell in the way he acts though. He's not very interested in getting to know you but he isn't outright cruel. Thankfully, he's willing to take care of you, putting aside money for you to use to buy groceries, a bit of spending money, just little things like that.

You wish you could see him more often than just in passing. He didn't seem ever interested in talking to you, going to his private room all the time. He barely knows anything about you outside of your name, not making any efforts to figure it out. He might notice things in shared spaces that you like or things getting used up that need to be replaced.

There's a very slight chance you could begin a tentative friendship with him. You'd have to be manipulated the same way he is or not one of the people directly responsible for the predicament he's in. If you both come from a similar position, he's more amenable to hearing you out. Other than that though, you'd live basically with a roommate who takes care of you a little more affectionately than a perfect stranger should.

Xavier expects it (based off the bit I know from his myth). He isn't happy about it, but he'll do it for the greater good, similar to Caleb. He tries to be a good husband, wanting to be kind and attentive but he turns out to be a bit more friendly. He doesn't really try to cover up by becoming sickly sweet and adoring and his habitual silence can be seen as offensive? You'd think he hates you and he doesn't really, he's just not happy with the situation.

He can be convinced to spend time with you at least, the two of you sitting in awkward silence as you try to learn things about him. He just never actively tries but at least he answers questions if you start pushing for them. He wouldn't really be interested in falling in love but it could happen as you two spend time together. At the very least he could become a close friend and confidant, someone you feel comfortable speaking to at least.

Rafayel is vehemently against it from the beginning. This will be the cause of outwardly hostile and cold treatment from him. He doesn't really talk to you and makes it a point to avoid you, not caring about your role - or lack thereof - that you play in this whole situation of his. He isn't at all interested in getting to know you and he opposes it all the way down the metaphorical aisle.

If somehow, the marriage ends up going through he just buys you a different home to live in and sticks you there. He sends money out of obligation/whatever you need but really, you just feel like a bird in a gilded cage. He rarely sees you and only makes appearances when he's practically being threatened to look like a happy husband. He'll tolerate it for that time and then that's about it.

If he's already in love with someone else there's really no hope. He doesn't look at you like a person even, more focused on what he's missing. He would have ran away quite early on to be with his lover, practically dead to the world in favour of them. If he isn't, he just sees you as his jailer, keeping his distance and refusing to give you the chance to get close to him. He doesn't do well with people telling him what to do and to him, this is ultimately the worst thing you could do to him.