#it’s open or closed. if anyone wants to join

[leriexoxo]

Missing Keycard

Seungmin x Tour Manager Reader

Tags: shy dom seungmin, one bed trope, sleep groping, nipple play, forbidden sex, power imbalance, choking, spanking, riding, oral, braless reader, touch starved reader, unprotected sex, aftercare

Word Count: 6k

Summary: You’re a tour manager for Stray Kids, just trying to survive another city. But when a drunk, keycard-less Seungmin knocks on your hotel door at 2AM, mistaking it for his own room, sleep is the last thing either of you get. What starts as an accident turns into tension that finally snaps — and Seungmin? He’s nothing like you expected.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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The Chicago stop was a blur of chaos.

A venue delay, a last-minute setlist change, a prop that went missing ten minutes before curtain—and somehow, you’d still managed to get everyone on stage, on time, and in one piece.

Barely.

By the time the show ended and the meet-and-greet cleared, you were running on fumes, your phone at 3% battery and your body running mostly on espresso and anger. You’d finalized hotel room keys, triple-checked the luggage manifest, made sure all the boys had post-show meals waiting.

And then—finally—freedom.

You could’ve joined them at the bar. Hell, Chan had even tugged your sleeve and offered you a shot before leaving the lobby with a slurred grin.

But your legs had already carried you into the elevator, eyes closing before the doors even shut.

All you wanted was a bed.

No bra. No briefs. No bullshit.

So you stripped the second your door clicked shut.

Your panties were soft and high-cut, practically invisible beneath the oversized T-shirt you’d planned to sleep in—until you peeled that off too and reached for the one thing lighter, cooler: a thin, cropped camisole you’d worn under your manager’s jacket earlier.

The fabric barely kissed the curve of your chest. No padding, no support, nothing to hide how worn-down and sensitive you felt.

But fuck it, you were on a private floor, not sharing a room with anyone. No one would see you.

You passed out across the bed in seconds, limbs loose, hair stuck to your cheek, one leg tangled in the sheet and the other kicked free.

You didn’t even register the first knock.

But the second—louder, clumsier—jerked you upright.

You blinked, dazed and crusty-eyed. The room was dark, the hallway light seeping in under the door like a spotlight.

Knock knock.

You groaned, grabbing a pillow to your chest and hauling yourself to your feet. You were half-asleep, brain fogged and skin warm from sleep, not thinking at all as you padded barefoot across the floor.

The camisole had ridden up.

Your panties clung high across your hips.

But none of that registered—not until you cracked the door open and saw him.

“Hyung?” Seungmin mumbled, brows furrowed, eyes red and shiny. “Is this your—wait.”

His voice dipped. His gaze dropped.

And then he froze.

“…Oh,” he said, small and stunned.

You blinked at him. “Seungmin?”

He didn’t answer.

Because his brain—tipsy as it was—had just realized two things in rapid succession:

1. This wasn’t Chan’s room.

2. You were very naked.

Not technically. But close enough.

Your bare thighs were on full display, the camisole barely grazing your belly button, your nipples visibly hard through the thin fabric. The hallway light behind him cast your silhouette against the room’s dark interior in dangerous clarity.

He swallowed.

You blinked, still not fully processing.

“Wait—why’re you here?”

“I—” he scratched his head, swaying slightly. “Lost my card. Everyone locked their doors. Thought this was—uh—Chan-hyung’s room. My bad. I’ll just—”

You stepped aside and yanked him inside.

Hard.

His shoulder hit your chest and your hand scrambled to slam the door shut before anyone saw. Your heart pounded.

“Are you insane? What if someone took a picture of you?!”

“I’m sorry!” he whispered, voice strangled. “I didn’t—fuck, I really thought—”

You turned to him, panting slightly from the adrenaline, your blanket long forgotten on the bed.

Only then did you realize.

You looked down.

Oh. Shit.

Full tits. Bare thighs. Tight panties.

Seungmin was right there—eyes wide, frozen like a deer in headlights, clearly trying to keep his gaze anywhere but on your body.

Too late. He’d seen.

And now he was actively malfunctioning.

“I—I didn’t mean to knock on yours,” he stammered. “I thought it was Hyung’s. I swear. You just—you opened and I saw and I—”

You covered your face with both hands.

He was still talking, tipsy and spiraling.

“—and I was gonna leave but then you pulled me in and now I’m here and you’re—you’re dressed like that—”

“Stop talking, Seungmin.”

Silence.

His mouth snapped shut.

You peeked between your fingers.

He looked like he wanted to evaporate.

Which might’ve been cute—if you weren’t acutely aware that your nipples were still hard and your underwear left nothing to the imagination.

You dropped your hands with a sigh and crossed your arms under your chest, trying to ignore how that only pushed them up more.

“Okay,” you said, exhaling shakily. “You lost your card.”

He nodded quickly. “Yes.”

“No one else answered.”

“Correct.”

“And now you’re in my room.”

He nodded again, slower this time.

Your heart was still thumping. His eyes flicked up to yours—then away again. Every few seconds they betrayed him, dropping back down, catching on your thighs, your waist, your chest before he forced them back up again.

His ears were flushed red.

He was trying so hard not to look—and failing.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or curiosity. Or the way his bottom lip was caught between his teeth, swaying slightly, hands tucked behind his back like a schoolboy caught in the wrong classroom.

You sighed, one hand dragging down your face, the other cradling the pillow against your chest again.

“Well,” you muttered. “You smell like you lost a drinking game.”

“I probably did,” he said, voice rough but quiet.

“Bathroom’s through there,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the door near the dresser. “Freshen up. We’ll figure out the room situation in the morning.”

Seungmin blinked at you, dazed.

“You’re letting me stay?”

“Well that’s a given,” you said. “I’m not about to throw a drunk idol into the hallway at 2AM. God knows what sasaeng would love that headline.”

He made a soft, embarrassed noise in the back of his throat and practically scrambled toward the bathroom. You heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the water running.

Alone again, you exhaled sharply and looked down at yourself.

The camisole still clung to your chest, the fabric wrinkled from sleep. Your panties had shifted during your rush to the door, one hip strap riding higher than the other. The damage was already done—he’d seen you, fully—and suddenly, modesty felt stupid.

You weren’t thinking like a professional anymore. You were thinking like a tired woman who just wanted sleep and had, quite unfortunately, let a very drunk, very awkward, very cute Seungmin into her room.

Not ideal.

You crossed to the bed and slipped under the duvet, this time tugging it up to your neck like a shield, every inch of your body burrowing into the mattress. You didn’t even glance back when you heard the bathroom door open.

The room was small—modest compared to the suite-style ones booked for the boys—and there wasn’t much in the way of extra space. One armchair sat in the corner, low-backed and thin, its tiny matching ottoman clearly not meant for sleeping.

You could hear him hovering.

Fidgeting.

Shifting on his feet like he was trying to make himself disappear.

You kept your face to the wall.

More shuffling. A pause. Then a tiny sigh.

You rolled your eyes, still not turning.

“The bed’s big enough for two.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Are you sure?”

“I legally cannot let you sleep on the cold floor, Seungmin.”

“…Fair.”

The mattress dipped a few moments later. You felt the careful weight of him as he climbed in—slow, hesitant, like the bed might collapse under the guilt of it. He stayed close to the edge, not even rustling the duvet as he pulled it over his legs.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

You could feel the silence settle in like warmth, like tension slipping between your shoulder blades. He smelled cleaner now—soap and mouthwash, the lingering sharpness of whatever cheap vodka the boys had probably downed earlier. But mostly soap.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t either.

Eventually, his voice came, hushed in the dark.

“…Thank you.”

You mumbled something in return, barely audible.

Another pause. Then, quieter—

“I didn’t mean to see. Before. I wasn’t trying to.”

You sighed.

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” you said, and you were surprised to realize you meant it.

Maybe because he wasn’t leering. Maybe because he was clearly still rattled. Maybe because your back was to him and your body had long since relaxed again.

But you were tired. He was tired.

And despite everything, the room felt soft again.

Safe.

You closed your eyes and whispered into the pillow.

“Goodnight, Seungmin.”

He swallowed, voice low and raw behind you.

“…Goodnight.”

And then—finally—stillness.

But neither of you slept just yet.

Because under the sheets, just inches away, your heart was beating too loud.

And Seungmin, with his flushed ears and twitchy fingers, was still trying not to picture what he’d already seen.

⸻

The room had gone colder.

At some point, maybe around 4AM, the air conditioning kicked into overdrive, and the soft hum of it stirred you from sleep.

You shifted under the duvet with a lazy frown, your body instinctively chasing warmth. And then—

You felt it.

Not the chill of the room, but the heat of someone behind you.

A slow, calm breath ghosted over the back of your neck. Warm, steady.

Then the arm.

An arm wrapped around your waist. A hand splayed low, fingers spread wide and firm across your stomach, half tucked beneath the hem of your camisole.

Your breath hitched—eyes fluttering open as your senses slowly caught up to what was happening.

Seungmin.

He was pressed flush against your back now, close in a way that neither of you had planned. Your ass rested snugly against his hips, your legs curved toward your chest in a soft tuck, his body following the shape of yours like he’d been molded to it in sleep.

The realization hit like a slow, hot wave:

Somewhere between drifting off and now, you’d gravitated toward each other. Maybe it had started with a brush of knees. A shared pillow. Maybe he’d pulled you in. Maybe you had backed into him without thinking.

But now?

Now, you were wrapped in him.

And he was touching you.

That hand—broad and warm—shifted slightly, fingers flexing in his sleep. His knuckles grazed higher up your stomach, a slow, unconscious movement that felt more like a caress than a twitch.

Your skin prickled.

Your breath stuttered again.

And that was before you felt the subtle, unmistakable pressure against your ass.

He was hard. Not fully, not completely, but enough that the bulge was there—thick and lazy, tucked against the dip of your curves like it belonged there.

You froze.

Every nerve in your body suddenly wide awake.

It was still innocent enough. He was asleep. Dreaming. He wasn’t doing anything on purpose. But the heat that licked up your spine didn’t care about intentions. It cared about the weight of him behind you, the way his fingertips had curled slightly, like they liked the skin they’d found.

Your thighs pressed tighter.

Seungmin murmured something in his sleep. A sound low in his chest. And then—

His hips shifted.

Just a fraction. But enough.

He pressed into you.

Your lips parted, breath shaky, heart slamming against your ribs as his hips settled again, snug against the curve of your ass like he’d wanted to be closer. Like his sleeping body knew what it wanted, even if his mind hadn’t caught up.

You stayed still, not daring to move. Not even blinking.

His fingers on your stomach moved again. Slow. Dragging higher. The edge of his pinky grazed the underside of your breast, just barely. Not a grab. Not a grope. Just enough to send a thrill zipping through your chest.

You swallowed.

Carefully, silently, you reached down and clutched the duvet a little tighter.

But you didn’t move away.

And neither did he.

You stayed frozen.

Not because you were scared. Not because you didn’t want it. But because the smallest twitch of movement might’ve broken the spell—and right now, with his hands on you, his body warming your back, and his breath soft and steady against your neck… you didn’t want it to stop.

Even if he didn’t mean it.

Even if he wasn’t fully awake.

Even if this wasn’t supposed to happen.

Your body didn’t care about reason. Your body cared about the ache that had been living under your skin for too long. The way your thighs clenched when his fingertips brushed just under the curve of your breast again. The way your stomach fluttered when he pulled you closer, unconsciously grinding that hardening length against the softness of your ass.

A soft sound slipped from his throat—barely a hum, muffled into your hair.

Then his hand moved again.

Slow. Searching. Sliding downward over your stomach, like he was touching something delicate in his dream—fingertips gliding beneath the hem of your camisole, callused pads grazing skin that hadn’t been touched in months.

You held your breath. Every muscle tensed, every inch of you begging for more and terrified of it all at once.

Then the other hand found your hip.

It gripped you there—fingers digging into the flesh, like he was holding on. Like he needed to.

Your eyes fluttered shut.

His hips shifted again. His hard cock pressed tighter against your ass, no longer just a ghost of a touch but a full, heavy presence—throbbing through the fabric of his sweats, thick and real and there.

A soft gasp caught in your throat.

And then—God—his hands started moving.

The one on your stomach caressed upward, grazing the underside of your breast again with just the backs of his fingers. Not a grope. Not rough. But reverent. Careful. A sleeping man worshiping a dream he didn’t know was real.

The other stayed firm on your hip, squeezing lightly, rhythmically, as if guiding himself into the curve of your ass with slow, sleepy rolls of his hips.

You bit your lip so hard it almost hurt.

Because your body… it betrayed you.

Your nipples hardened, tight and sensitive beneath the thin fabric of your cami. Your thighs pressed together, desperate, seeking friction. And heat pulsed low in your stomach—building with every moan that slipped from his lips. Tiny, broken little things. Like he didn’t even realize he was making them.

You’d never heard Seungmin make those kinds of sounds before.

And you weren’t even sure he was fully awake.

Your breath shook. Your hand fisted into the duvet. You didn’t move, not an inch—but God, you felt everything. And you wanted more.

You wanted to press back into him.

You wanted his hands higher. Lower.

You wanted—

“…Hnn…”

A little whimper escaped him—almost helpless.

And then—his fingers twitched again.

Dragged higher.

This time brushing—accidentally, devastatingly—over your nipple.

But then didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

Not in a way you could blame on sleep.

But the ache had settled too deep now, thick and warm in your belly, and the feel of his hands on your skin—soft and curious and a little desperate—was unraveling your last thread of willpower.

So you gave in.

Just a little.

A slow, subtle push of your hips back into him—just enough for your ass to press tighter into the hard length straining behind his sweats. Your breath caught in your throat, chest tightening as the hand on your stomach twitched in response… and then slid up.

His palm cupped your breast.

Full, warm, heavy in his hand.

You gasped—a soft, broken little sigh—because the pad of his thumb grazed your nipple again through your top, and it was too much, too sensitive, too good. Your back arched into it instinctively, the quietest sound escaping your lips, and you felt him—

Stilling.

Breathing.

Then freezing.

Seungmin’s body went stiff behind you.

Like a man pulled straight out of a dream and dropped into a nightmare.

His hand stopped moving. His hips locked. His breath caught like he’d choked on it—and then dragged in sharp and tight, like he couldn’t even remember how to breathe anymore.

“…fuck.”

The word was barely audible. Choked. Wrecked. He jerked his hand away from your breast like he’d been burned, stumbling backward out of the bed in a tangle of limbs and blankets, his body trembling with confusion and guilt and raw panic.

He stood there beside the bed in nothing but a loose tee and sweats, hair messy, eyes wide, lips parted, and face pale in the blue light bleeding through the hotel curtains.

“I—I didn’t—I thought—” he stammered, hands raised like he’d accidentally committed a crime.

“I was dreaming,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t know—fuck, I didn’t know it was you—”

You sat up slowly, duvet still pulled tight to your chest, your body flushed and your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst through your ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Seungmin said, breathless, eyes darting everywhere but your face. “Shit, I touched you, I—God, I’m so sorry.”

He backed away, visibly shaking. “I swear I wasn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

You should’ve said something. Anything.

But you were still reeling—body buzzing, skin on fire, the ghost of his touch still etched into your chest.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Until he did—

You didn’t mean to stop him. Didn’t plan it.

Didn’t think it through.

But the second he took a step back—panic all over his face, like he was ready to disappear and pretend this never happened—your voice came out, small and raw, right before you could even breathe it back.

“…Seungmin.”

He froze.

Turned slowly. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

You just looked at him—bare shoulders rising and falling beneath the duvet, hair tousled from sleep, lips parted, heart thudding behind your ribs like it wanted to escape.

“I…” you started, the words thick in your throat. “It’s okay.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“I didn’t stop you,” you said softly, eyes searching his. “Maybe… I didn’t want to.”

The room went silent.

And Seungmin—sweet, shy, brilliant Seungmin—stood there like the air had been punched from his lungs.

“You—” He blinked hard, swallowing, jaw clenched like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “You didn’t want me to stop?”

“I should have,” you said, honestly. “But I didn’t.”

You sat up a little, the duvet sliding down with the motion—revealing the thin strap of your camisole slipping off your shoulder, and just the barest peek of soft skin beneath it. The hem had already ridden up, underboob visible, your thighs spread slightly beneath the covers, body warm and flushed and so real in the low light.

Seungmin’s breath hitched.

You caught the way his eyes flicked down—just for a second—before he snapped them away, fists clenched at his sides, every muscle in his lean body tense.

“I’m your tour manager,” you whispered, more to yourself than him. “If I hadn’t been so tired, I could’ve sorted your room. I should’ve gone to the reception or called someone. I should’ve helped you.”

You looked down at your lap, voice quieter now. “Instead, you walked into my room. I was basically naked. And I let you into my bed.”

Seungmin stayed quiet. Still trembling. Still hard. You could see it—his sweats doing nothing to hide the thick, straining outline pressing forward. He wasn’t even drunk anymore. Just dazed. Wrecked. Fighting something inside him that was so clearly losing.

“And I didn’t stop you,” you finished, eyes lifting to meet his again. “Even when I should have. I let it happen. So…”

You took a breath.

“…you don’t have to go.”

His eyes locked onto yours.

And fuck, the look in them—like every wall he’d carefully built was cracking, like he was fighting to be good, to be professional, but his body was screaming something else entirely. Something raw. Something needy.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said hoarsely.

“Like what?”

“Like you want me.”

The duvet slipped lower when you shifted—bare thighs now visible. And Seungmin’s gaze flicked downward again. Just for a second. Just long enough to see how your cami clung to the swell of your chest, how it had ridden so high your round underboobs were visible, soft and tempting and so close.

You tilted your head, slow. Careful. Still quiet.

“…What if I do?”

That was it.

That was the moment.

Because Seungmin’s lips parted—eyes flicking back to yours, mouth pink and breath shallow, his cock visibly throbbing behind his sweats. The hunger was there now. He wasn’t just hard—he was wrecked by the sight of you, sprawled out like a dream he hadn’t meant to touch, and couldn’t resist anymore.

You were still his tour manager.

Still the professional. Still the one with authority.

But in that moment, with your hair a mess and your thighs spread and your lips barely parted in invitation—God, you looked so soft. So warm. So fucking beautiful it hurt.

And he had such a crush on you. Always had.

Maybe now he didn’t want to pretend otherwise.

Seungmin didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring—like he couldn’t believe what was in front of him. You, almost bare-chested and flushed, thighs pressed tight beneath you, nipples peaked and your chest rising with every slow breath. His eyes dropped to your breasts, and he swore under his breath, the tension in his throat thick enough to choke on.

When you didn’t move to cover yourself, he dragged his gaze back up to yours.

Like he was waiting for the world to stop him.

Like he was seconds away from burning.

You didn’t say anything. Just held his stare and reached for his hand, curling your fingers around his and guiding it to your face—pressing his palm to your cheek.

That’s when he cracked.

His hand tightened. His jaw flexed. And then he moved—fast and quiet, crawling onto the bed over you with one knee on either side, not touching you yet, just looking down like he still couldn’t believe it was real.

“Tell me this isn’t a dream,” he said hoarsely, voice thick. “Please.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Because your body did—arching subtly, thighs parting slightly beneath him in silent invitation.

He bent down, mouth finding the slope of your neck like he’d been aching for it for years. You gasped, head tipping back, the heat of his breath dragging over your collarbone. Then his hands—those long, trembling fingers—finally reached your breasts. He cupped them like they were something sacred, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, reverent circles.

“God,” he whispered against your skin. “You feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t have to.

His tongue found your nipple and you gasped, back arching under him. He was breathing harder now, grinding against your thigh through his sweatpants, restraint unraveling one touch at a time. His lips moved from one breast to the other, mouth open, hot and wet, tongue lapping and sucking until your thighs started to tremble beneath him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he said against your skin, voice guttural.

You looked up at him, wrecked already, pupils blown wide. “Then show me.”

Something in his expression darkened.

And just like that, he sat back, pulled the duvet the rest of the way down, and let his eyes roam over every inch of you. His chest heaved once. Twice.

Then he dragged your panties down your legs, slow, savoring it, watching the fabric slide off your body like it was the last thing tethering you to decency.

He swore under his breath again.

You shifted, but he stopped you with a firm hand on your hip.

“Don’t move.”

He stripped his sweatpants in one motion, cock heavy and flushed and hard as it slapped against his stomach. You couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. He was beautiful, yes, but there was something feral now in his silence—something hungry and barely restrained.

You reached for him, and he let you. Let you wrap your fingers around him, let you guide him down to your mouth.

But just as you leaned in, he caught your wrist.

His voice dropped an octave.

“You do that and I’m not going to last.”

Your smirk faltered.

“You think I care?”

And before he could stop you again, you leaned down and took him into your mouth—hot, slow, tongue dragging along the underside as your lips slid down inch by inch. He let out a strangled sound, fists curling in the sheets on either side of him, chest rising fast.

“Shit—don’t stop—fuck—”

You didn’t. You moaned around him, letting the vibrations buzz through his cock. Your fingers curled at the base, your pace teasing at first, and then faster—your lips slick, jaw flexing as you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned, head falling back, hair sticking to his forehead.

“Fucking hell—how are you—” He choked, hips twitching. “You’re gonna make me—”

You pulled off with a gasp, a line of spit catching on your lip as you looked up at him, flushed and ruined.

Seungmin reached for you in a blur.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, dragging you up until your lips crashed into his. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize you, like he wanted to devour you—and as he pushed you back against the mattress, the last trace of hesitation fell away from him.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” he murmured against your mouth. “But I’m not stopping.”

And then he pressed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, dragging it slow, teasing, watching your body react—watching your legs fall wider, your breath hitch.

“Is this what you want?” he asked, voice low and ruined. “Say it.”

“Yes, I want it.”

His cock nudged at your entrance—thick, hot, pulsing. You whimpered just from the feel of it pressing against you. Seungmin’s eyes locked on yours, blown wide, hair damp, jaw clenched so tight it ticked beneath his flushed skin.

“I want to fuck you so bad,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “But if I move right now, I’m gonna come.”

You bit your lip, your hips already rocking forward the slightest bit, aching for him.

“Please do it,” you whispered. “Slow. I want to feel every inch.”

He groaned like he was in pain and slid in—just the tip.

Then deeper.

And deeper.

You cried out when he bottomed out inside you, your walls stretching to take him, fluttering from the fullness. His head dropped to your shoulder as he trembled above you, trying so fucking hard to stay still.

“Fuck—” he rasped, breath hot on your neck. “You’re—Jesus, you’re tight. Warm. You feel so—fuck—I can’t—”

His hips rocked once, slow, thick drag of cock that pulled a breathless moan from your throat. He kissed your collarbone, hands gripping your thighs, keeping your legs spread wide for him as he started fucking you in slow, careful thrusts.

Each one sent shocks through your spine—steady, deep, possessive. He groaned every time he sank back in, voice rough with disbelief, hips shuddering as he fought not to lose it.

“You have no idea,” he whispered, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

“You’re not what I expected,” you breathed, already gasping as he set a slow rhythm, grinding in circles that had your toes curling. “You’re so—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Just moaned, softly, “Oh Baby…”

The effect was instant.

Seungmin froze mid-thrust.

His eyes met yours—dark, blown wide, almost dangerous.

“Say that again,” he said, low, like a growl from deep in his chest.

You blinked up at him, surprised, breathless. “…Baby.”

He snapped.

His mouth was on yours, desperate, tongue tasting every sound you made. Then he grabbed your hips and started fucking you with rougher, sharper thrusts—still deep, but now filled with urgency.

“You feel that?” he panted, hips snapping forward again. “That’s mine. You understand?”

You whimpered, clinging to him, head rolling back as he fucked you like he was trying to brand you.

“God, you’re so good,” he moaned, voice cracking. “Can’t believe you’re letting me do this. Can’t believe I’m inside you like this.”

You barely heard him—you were too busy writhing, body twitching under him, orgasm crawling up your spine like wildfire.

But you wanted more. You wanted to see him break.

You pushed at his chest, flipping him over and straddling him in one breathless motion. He let you, watching you like he was starved, lips parted as you lined him back up and sank down on him, slow and tight and trembling.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasped, gripping the sheets. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You started riding him, steady at first—hips rolling, eyes locked on his, both of you completely lost in the sight of your bodies moving together.

But when you leaned forward, whispering “You like this?” into his ear—

—he moved.

Fast.

One hand grabbed your throat, not choking, just holding—just owning. His other arm locked around your waist, and suddenly he was fucking up into you, lifting you off the bed with every brutal, delicious thrust.

“Is this what you wanted?” he growled. “Wanted to ride me, make me lose my fucking mind?”

You gasped, fingers flying to his wrist, not to stop him—just to feel him. His cock hit deeper like this, angled right against your sweet spot, and your thighs started to tremble from the sheer power of his pace.

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe.

“Look at me.”

You did—and his face. God, his face. Eyes locked on yours like he was watching you fall apart just for him.

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, voice hoarse. “You’re gonna take it. All of it.”

Your orgasm was still crashing through your body when Seungmin moved again.

Without warning, he flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands manhandling you like you weighed nothing. You gasped into the sheets, dizzy from the sudden shift—but the moment your cheek hit the pillow, you felt him behind you again, kneeling between your thighs, gripping your hips like he was about to lose himself.

“Fucking perfect,” he growled, voice low and wrecked as he stared at the arch of your back, your ass up high, your cunt slick and pulsing from how hard you’d just come. “You look like this and expect me to hold back?”

You whined into the sheets, pressing your hips up for him—begging without words.

He lined up.

And slammed into you.

You screamed.

It wasn’t pain—it was bliss. He was fucking deeper than before, harder, snapping his hips against your ass so roughly you could hear the wet slap echo in the room. You clawed the sheets. Your voice was a broken string of moans and gasps.

Every time he drove in, your ass bounced back against him, the sting of skin on skin turning into pure heat.

Then—smack.

His hand landed hard on your ass.

You cried out, back arching like a bow.

“Oh my god—Seungmin—!”

He did it again. And again. Spanked you until the skin burned and the sounds were too filthy to be real, and he was groaning behind you like a man possessed.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he gasped, watching the jiggle of your ass as he fucked you. “Touching you. Being inside you. You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

His hand slid forward, fingers pinching one of your nipples, twisting it, tugging until you choked on a sob.

“Please—please—” you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore.

He leaned over your back, his breath hot on your ear. “Begging already?”

You were shaking. Crying out for more. The sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet and wild, and his rhythm got even more brutal—like he was trying to ruin you for anyone else.

“You want me to break you?” he whispered, thrusting deep and hard enough to push you forward.

“Yes—Seungmin—please—”

He pulled out suddenly and flipped you again, your body pliant and trembling as he pushed your knees up and apart, exposing you completely. He hovered over you, eyes wild, jaw slack, body covered in a sheen of sweat.

“You’re mine right now,” he said, voice trembling from restraint, “and I’m gonna make sure you never forget it.”

Then he sank back into you and started pounding again—deep, rough, so good you couldn’t breathe. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and Seungmin’s hands were everywhere—gripping your thighs, tweaking your nipples, palming your throat just enough to make your head spin.

“Say it,” he growled, eyes locked on yours. “Say I’m the only one who’s ever made you feel like this.”

“You are—fuck—you are—” you cried, losing yourself completely as another orgasm tore through you, clenching so tight around him that he finally let go.

He groaned—loud, raw—head thrown back as he spilled inside you, hips still moving like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

Even as he came, he kept fucking you.

Slow now. Deep. Letting it ride out as long as possible.

His voice cracked when he said, “I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

⸻

The room was quiet now, save for the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of your shaky breathing. Your body was limp beneath him, boneless, skin slick with sweat and heat and everything he’d just poured into you. He was still inside, still twitching a little, as if even his cock didn’t want to leave your warmth.

But then Seungmin exhaled—shaky and slow—and pulled out of you with a soft hiss. He moved so carefully, hands trembling a bit as he reached for the discarded duvet to cover your body, his eyes wide and stunned, his lips parted like he couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

You watched him sit back on his heels, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, lashes low. The confidence—the filth—the devastating way he just fucked you… it was gone.

Now he looked shy.

Almost embarrassed.

“…Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly, reaching for the tissues from the nightstand. His voice was soft again—barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be that rough. I just— I kind of lost it.”

You smiled, dazed and aching but full of warmth, watching as he carefully cleaned you up. He was so gentle, even shaking a little, his thumb brushing your inner thigh like he didn’t know if he had the right.

You pushed yourself up slightly and cupped his jaw. “Seungmin.”

His eyes flicked up to yours.

“I’m fine. Better than fine.” You leaned in and kissed him—slow and deep, tasting the way his breath hitched in surprise. “You don’t have to be so scared. I wanted it. All of it.”

He let out a sigh, the kind that sounded more like relief than anything else.

When you broke the kiss, he hesitated, then bent to grab the shirt he’d worn earlier that night from the edge of the bed. “Here,” he murmured, helping you slip it over your head. It was soft and warm, and it smelled like him—clean laundry and sweat and the tiniest hint of cologne. He smoothed the hem over your hips gently, reverently, then looked up at you with those sweet, wrecked eyes.

“…I’ll shut up now.”

You laughed softly and dragged him into the bed beside you. He climbed in, curling behind you like it was the most natural thing in the world, pulling you into his chest, holding you so tight it was almost like he didn’t trust himself to let go.

And for a few minutes, it was just quiet. Breathing. His nose buried in your hair. Your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his knuckles where they rested over your stomach.

Then you whispered, “No one has to know, right?”

He stiffened slightly. “Right.”

“But…” you tilted your head back, meeting his eyes, “I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t just a one-time thing.”

Seungmin blinked. His voice cracked when he said, “You mean that?”

You nodded, smiling softly. “There’s no going back to pretending we’re just coworkers. Not after this.”

His arms tightened around you.

“Good,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “Because I don’t think I could look at you like that again. I want this. You. As much as you’ll let me have.”

And then he kissed your neck—so softly, so sweet—and whispered, “I’m yours if you want me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: The way Seungmin has been creeping up on me and wrecking me these days???? Then that cute abs reveal? Safe to say he’s stuck in my head and Ive been thinking about this scenario for a VERY long time🥹

Also, we’re almost at 2k guys! 😭😭😭😭 you guys are the best fr!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar @shxdowofdarkness @aeyla @annyeongffs @beppybeesnuggets @iamwritteninyourstars @crisle19 @stxysakura @ocean-glacierblue

[unvrsoflyly]

Simple.

— content: 1.4k, fluf, gn reader, pre established relationship (can be seen as platonic ngl), modern!au, horribly bad at design choices phainon mentioned, HAPPY PHAINON BC HE DESERVES IT☹️☹️, miiight be ooc bc it was written on a whim and i really focused more on his silly little happy guy persona more for this one, eng is not my first language + NOT PROOF READ so be ready for errors😔

note: hi hiii!! omg posted two ff in a year, shockers! hope you like this one, i wish there was more phainon content with how brainrotted i am so i made smth, might not be super super good bc erm i always write when im tired, anyways hope you enjoy this little thing one week before his banner! (him and his lightcone WILL come home.)

! art creds to hoyoverse (honkai: star rail)

Moving in with Phainon felt oddly simple. So eager to share his space with someone he loves and excited to see parts of his partner’s mundane life under the same roof as his. It was only going to be three days since they moved in. There’s boxes half empty still scattered around the apartment. The furniture is all in its place, but it looks so stiff and out of place in the new environment.

Phainon makes the new domestic feelings of living with a significant other so easy. Waking up to a simple good morning in person, not by a simple string of words on a screen. Watching each other’s routine before heading out for their respective responsibility. Laughing because of how horrible the new recipe cooked together looks. Lazing around the house in a comfortable silence with no pressure to express unnecessary thoughts. They know they could get through the eventual challenges that will come their way together, no matter the difficulty.

So, it’s not a surprise to wake up to a happy boyfriend almost every morning, but today he seemed more enthusiastic (if it’s even possible…) “We’ve been working all these days to make it our home, but it’s missing one thing” is what he said before falling asleep, promising to organize an activity. A surprise. He won’t even slip one word. Is he planning to show his newly bought decorations? As much as Phainon is a sweetheart, his choices in aesthetics are really peculiar. It was endearing, yes, but who would want eventual visitors to be met with a blasting mess of colours.

Either way, today’s the day to find out his scheming. Nothing was out of the ordinary. He usually woke up first because he liked to do a little run around the block. He’s mostly doing this these past few days to look around the place. He seems to know a bunch of things now: restaurants, cafés, small shops, parks and even some people living close by. The sound of a door opening made you head to the entryway. Tuff of slightly damp hair from the exercise is the first thing you can see while he removes his shoes. There’s a small package beside him.

“And me who hoped you’ll finally join me on a small run today” he sighs. He won’t push more, he’s more on the active side but would never force it on anyone, though sometimes he wished you would move a bit more to keep a healthy body. “Keep dreaming, it might end up happening” you laughed, eyeing the package. “Did you eat something before leaving? I cut some fruits if you want” he looked at the plate in your hand, filled with the fruits he remembers picking for you, thinking it would be refreshing for the start of the summer season. He thanks you while taking a piece of apple and heads to the living room with his mysterious new purchase.

His voice gets you out of your questioning daze. “Yesterday, I ran into a small shop selling some arts and craft supplies. I thought it would be fun to create our own matching mugs!” You remember mentioning to him how silly it would be to do them once you move in together. He got a bit flustered knowing he would get teased over his design choices though his eyes showed how excited he was to the idea. He was always willing to do silly couple things if it meant passing more time together.

You head closer to where he was putting down the blank mugs and the variety of paints. You decide to go take a cup of water for the little paint brushes still in his hands and some worn out towels to clean them in between colours. He installed some of the decorative couch pillows on the floor to sit down on. You looked at the big amount of supplies for two people spread on an old towel with familiar cartoonish faces of an old childhood show (he insisted on keeping it.) Not like you were completely broke, but you were still figuring out the whole ‘depending on our own source of income for survival’ thing, so you wondered if he took it from his personal savings just to be safe.

You sat down and put the plate of fruits aside, waiting for some sort of instructions. All he did was let a little laugh escape while putting the mug in your hands, giving you the green light to let your creativity free. Only one rule: paint the mug he will be using.

You started painting simple forms with pastel colours, easier to make them fit with each other. While he was painting, he shared bits and pieces of what he encountered this morning. A young boy heading to school who looked at him the wrong way (maybe because he purposefully chose those horrendous flashy socks that he swears are practical and fashionable), an elderly woman who’s been praising him ever since he helped her with her groceries or the dog he saw at the park on his way back.

You wondered what he could be painting with such a focused expression on his face, his brow’s knitting lightly and you could swear he was close to sticking his tongue out. You knew arts wasn’t one of his strengths, but he was willing to try and learn. If it’s from his heart, it will hold more value then any piece you can buy. Over time, stains of multiple shades are all over the towel accompanied with the mess spread on the skin of your hands.

After a while, the sun was fully up in the sky and by that time the masterpieces were dried enough to do a reveal. Phainon insisted on seeing yours first. He sneaked a look every now and then, he couldn’t wait to see how it turned out!

You held his mug out. It was a simple field painted like a talented young child would do. There were flowers and trees covering the ground decorated with a beautiful sunny sky with bits of clouds. At the front, there was a dog with white fur and blue highlights leaning its head on a greyish cat sitting beside it. Your friends often compared him to a very loyal dog. In that case, you would be the cat. Calmer, more reserved, but still very affectionate to the people you cared for. You wanted to make a scenery reminiscent of his rural hometown. He told you many times how he cherishes this place and growing up there made him who he is today. It’s not much, but you hoped you gave him a bit of his home from the glimpse you saw the first time you visited.

The shine in his eyes tells you enough: he loves it. He hugs you exclaiming how cute this is! And how adorable the both of you would be as cats and dogs! He pulls away and puts his hand over your eyes. “It’s not as pretty as yours, but I hope you like it still.” He finally hands you his masterpiece and removes his hand obstructing your vision.

You are met with a wonky ‘I ♡ my bf’ with an equally awkward self portrait of himself as a stick figure inside the heart. He always teased that he would buy a set of personalized shirts like those, whether it’s going to be stay at home clothes is up to you, but you know he would wear that proudly. You were drawn right beside it, with some sort of pointy arrow to signify you are the one saying this loud and clear. You stifle a sweet laugh before looking up to meet clear blue eyes already fixated on you, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Soooooo.. do you like it?” You nodded before leaning in for a hug.

He did make the big step of living with a significant other for the first time easy, or at least he tries to. He’s always so eager to spice up the day and make it special, even if it’s one of those mundane repetitive days. He doesn’t expect you to necessarily do things the exact same way, but you are sure you’ll try to show your care in your own ways, in ways he will understand like you understand his.

Yeah, moving in with Phainon is simple.

thank u for reading! - all rights reserved, ask before reposting somewhere or doing a translation

[ilovemarvel97]

Craving What We Shouldn't - Part 7

Wanda Maximoff x G!P Reader

Summary: Wanda start to hang out with Y/N’s friends.

Word Count: 6,528

Warnings: High school AU, Fluff, smut, (18+), forbidden romance, step-siblings, reader has a penis, mutual pining, secret relationship

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist

---

****: smut alert

---

Wanda had arrived at school early that morning, the weight of cheer practice on her shoulders. The bright gym lights and the buzz of energetic voices filled the space as she joined Pepper and Monica, her cheer squad friends, who were already stretching and chatting. Usually, Y/N would have driven with her—Y/N’s music blasting through the car speakers, the windows down, their hands brushing on the gearshift—but today was different. Y/N had stayed home later to study.

Wanda’s mind wasn’t fully in cheer practice. Her thoughts kept drifting to Y/N — the soft way she’d kissed her that morning, the lingering warmth beneath her skin where their bodies had intertwined for the first time the night before. It felt surreal, like a dream she didn’t want to wake up from. But it was real. And it was theirs. Their secret.

When practice finally ended, Wanda’s phone buzzed with a message from Y/N: “Forgot your textbook. I’ll bring it to school.”

It wasn’t long before Y/N showed up at the school entrance, weaving through groups of students with her usual confident stride. She spotted Wanda near the lockers, chatting with Pepper and Monica, and called out.

“Hey, I brought this,” Y/N said, holding up the thick textbook Wanda had left on her desk.

Wanda smiled, relief flooding her chest. “Thanks.” She tucked the book under her arm, giving Y/N a quick, subtle squeeze on the hand before Y/N turned away to catch her next class.

Pepper grinned at Wanda, nudging Monica with a playful smirk. “Wow. Y/N is seriously hot.”

Monica nodded enthusiastically. “I know, right? After basketball practice last month during PE, everyone’s been talking about her. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much she stands out.”

Wanda stiffened, trying not to let her irritation show. Pepper leaned in a little closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.

“So… living with Y/N must be interesting. I mean, you two are step-siblings now, right? Does it ever feel weird?”

Wanda’s heart skipped a beat. The word weird echoed sharply in her mind. To anyone else, they were just step-siblings—two teenagers thrown together by their parents’ marriage. But to Wanda, the truth was so much more complicated. Y/N wasn’t just family. She was the secret warmth beneath her skin, the quiet pull in her chest that no one else understood.

Wanda’s eyes narrowed slightly as she carefully chose her words, forcing a neutral tone. “It’s different,” she said. “But not in a weird way. We’re… close. Like family should be.”

Pepper gave her a pointed look, clearly not buying the full story. “Yeah, but close can mean a lot of things,” she said with a sly grin. “I’m just saying, you two didn’t grow up together.”

Monica nodded, leaning in with interest. “Exactly. You came from totally different worlds before your parents got married. So… it’s not like you have that childhood sibling bond or anything.”

Wanda’s lips pressed into a thin line. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, partly from embarrassment, partly from frustration. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said quietly. “We’re family now. That’s what matters.”

Pepper’s eyes sparkled with mischief, her grin widening like she was teasing just to see Wanda squirm. “Sure, family. Anyway, do you think Y/N is open for hooking up? I really wanna know how she is in bed. Do you think I have a shot?”

Wanda’s jaw clenched before she could stop it, the muscles in her face tightening as if her body reacted before her mind could form a response. She forced a laugh, trying to cover the sudden surge of possessiveness that flared in her chest like a lit match.

Pepper didn’t notice the shift in her expression—or maybe she did and just kept pushing. “I mean, seriously. She’s got that whole brooding-hot-girl-who-doesn’t-talk-much vibe. Kind of mysterious, but in a sexy way.”

Monica giggled. “God, yes. And that smirk she does when she knows everyone’s looking? I’d risk detention for a taste.”

Wanda’s fingers tightened around her textbook, her knuckles going pale. The image of Y/N in bed—their bed last night—flashed unbidden in her mind. The way Y/N’s lips had mapped every inch of her skin like she was a secret waiting to be learned. The way she whispered Wanda’s name like a promise. No one else knew that side of her. No one else could.

She was hers.

Wanda took a deep breath, trying to sound casual as she said, “Y/N’s not really the hookup type.”

Pepper raised a brow. “How would you know?”

Wanda hesitated. “Because… we talk. She’s not into all that casual stuff. She keeps to herself for a reason.”

Monica tilted her head, watching Wanda a little too closely. “Wow. You really know her, huh?”

Wanda gave a stiff nod, her heart pounding beneath her ribcage. “Yeah. I do.”

Pepper hummed thoughtfully. “Still, if she ever changes her mind… you better tell her I’m interested.”

Wanda bit the inside of her cheek so hard it almost drew blood.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to say, She’s mine. She was in my bed last night, holding me like I was her whole world. You don’t get to look at her like that. You don’t get to want her.

But instead, she forced a smile, cold and sharp around the edges. “I’ll let her know,” she said, her voice like a blade wrapped in velvet.

The bell rang, cutting through the air and ending the conversation. Pepper and Monica waved goodbye, still giggling as they walked off, leaving Wanda standing alone by the lockers, clutching her textbook like it was the only thing grounding her to the floor.

She glanced down the hallway, catching one last glimpse of Y/N turning a corner, her dark hoodie trailing behind her.

And though no one knew it, Wanda’s heart whispered the truth:

She’s mine. And I’ll never share her.

---

The morning dragged on with a heavy weight pressing on Wanda’s chest. She couldn’t shake the sharp sting of Pepper’s teasing words — the careless way they’d spoken about Y/N like she was just some hot girl to chase, a casual fling to imagine in bed. They didn’t know. Couldn’t know. And yet, it hurt — more than she wanted to admit.

Every smile she forced felt brittle, every laugh hollow. Her fingers had trembled when she opened her locker. Her chest had burned with unspoken truths.

Because they didn’t know what it felt like to be kissed by Y/N in the soft hush of midnight. They didn’t know how it felt to be held by her, body to body, soul to soul, like she was something precious. Something owned. Wanted.

So when the bell finally rang for their shared class, Wanda slipped into her seat without a word. She didn’t even glance up as Y/N entered the room. But she felt her. Felt her gaze, warm and constant, brushing against her skin like a silent question. And all Wanda could do was stare straight ahead, hands clenched in her lap, pretending everything was fine.

Later, during a quick bathroom break, Wanda’s phone buzzed.

Y/N: Meet me in the old art room during lunch? Got sandwiches.

Wanda stared at the screen, her throat tightening. Even now, Y/N knew just when to reach out, to pull her back from the edge. She nodded to herself, as if Y/N could see it, and slipped the phone into her bag.

Lunch couldn’t come fast enough.

The old art room was quiet, a little forgotten, tucked away at the end of a hallway no one used anymore. The walls were still lined with fading sketches, half-finished canvases, and dusty jars of paintbrushes that hadn’t seen water in years. But to Wanda, it had always felt like a safe place — their place.

Y/N was already there, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the wide window, a small paper bag beside her. She looked up as Wanda walked in and offered a soft smile.

“Hey,” she said, holding out the bag. “I got your favorite — turkey and avocado, extra pickles.”

Wanda managed a small smile as she crossed the room. The gesture cut straight through the heavy fog in her chest. Of course Y/N remembered.

“Thanks,” Wanda murmured, sitting down across from her. She hesitated, fingers brushing the edge of the bag, before sighing. “Sorry if I’ve been weird today.”

Y/N tilted her head, watching her closely. “You’ve been quiet,” she said gently. “And tense. What happened?”

Wanda hesitated, then looked down, her voice low. “Pepper and Monica were talking about you… the way girls talk about guys in a locker room. Like you’re just… something to want. Something to try and get.” Her voice tightened. “Pepper even asked if she had a shot with you. If you’d hook up.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed subtly, but her expression stayed calm. “I see.”

“I wanted to scream,” Wanda whispered. “They have no idea what you are to me. And I had to just… stand there. Pretend like it didn’t bother me. Like you’re not already mine.”

Y/N reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together with quiet certainty. “You don’t have to pretend. Not with me. And not with the people you trust.”

Wanda nodded slowly, eyes fixed on their joined hands. “I know. And I want to… I do. But it’s just—if Pepper finds out, she’ll tell Tony. Then Tony tells everyone. And our parents…”

Her voice cracked. “They’d separate us.”

Y/N’s thumb traced soft circles over her knuckles. “Then let’s not tell everyone. Just the ones you know won’t say a word. Nat and Carol already know — you know that, right?”

Wanda nodded. “They’ve been amazing about it.”

“Then maybe we start there,” Y/N said gently. “You’re not alone in this, Wanda. I’m yours, okay? And I’m not going anywhere.”

Wanda’s heart ached — with love, with fear, with the overwhelming truth of how much she needed her.

Without another word, she crawled forward and slowly straddled Y/N’s lap, settling there like she belonged. Like it was the only place she could truly breathe.

Y/N didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. Her hands instinctively found Wanda’s waist, pulling her close as Wanda leaned in, burying her face in the crook of Y/N’s neck. The smell of her — warm skin, faint shampoo, the comfort of home — flooded Wanda’s senses.

The quiet hum of the room softened around them, the outside world falling away. Y/N’s arms wrapped around her like an anchor, her fingertips tracing slow, soothing patterns on Wanda’s back.

“I’ve got you,” Y/N whispered against her temple. “No matter what.”

Wanda breathed in shakily, her fingers curling into the fabric of Y/N’s shirt. “I don’t want anyone else talking about you like that,” she mumbled into her skin. “You’re mine.”

Y/N chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her chest. “You think I’d ever look at anyone else? You ruined me for anyone else, baby.”

A smile tugged at Wanda’s lips, even as her eyes stung with unshed tears. She tilted her head, just enough to meet Y/N’s eyes — full of warmth, full of her. She reached up and pressed a gentle kiss to Y/N’s jaw.

“I’ll tell them,” she whispered. “Eventually. Just not yet.”

Y/N nodded. “We’ll do it on your time. As long as I still get to hold you like this.”

Wanda settled in closer, their foreheads gently pressed together, the soft glow of the afternoon sun wrapping them in its warmth.

And for the first time all day, Wanda didn’t feel like she had to fight to keep something hidden.

She just had to feel. And she felt safe. Loved. Home.

Later that day, back at their shared home, Wanda sat curled on the couch, a textbook open in her lap but barely touched. Her eyes glazed over the words without absorbing them — her mind still caught in the spinning web of the day’s events.

The echo of Pepper’s laugh, the sting of her words, the way Monica had leaned in like Y/N was something to be won—not loved. Not hers.

The burn in Wanda’s chest hadn’t dulled. It had just… settled. Like an ember. Still hot. Still alive.

Pietro entered the room, unusually subdued as he noticed his sister’s faraway stare. He flopped onto the couch beside her, nudging her knee lightly. “You look like you wanna set something on fire,” he said, half-joking, half-concerned. “What happened?”

Wanda closed the book, letting it fall shut with a soft thud. “People were talking about Y/N at school,” she muttered. “Like she’s a trophy or a dare. Like they have any idea.”

Pietro’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need the full story to guess. He knew enough. He knew everything.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Pepper and Monica running their mouths again?”

Wanda gave a sharp nod. “Pepper asked if she had a shot with her. My Y/N. She was smiling when she said it. Like it was a game.”

Pietro blinked, then let out a low whistle. “Wow. The audacity.”

“I couldn’t say anything,” Wanda whispered, her voice cracking around the edges. “I wanted to. God, I wanted to scream that she’s mine. That she was in my bed just hours before.” Her eyes burned, and she looked down at her hands. “But I just stood there. And smiled. Like it didn’t matter.”

Pietro leaned forward, voice firm. “It does matter. But protecting what you love doesn’t mean you’re weak. It just means you’re smart. You’re not ready to deal with the fallout, and that’s okay. No one gets to judge you for that.”

Wanda nodded, but the ache in her chest didn’t fade. Pietro watched her for a second, then smirked, his usual mischief returning just slightly.

“Hey,” he said, bumping her shoulder. “You want to send a message without saying a word? Leave another hickey on Y/N’s neck. You know. Just to remind the world.”

Wanda let out a surprised laugh — short and tired but real — and shook her head. “That’s evil.”

“Effective,” Pietro grinned. “Plus, come on. You do get a little jealous.”

Wanda sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips. “She’s mine. Of course I get jealous.”

“Then claim her like it,” he said with a wink, then added quickly, raising a hand, “But please don’t tell me about your sex life with Y/N. I’m gonna be traumatized.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, laughing despite herself. “Relax. I’m not about to give you details.”

“Good,” Pietro said, mock-shuddering. “I love you both, but there are limits to what a brother should have to hear.”

Wanda nudged him with her shoulder, her smile lingering. “Noted.”

Wanda leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, letting the warmth of his steady presence wrap around her like a shield. Pietro might joke, but he got it. He’d always had her back. No questions asked.

The front door opened just after sunset, the quiet jingle of keys announcing the return of Olek and Melissa. Laughter floated in with the evening breeze, the scent of takeout following behind.

Olek entered first, arm slung around Melissa as they chatted about something Wanda couldn’t hear. Melissa was already tugging off her heels, relief plain on her face.

When they stepped into the living room, they paused at the sight in front of them.

Pietro was stretched lazily across one end of the couch, one arm hanging over the backrest. Wanda was tucked against him, blanket over her lap, eyes closed but not quite asleep. The TV hummed in the background, forgotten.

Olek’s stern features softened. “Look at them,” he murmured. “Just like when they were kids.”

Melissa smiled, her eyes lingering on Wanda. “She’s been quiet lately. It’s good she has Pietro.”

She glanced around the room, then asked casually, “Is Y/N still at work?”

Pietro answered smoothly. “Yeah. Her shift ends around eight.”

At the sound of Y/N’s name, Wanda stirred slightly. Her fingers curled a little tighter into the edge of the blanket, and though her eyes stayed closed, her chest rose with a slow, deliberate breath.

Melissa walked toward the kitchen with the takeout bags in hand. “Should we wait for dinner?”

“She said to go ahead,” Pietro replied. “She’s working on something after, anyway.”

Melissa hummed, then added with a teasing lilt, “Or maybe she’s with her girlfriend.”

Olek stopped just behind her, arching a brow. “Wait—Y/N has a girlfriend?”

Melissa grinned. “She hasn’t said anything out loud, but come on. I know there’s someone. I caught her the other day with a hickey on her neck. She tried to tell me it was a bug bite.” She let out a chuckle. “As if I’ve never snuck around before.”

She turned back to Pietro and Wanda, eyes twinkling with curiosity. “You two go to school with her. Has she mentioned anything? Anyone special?”

Pietro gave a casual shrug, keeping his tone even. “Nope. Not a word.”

Wanda didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Her body remained tucked against Pietro, eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady. But inside, her heart was pounding. The word girlfriend rang in her ears like a secret shouted into a crowded room.

Because it was true.

Y/N did have someone.

Her.

Melissa let the moment pass with a little sigh, amused and unconcerned. “Well, whoever the girl is, I hope she’s good to Y/N.”

Olek nodded in agreement. “She’s a great kid. I’m sure we’ll meet the girl eventually.”

Wanda remained still, hiding behind the quiet safety of Pietro’s shoulder. But her mind raced.

You already know her, she thought.

She sits at your dinner table every night. She rides in your car. She does the dishes with your daughter and slips into her bed when the house goes still.

She has me. And no one can ever know.

And yet—Wanda’s lips twitched at the memory of the hickey Melissa had seen. That had been her. That quiet little mark was hers. A secret signature she left behind when she couldn't say out loud what they were.

Still pretending to nap, Wanda turned her face slightly into Pietro’s shoulder, the ghost of a smile hidden in the crook of her arm.

Maybe they didn’t know the truth.

But it was written all over her skin.

---

It was a little after 8:30 when the front door eased open again. The soft click of it closing behind her barely registered over the quiet murmur of the TV still playing in the background.

Y/N toed off her boots and set her keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. She looked tired — her shoulders relaxed in the kind of way exhaustion brings, hair slightly tousled, and a faint dusting of flour still clinging to the sleeves of her hoodie from the bakery.

Wanda immediately lifted her head from Pietro’s shoulder. Her twin gave her a small, knowing smile and casually pulled out his phone, pretending to scroll.

Y/N’s eyes scanned the room until they found Wanda. That crooked, tired smile tugged at her lips — the kind that made Wanda’s heart squeeze in her chest.

Melissa appeared from the kitchen holding a plate. “Hey, sweetie. I warmed up some dinner for you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Y/N said softly, stepping over to take the plate. “Smells amazing.”

Olek waved from the hallway as he passed by, heading toward the stairs. “Long shift?”

“The longest,” Y/N chuckled. “We had a last-minute rush. Apparently everyone wanted chocolate chip cookies at the same time.”

“Don’t forget your protein,” Melissa called from the kitchen as she turned back toward the stove. “You barely eat when you’re working. And that girl you’re seeing isn’t going to stick around if you pass out from low blood sugar.”

Y/N choked mid-step, nearly dropping her fork. “Mom?! This again?”

From the couch, Pietro subtly bit back a grin, while Wanda froze, eyes locked on her plate as a flush crept up her neck.

Melissa peeked around the corner with a smirk. “I’m just saying. You’ve been glowing lately, and I know it’s not the muffins.”

Y/N groaned dramatically and retreated toward the table with her plate. “It was one hickey,” she muttered.

Wanda nearly dropped her phone. Pietro kicked her lightly under the coffee table.

Melissa’s voice floated out cheerfully: “Mmm-hmm. Bug bite, right?”

Y/N slumped into her chair and stuffed a bite of rice in her mouth to avoid answering. Across the room, Wanda stared straight ahead, doing everything in her power not to laugh—or panic.

They were so bad at hiding.

---

The Following Days — Wanda’s POV

After that day in the classroom — the whispers, the hickey I couldn’t deny, the fire in my voice — everything began to shift around me.

Pepper and Monica never mentioned Y/N again. Maybe it was because I’d made my stance unmistakably clear, or maybe Pietro’s sharp looks every time they glanced my way had quieted them down. Either way, the silence felt like a small victory — one I didn’t know I needed.

I still sat with my usual group in the mornings and during classes. But lunch? Lunch became something entirely different.

It became ours.

At first, it was just little things — an excuse to grab something from the vending machine near Y/N’s table, lingering a moment longer talking to Nat or Carol about homework. But before I knew it, I was sliding into the seat beside Y/N like I belonged there — because deep down, I knew I did.

Y/N’s group made it easy. Natasha’s smirk said everything without a word. Carol gave me a quiet nod after watching me pull Y/N out of that math quiz meltdown. Peter rambled about astrophysics, completely oblivious as always. And MJ — dry as ever — looked me dead in the eye and said, “Congratulations. You’re officially one of us now. No refunds.”

Y/N always saved me a seat.

Sometimes there was a snack waiting — my favorite granola bar, or a perfectly cut red apple. Other times, there was just that shared glance. A brush of knees under the table. A smile that lingered longer than it should have. A touch no one else ever noticed.

We kept our secret.

I still flinch when I think about Melissa, Y/N’s mom, pressing too much about that “mystery girl.”

But even with all that fear, it’s become easier.

Because in the quiet corners of the house, when no one’s watching, I don’t have to pretend.

Things only kept getting better between us.

Some nights, after everyone else was asleep — the house still and quiet — I’d slip from my room, careful not to make a sound. My dad asleep, Melissa downstairs or in bed. No footsteps, no creaking doors. Just silence.

And Y/N would be waiting.

Sometimes we didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. We just lay there, limbs tangled, my head resting on Y/N’s chest, both of us breathing in time.

Other nights, we whispered — soft jokes, secret confessions, stolen plans for a future we dared to imagine.

And sometimes, our touches would slow down, grow needier, reverent — like a silent promise, saying you’re mine without ever having to say it out loud.

Every time we made love, it wasn’t because we could — it was because we needed to. Needed to feel each other, to be seen, to be understood, to be loved in a world where those words felt impossible to say.

And when it was over — when we were quiet, warm, safe — I’d lie there, tangled in sheets and breath and Y/N’s arms, thinking:

This is the only place where I feel like myself.

---

No One’s POV

Then Saturday came by. Y/N decide to get up and go shower as well, thinking Wanda was already done.

The bathroom was still foggy from Wanda’s shower. Lavender-scented steam clung to the mirror.

Y/N opened the door without knocking — eyes heavy with sleep, hair a mess.

She was already pulling her shirt over her head when she froze. Wrapped in a towel, Wanda stood at the sink, cheeks still flushed, damp hair falling over her shoulders.

“Shit—sorry!” Y/N spun around, nearly tripping over herself. “I thought you were in the kitchen—”

“In the kitchen?” Wanda said, voice teasing. “Sure. I knew you were coming.”

Y/N blinked. “Wait… you knew I was coming in here?”

Wanda stepped up behind her and gently closed the door, turning the lock with a soft click.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” she murmured. “It’s not like you haven’t seen me like this before.”

“Yeah, but not when our parents are literally downstairs,” Y/N hissed, glancing at the door like it might betray them.

Wanda grinned, towel still clutched against her chest. She reached up and tugged gently at Y/N’s hoodie, pulling her close until there was barely a breath between them.

“And?”

Y/N groaned softly, her voice low. “You’re evil.”

“I know,” Wanda said, and kissed her — slow and warm and familiar.

****

The kiss deepened quickly. Wanda’s arms curled around Y/N’s neck, drawing her closer. Y/N’s hands slid to Wanda’s waist, feeling the damp heat of her skin beneath the loose fold of the towel.

Without breaking the kiss, Y/N gripped Wanda’s thighs and lifted her effortlessly, setting her down on the edge of the sink. The cool porcelain against her legs made Wanda gasp softly into Y/N’s mouth, but she didn’t pull away — she leaned in.

Their bodies pressed together, Wanda’s knees parting to let Y/N step between them. The towel shifted slightly at her sides, loose now, but neither of them cared. The moment felt suspended — like time had tucked itself away just for them.

Y/N’s hands rested on either side of Wanda’s hips, grounding them both. Wanda leaned forward, pressing her forehead to Y/N’s, her breath uneven.

“I missed this,” she whispered.

Y/N’s fingers brushed up Wanda’s back, gentle but sure. “You saw me this morning.”

“I still missed you,” Wanda said again, quieter this time. More vulnerable.

Y/N smiled, eyes soft and full of something deep. “Me too.”

Their next kiss was slower — more tender than hungry. It said everything neither of them could out loud. Every risk. Every secret. Every promise they weren’t ready to share with the world.

Wanda pulled Y/N even closer with her legs, her lips brushing the corner of her mouth.

“We have to be quiet,” she murmured, though her voice was laced with a thrill that said she didn’t really mind.

Y/N laughed softly, the sound warm against Wanda’s skin. “Then stop kissing me like that.”

Wanda’s eyes sparkled with mischief as she whispered, “Make me.”

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

She kissed her — not soft this time, but hungry. A kiss that said I want you, I need you, right here. Wanda melted into it, her fingers curling in the fabric of Y/N’s hoodie as her body leaned forward, pressing flush against hers.

Y/N’s hand slid between them, finding the edge of the towel draped loosely over Wanda’s lap. Her touch was careful but certain, fingers parting the fabric, revealing the heat and softness beneath.

Wanda gasped into Y/N’s mouth, her head tipping back slightly, the cold porcelain of the sink a sharp contrast to the fire building low in her stomach. Her thighs parted instinctively, welcoming the quiet claim of the one person who knew how to touch her without asking — and always with reverence.

Their breaths grew shallower, the air thick with tension and tenderness. Y/N's fingers brushed along Wanda’s inner thigh, slow and teasing, like she was memorizing every inch of her — like she wasn’t in a hurry, even though time never really felt like theirs.

Wanda’s lips found Y/N’s again, more desperate now, their kiss tangled with longing and restraint. The thrill of being just a room away from discovery only heightened the thrum between them, made every touch feel more electric.

Her voice broke near Y/N’s ear, breathless and raw. “I want you. I want this.”

As she whispered the words, her hand slipped down between them, cupping Y/N through her shorts, feeling the warmth and weight of her there — real, solid, hers.

Y/N gasped softly into her mouth, her body stilling for a moment as their foreheads pressed together. The look in her eyes was something between reverence and need, and just a flicker of disbelief that this girl — this bold, beautiful girl — was touching her like she was something sacred.

Because to Wanda, she was.

Wanda’s thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles over the fabric, her breath catching at the way Y/N’s hips reacted — a subtle shift, a quiet surrender.

Y/N closed her eyes, letting out a soft, shaky breath. “We shouldn’t… not here,” she murmured, her voice frayed at the edges. Then, even softer, “Besides… we don’t have a condom.”

Wanda pulled back just enough to meet her eyes — flushed, steady, certain — then gave a wicked little smile.

Without a word, she reached over to the edge of the sink and slid open the drawer, pulling out a small, silver package.

Y/N blinked, surprised. “Wanda…”

“I was hoping you’d follow me in here,” Wanda whispered, her smile still playing at the corners of her lips. “I grabbed it before I went to shower.”

Y/N stared at her — flushed, wide-eyed, completely undone by the fact that Wanda had not only thought about this… she had planned for it.

“That’s… dangerous,” Y/N said, her voice low and already fraying under the weight of everything she was feeling.

Wanda leaned in, brushing their noses together, her voice a breath against Y/N’s skin. “So don’t say no.”

Y/N's hands slid around her waist instinctively, tugging her close again. Her eyes searched Wanda’s face one more time — not for hesitation, but for permission. What she found was pure need, anchored in trust.

Then, suddenly, Y/N pulled back.

Wanda blinked, startled, lips parting with a soft, breathy pout. “Hey…”

But Y/N only turned toward the door, her steps silent as she walked over to check the lock — jiggling the handle gently to be sure. When she turned back around, Wanda was smiling, cheeks flushed, eyes burning with anticipation.

“Smart girl,” Wanda murmured.

By the time Y/N crossed the space again, her hands were already moving — thumbs hooking into the waistband of her shorts and boxers, pushing them down in one slow motion. Her length sprang free, flushed and already hard, and Wanda’s breath hitched.

Her eyes didn’t leave her for a second.

Wanda’s fingers curled around the silver foil, bringing it to her mouth. She tore it open with her teeth — slow, deliberate — never looking away from Y/N, her expression hungry and reverent all at once.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” she whispered, her voice low, almost in awe.

The moment pulsed between them — thick with heat, thick with want — and for just a second, the world beyond the bathroom walls fell away.

It was just them, and the quiet thrill of getting to have what they weren’t supposed to want.

Y/N’s breath caught as Wanda tore the wrapper open with her teeth, her eyes never straying from Y/N’s bare skin.

But before Wanda could go any further, Y/N cupped her cheek gently, tilting her face up until their eyes met.

“You’re the beautiful one,” she whispered, voice low but full of meaning. “And we really need to be quiet.”

Wanda’s heart fluttered at the softness in her tone — the way Y/N could make her feel treasured even when her body ached with need. She nodded silently, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

Then, without a word, she slid the condom out of its foil and took Y/N in her hand, her touch careful but sure.

Her eyes never left Y/N’s face as she slowly rolled the condom down over her length, inch by inch — the intimate act made all the more intense by the quiet, by the risk, by the love they still had to hide from everyone but each other.

Y/N’s hands settled on Wanda��s thighs, grounding herself with her touch, her jaw tight as she fought to stay still — to stay quiet — while Wanda touched her like she was something sacred.

The tension between them was palpable now, thick in the warm bathroom air, their breaths shallow and soft.

“Come here,” Y/N murmured, her voice barely more than a breath.

Wanda slid onto the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain contrasting with the heat pulsing between them. Her eyes locked with Y/N’s as she spread her legs slightly, inviting her closer.

Without hesitation, Y/N stepped forward and gently pulled Wanda nearer to the edge, her hands firm yet tender on Wanda’s hips, guiding her with careful reverence.

Wanda’s breath hitched as Y/N slowly slid inside her, the moment delicate and electric — a perfect balance of urgency and care.

They stayed locked in that quiet space, moving together gently, savoring the closeness and the love that no one else could touch.

Wanda perched lightly on the edge of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing softly against her skin. Her breath came in quiet, uneven bursts as Y/N’s hands held her hips with gentle certainty.

Slowly, Y/N eased inside her, every inch a careful exploration — tender, deliberate. Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed, lips parting as waves of warmth and need began to unfurl deep within her.

Their bodies moved together with cautious rhythm, like learning a secret language only they understood. The bathroom, small and dim, held only the soft sounds of their mingled breaths and the faint scrape of skin against skin.

Wanda’s hands found Y/N’s shoulders, fingers curling with tentative longing, anchoring herself to the moment.

“God, you’re perfect,” Y/N whispered, voice raw with reverence and something aching beneath.

Wanda opened her eyes, searching Y/N’s face — the flicker of desire, the promise, the vulnerability — and she reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from Y/N’s forehead.

Their pace deepened, growing more urgent — no longer just gentle exploration but a desperate claiming of the love they’d kept locked away for so long.

Wanda’s breath hitched sharply, her nails digging lightly into Y/N’s skin as waves of pleasure and longing crashed through her. Her body trembled, a delicious heat spreading from her core up through her chest.

“Detka,” Wanda gasped, voice trembling, breath uneven. “You feel so good—”

A soft moan slipped out, louder than she intended, and her eyes flew open in sudden panic.

Y/N’s hand was instantly over Wanda’s mouth, fingers warm and firm, pressing gently but firmly against her lips.

“Shh,” Y/N whispered fiercely, her eyes wide but loving. “Quiet, love. We can’t risk it.”

Wanda’s cheeks flushed crimson as she struggled to suppress the rising sounds, biting her lower lip to keep the moans from spilling free.

Y/N’s other hand tightened around Wanda’s hips, holding her steady, grounding her in the moment — reminding her they were safe, if only for now.

With a slow, steady rhythm, Y/N coaxed Wanda deeper into the shared breath of their desire — fierce, tender, and urgent all at once.

Her muffled moans vibrated under Y/N’s palm, each one a quiet confession of need and surrender.

“Fuck… princess,” Y/N murmured, her voice rough with want as she began to move faster, hips rolling with growing urgency.

Wanda’s body responded instantly, arching into the motion, breath hitching in sharp gasps despite the hand pressed to her lips.

The tension between them snapped taut — a fragile thread stretched to its limit — as waves of pleasure crashed relentlessly through Wanda.

Y/N’s grip tightened around her waist, pulling her closer, every movement an electric pulse of need and love.

“Shh, princess,” Y/N whispered fiercely, breath hot against Wanda’s ear. “I’ve got you.”

Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed, her muffled sounds growing in urgency, caught somewhere between desperate and rapturous.

But beneath that steady rhythm, Y/N’s own breath was quickening, her body trembling with the approach of her own edge — a burning heat pooling low and fierce.

She tightened her hold, guiding Wanda with even more urgency, their movements syncing like a perfect, wordless dance.

Wanda’s walls clenched around Y/N in an almost instinctual response — a deep, pulsing rhythm that spoke of trust, surrender, and something beautifully intimate.

The air between them thickened, charged with the raw power of their shared need.

Their breaths tangled, moans muffled yet fierce as they tumbled together toward the peak.

With a final, shuddering thrust, they broke through — a crescendo of pleasure and release that left them both gasping, trembling in each other’s arms.

Wanda clung to Y/N, forehead resting against her collarbone, heart racing, skin flushed and glowing.

Y/N’s fingers traced lazy, soothing circles along Wanda’s back, whispering soft reassurances as their bodies slowly settled into a quiet, tender stillness.

The waves of release still rippling through their bodies, Y/N didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, she leaned down and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to Wanda’s lips — soft and sweet, every movement a delicate promise.

Their breaths mingled, heavy and warm, as Y/N’s hand continued its gentle rhythm beneath Wanda, still coaxing the last shivers of sensation. Wanda’s eyes fluttered closed again, melting into the kiss, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment.

****

Time seemed to slow, wrapped around them like a cocoon, until the sudden, sharp knock on the bathroom door shattered the stillness.

Both froze instantly, hearts hammering loud enough to drown out the knock.

“Shit,” Wanda breathed, pulling slightly back so their eyes met — wide and panicked.

Before either could say a word, Pietro’s familiar voice cut through the tension, laced with mock disgust: “Alright, lovebirds. Enough grossness for this early hours of a Saturday. Get out of there before Melissa and Dad hear you and flip.”

Y/N blinked in surprise, then let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she pulled out, her movements slow but urgent.

Wanda hurried to gather her clothes, cheeks flushed but eyes sparkling with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. She tugged the towel away and dress herself fast, breath still a bit ragged, heart still racing.

Wanda glanced at Y/N, a playful grin tugging at her lips despite the adrenaline as she sees Y/N still a little hard. She stepped closer, hands finding Y/N’s waist, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips.

“I’ll go now,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N smiled back, her fingers tracing light patterns along Wanda’s sides. “I’ll take a shower first before I go out.”

With one last shared glance, Wanda slipped quietly out of the bathroom, careful not to make a sound as she moved down the hall.

Y/N leaned back against the sink, watching the door close softly behind her, a small smile playing on her lips. She took a slow breath, removed the rest of her clothes, then reach down to remove the condom so she can step in the shower.

---

Leave your thoughts in the comment!

[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

[junkpuppet225]

note: Back in April I was writing some “forced proximity” Daryl stories. Here’s a continuation of that but there’s nothing forced about this one—they’re out in the wide open. 😜 Enjoy!

warnings: All the smut. Language. DarylxFem!Reader. 18+ YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT YOU CONSUME.

*******

Beside the dying fire.

The fire is dying.

Daryl sits in the shadows with a worn bolt in his grip—sharpening it by memory alone. His eyes are locked on you. The soft crackle of the dwindling flames painting your skin in flickering orange and you’re laughing.

Sitting across the fire with all your attention on Carol. He can’t process the quiet words—just the soft sweet sound rushing from your lungs.

Real.

Easy.

The kind of laugh that shouldn’t exist in this world anymore.

And it makes him feral.

Carol never falters in her story while you let your eyes linger a moment too long. Sitting with your legs tucked under you, head tilted as you sneak a glance at him and smile.

It lights him on fire.

His chest’s tightens, burning him from the inside out—hands slowing with the bolt, stilling. You’re wearing that damn shirt again—the one that’s too big, slipping off your shoulder like it doesn’t give a damn what it’s doing to him. His eyes close tight; a flash of memory—forced inside a closet, your body against his—crawling under a bed—the kiss that started all of this.

And what you almost finished in that damn gas station.

Your eyes dart back to his and when you smile like that… like you’re soft for him, sweet even…

He’s done for.

He want’s you—wants to press his face to the curve of your neck—hear your breath stutter when he touches you. He wants to leave his mark so every damn person in this camp knows whose you are.

And the worst part?

You’re not doing a damn thing to stop him from thinkin’ like this.

Your legs shift causing your shorts to ride up your thighs and Daryl to swear under his breath—adjusting in his seat—trying to ignore the pressure building hard and thick in his jeans.

You’re making him crazy.

You always make him crazy.

“Do you regret kissing me?”

“No.”

“I want you to kiss me again.”

The bolt in Daryl’s hand nearly snaps as Carol leans in close to whisper something to you before rising with a soft chuckle. “I’m gonna head in.” She says, voice light. “You kids don’t stay out too late.” Carol walks toward the clearing with a knowing grin, joining the others for the night.

Now it’s just you and him and everything that’s still left unsaid between you. Daryl hasn’t said a word since being forced out of that empty gas station. Every night he sits by this fire and burns for you in silence—leaving you both wondering what would have happened there.

You stretch your body slowly—dragging it out—legs parting, chest rising and eyes falling to his. Daryl’s jaw ticks. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch when your voice cuts the silence.

It’s as soft as the smoke between you.

“You gonna keep staring or say what’s on your mind, Dixon?”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t cross the fire.

Doesn’t dare let himself have this moment.

Not again.

This is a mistake. One that will cost someone their lives. The world’s too far gone to be chasing after some doe eyed girl like a man starved. He knows this better than anyone—but he can’t stop thinking about it.

Fantasizing about it.

Wanting it.

So he watches you.

Starving.

Like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your lips and the way your fingers toy with the hem of your shirt like you don’t know what to do with yourself. He sees it in the way your thighs press together, how your eyes lift up to his then dart away only to come back.

You’re waiting on him to break.

Again.

The fire’s nothing now, just red coals and thin smoke. The fading light flickering over your face, over that slow glowing flush that spreads up your neck and blooms in your cheeks.

You shift.

Tuck your hair behind your ear.

Try not to look at him.

Fail miserably. You can’t stop thinking about what happened—or more importantly what didn’t happen in that rundown gas station. How close you came to finally giving in to this feeling that consumes you.

“Daryl.” His name comes out like a question.

What are we doing?

Do you feel this thing between us?

Do you want me as much as I want you?

Daryl doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Doesn’t let his eyes fall from yours—he just burns in silence.

Like yesterday.

And the day before—and every day since that damn supply run.

The tension between you pulls tighter than his bowstring.

“You’re giving me whiplash.” You whisper with a grin like this is a game. Like he’s not dying inside by denying you. His eyes fall to your shoulder as the material of your shirt falls further down exposing your collarbone to him.

Daryl groans.

His jeans are tight. Too tight and it feels like all of the air burnt up in the fire between you. He shifts once—barely—and the pressure gets worse. You’ve got him worked up with nothing but your eyes and that damn mouth of yours.

You lean forward slightly, chest brushing your knees—shirt dipping further to give him a flash of skin. He whimpers. Your voice is soft. “Whatever happened in that gas station—you wanted it.”

Still no answer but his breathing is different now. Deeper. Rougher. Controlled only by a thread. His eyes flick away for a second.

“Yeah.” His words are low and full of ache. “I do.”

Not did.

The moment isn’t lost—he said do.

Does.

And you smile, moving a little closer.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Like you’re trying not to startle a wild animal. His fingers twitch, cock throbs—unrelenting in the confines of the denim he wants to rip off just to be able to breathe.

“You ever gonna do anything about it?” You ask, voice low and teasing. He doesn’t answer. He can’t. Every time he tries something ruins the moment—what makes this time will be any different?

Daryl glances around the makeshift camp. The night is eerily quiet. There’s traps up around the camp to warn of danger—nothings getting to them without him knowing. So he sits here motionless. Tortured. Skin burning. Breathing like a man trying to survive a fire.

You lean forward, so close your knee brush his. Delicate fingers graze his arm—light, innocent deadly touches. His name falls from your parted lips—this time not in question—more like a plea and it’s not fair. The way you say it like it belongs in your mouth.

Like he belongs there too.

He drops the bolt. Ignoring it in the dirt as his hands clench into fists to try to stop their shaking. His eyes close and for half a second he prays for mercy as you push to your feet and cross the low fire, standing before him—waiting.

Close enough to feel the heat off his skin.

His fingers unclench, trembling as they reach out to curl around your waist. You barely feel it at first—his strong grasp as he pulls.

Pulls you down into his lap as his other hand sinks into the back of your hair, holding you against his chest—mouths close but not touching. Your hands lift instinctively—running over his shoulders, sliding to the back of his neck where his hair curls soft and wild.

Daryl leans into you.

Finally.

His eyes lock on yours, fingers tightening in your hair as you finally move. Not fast. Not desperate. Slow—intimate. Your thighs slide across his—weight sinking down onto him like you belongs there.

And he’s hard.

Painfully hard and he’s holding onto you like his very life depends on it. You lean in—lips brushing against his ear as a soft, desperate sound escapes him.

“Daryl, you’re shaking.”

Like a tremor in the earth before it breaks wide open.

“You want me to stop?” You whisper as his breath hitches and your hips rut against him. Daryl swears under his breath. One word. A breathless rasp that comes out like a warning but he doesn’t stop you. He jerks your hips forward, eyes closing as your lips brush his jaw, ghosting across his mouth as his fingers grip you harder—bruising—bringing a soft moan from inside of you.

“Don’t.” The word vibrates in your chest as you lean back to meet his desperate gaze. “D-don’t what?”

He places his forehead against yours.

“Don’t stop.”

His grip in your hair tightens hard—pulling you to him. Desperate. Possessive. His other hand slides around your back flattening against your spine as he brings you flush against him before finally crushing his mouth to yours.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. It’s everything he’s held back for too long. Teeth. Tongue. Hands that can’t stop gripping, touching. He kisses like he’s drowning in you—like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered to him.

His hips jerk up—completely involuntary—grinding into you in a way that makes both of you gasp. He curses against your mouth, like he hates how good it feels. Like it hurts to want someone this much. Daryl tears his mouth from yours, panting against her neck. “Ya feel that?” You rock your hips over the thick bulge in his jeans and his whole body jerks. “Feel what ya do to me?”

Your fingers rake through his hair, body melting into his. “Y-yeah. I feel you. Feels good.” You whisper as his hands drag down your back—fingers digging in like he’s holding on for dear life.

Because he is.

He’s burning alive.

His hands are everywhere now, rough palms sliding under your shirt, skimming along your ribs and over your breasts. Strong hands capable of feather light strokes making you whimper against his lips as your fingers rake into his hair.

“Fuck.” Daryl groans, voice low and strangled. He grabs your hips—bringing you down to him as his head falls forward, forehead pressing into your collarbone. “I c-can’t…, can’t take much more.”

You can feel him throbbing through his jeans—the tension rippling along his thighs like he’s barely holding it together. “Wanna feel you.” He begs against your skin. “All of you.”

You slow your hips, cupping his face in your hands. “Then take me.” Daryl’s eyes—impossibly blue search yours then glance around the fire to check for interruptions.

If a walker stumbles into this camp right now he’ll burn the whole fucking world to smoke and ash.

“It’s okay. Carol’s watching for us.” You whisper against his lips then he’s kissing you again, sinking his hands into your hair and jerking you closer. This time he doesn’t stop, dragging his mouth to your neck and he nips—sharp enough to make you gasp, gentle enough to make you melt into him further.

You shift in his lap, fumbling for the button of your shorts but your fingers are shaking too bad to work it free. “Let me.” Daryl mutters—calloused fingers popping the button open, dragging your shorts down your shaking thighs. “I got you.” He whispers, holding you steady as he presses his forehead to yours and you lift yourself up just enough—one hand cupping the back of your head while the other works his belt loose.

“Ya sure this is what you want?” Daryl whispers against your jaw. “Y-yes. Daryl. Please.” You groan, kissing him slowly as pulls you down to him—sinking into you in one deep thrust.

“Fuck.” He chokes as you move with him in that slow, relentless rhythm. Every aching thrust. Every desperate breath. Every whispered plea he tries to hold back. You take it all. The tension inside of you coils tighter and tighter, a deep ache building at the base of your spine then spreading like wildfire. You try to chase it, rocking your hips into his—raking your fingers into his hair. You fall into him completely—body shaking, breath catching and when your release hits it’s not a scream, not a sob—it’s the gasp of his name whispered against his mouth while your body shudders in his arms.

And for a moment time stops.

Daryl’s groans turn to whimpers as you wrap yourself around him, let him feel every second of it—every wave of pleasure that quakes inside of you. His hands tremble against your back, memorizing every inch of skin he’s been dying to touch.

“I need you.” Soft words he’s never said before rush from his throat. They cost him more than you’ll ever know. “Not just now. Not just like this. I—” His forehead falls against yours—arms locking around you like a vice as he fucks up into you one last time, coming hard and desperate with a shattered sound that’s so raw it makes your thighs clench. You both ride it out in silence. Heavy breaths. One hand fisting in your hair, the other sliding down to your waist to slow your rocking hips.

Then everything is quiet.

Bodies pressed tight—breaths tangled. His arms lock around you fiercely like he’ll never let you go again.

Daryl stays buried inside of you long after the trembling fades, both of you wrapped in heat and sweat and the scent of firewood. His forehead rests against yours, breath ghosting across your face in shallow puffs.

The only sound is the distant pop of the forgotten fire and the slow calming thud of his heartbeat against yours. His hands move—absent, tender—tracing slow lines down your spine. Calloused fingertips ghosting over the curve of your breast like he still doesn’t believe this is real. You feel him exhale deep and low like he’s finally letting go of something heavy he’s carried too long.

In the quiet, with your heartbeats slowing together you both know there’s no coming back from this.

X

[shelovesosa]

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

Pairing! married!Satoru X f!Reader X satorus!Wife

CW: MDNI!!! Porn with no plot, Pure smut, explicit sex, Threesome M/F/F, Yuri action cause yes.

sum!! You stumbled upon an intimate moment between Satoru Gojo and his wife. When they catch you watching, she’s invited to join — leading to a night of unexpected passion,

You didn’t even mean to wander. You’d just needed a break — too many eyes, too many drinks, too many whispered “Who’s she?”s from women with diamonds bigger than your student loan debt. So you’d slipped away, quiet, past a couple arguing on the patio and a hallway that smelled faintly like sandalwood and sex.

You weren’t snooping. Not exactly. But the door was cracked open. And the moan — that low, deep masculine groan — had practically pulled you forward by the throat. Inside, shadows and skin moved in golden light.

You knew it was them. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. Satoru Gojo. Laughing under his breath, murmuring something low and dirty against his wife’s neck, his hips moving slowly against hers. Her legs were around his waist, dress hitched up to her hips, mouth open in a soundless gasp.

You should have left. But you didn’t. You watched. Heart pounding. Breath caught. Thighs pressed together.

His wife met your gaze — bold, unfazed. Not a flicker of surprise in her expression.

She leaned into Satoru’s ear, lips brushing his skin. He looked up, slowly, as if he already knew what he’d find. You. His pale blue eyes dragged over your body, unhurried. Heavy. Heated.

“Well, well…” Satoru drawled, his voice hoarse from exertion. “Didn’t think anyone else made it down this hallway.”

You should’ve run. Apologized. Faked a wrong turn. But you didn’t. You stayed. And she smiled at that.

She sat up slightly, her silk dress slipping from her shoulder, baring smooth skin and a playful curve of breast. Her voice came low, confident. “Are you just going to stare from the doorway all night, pretty thing… or do you want to find out what we taste like up close?”

Satoru’s hand slid lazily up her thigh, but his eyes were still on you. Hungry.

She turned more fully toward you, her knees falling apart, welcoming — one hand beckoning with two fingers. Her gaze roamed over your parted lips, your breathless expression, the way your legs pressed together just a little.

“I noticed you earlier,” she murmured, heat in every syllable. “Cute little dress. Didn’t think you’d be brave enough to follow.”

Her smile sharpened.

“But I’m so glad you did.”

You swallowed hard, pulse wild, heart racing. Her palm extended in invitation — slow, deliberate — like she already knew you’d come closer.

You step inside. It’s like crossing a threshold into something forbidden. The moment the door clicks shut behind you, the air changes — warmer, heavier, laced with jasmine, sweat, and something primal.

She watches you like a cat watches prey — lazy and calculating. Satoru leans back against the headboard, legs sprawled, his shirt still halfway undone, chest flushed and glistening. The smile playing on his lips is pure arrogance.

“Thought you were shy,” he murmurs, tilting his head at you. “Glad to be wrong.”

Your breath catches as she stands — not in a rush, not flustered. Just… confident. Bare feet against the plush carpet. Her dress slips lower with every step, exposing smooth skin, soft curves, and the curve of her collarbone. She comes right up to you, eyes drinking you in like wine.

Her fingers touch the hem of your dress. “You wore this hoping someone would take it off, didn’t you?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

But you lean in when she kisses you — a soft, experimental brush of lips that turns hungry in a breath. Her hands slip to your waist, fingers sliding under fabric, teasing, coaxing. Her mouth tastes like champagne and something sweeter.

Behind her, Satoru watches with a crooked grin, hand slowly stroking himself as he watches you melt into her touch. “Fuck… you two look good together,” he groans.

She pulls back just enough to whisper, “You’re so warm.” Then, to Satoru, without looking, “She’s shaking.”

“Then come here,” he says. “Let’s warm her up.”

She guides you forward, backing you toward the bed. The silk of her dress falls completely now, pooling at her feet. Every inch of her is confident, sure. When you sit, it’s between the two of them — her lips on your neck, his hand brushing your thigh.

You’re the centerpiece. Her hand skims down your chest, undoing the clasp of your bra with elegant ease. Satoru hums in approval as your skin’s revealed under low golden light.

“Pretty,” he says. “Prettier up close.”

She kisses down your collarbone, and Satoru leans in, capturing your mouth with his — slow and claiming. You moan into him, already dizzy from how soft she feels against you, how warm his mouth is, how right this all seems, even though it shouldn’t.

When her mouth reaches your breasts and his hand slides between your thighs, you realize you’re not sure who’s touching you where. And that’s the most intoxicating part.

You don’t remember who moans first — whether it’s her lips wrapped around your nipple, warm and wet, or Satoru’s fingers teasing just beneath your panties, brushing against soaked fabric.

Your hips twitch toward him, but she pins you down with a soft press of her palm to your sternum.

“Let us take our time,” she purrs, dragging her tongue in a circle over your breast, teeth gently grazing as she looks up through her lashes. “You snuck in. Now you’re ours.”

Satoru laughs softly beside you — rough, low, like gravel soaked in honey. “She talks sweet, doesn’t she?” he murmurs against your ear, his breath hot. “But she’s mean when she wants to be.”

“Only when they beg too fast,” his wife smirks, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your ribs. “Will you beg, pretty thing?”

Your only answer is a gasp as Satoru finally slides his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties, dragging them down, slow and deliberate. He exhales sharply as he sees the mess you’ve already made.

“Fuck,” he groans, brushing a thumb between your folds, collecting slick and spreading it up to your clit in small, teasing circles. “She’s soaked already.”

You whimper as her mouth trails lower, her breath fanning across your stomach. Her tongue flicks out, tasting your skin inch by inch. Satoru leans over, capturing your mouth in a kiss, deeper this time — he kisses like he’s been wanting to for hours, like you’re something rare, fragile, and necessary.

Between your thighs, she moans softly. You feel it — the vibration against your most sensitive place, and your back arches.

Then her mouth is fully on you. Wet heat, steady tongue, and the sinful pressure of her lips against your clit — she knows what she’s doing. Too well.

You try to close your legs, instinctive and overwhelmed, but Satoru pins your thighs open with his hands, eyes fixed on the sight between them. “Look at her eating you up,” he murmurs. “Shit… I could watch this forever.”

She hums in agreement, the sound sending another wave through you. Her tongue slides lower, then circles back up — slow, sensual, patient — as if your body is a luxury she’s savoring.

Your hands grip the sheets. One of Satoru’s hands slides up, tangling with yours, squeezing when your breath hitches.

“Good girl,” he whispers against your jaw, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You gonna come just from her tongue?”

You nod helplessly, too close, too full of fire.

“Let her,” his wife says, voice dark and steady between your thighs. “I want to feel her shake on my tongue.”

You do. And they both watch you fall apart — her mouth never leaving you, his fingers stroking your hair back while his lips press kisses into your temple, your cheek, your throat.

You come with a cry you barely recognize — high and shattered, body writhing between theirs, vision going white.

And they don’t stop. Because the night’s only just begun.

Your breath is still uneven, your thighs still trembling — but even in your haze, you feel the shift.

Her mouth pulls away from you slowly, almost lovingly, and her lips are glistening. She licks them with a smile.

“I knew you’d taste sweet,” she says, brushing her fingers up your inner thigh as she sits up.

Satoru’s gaze is molten. His hair is wild, cheeks flushed, his cock heavy and hard between his thighs — the only part of him untouched so far.

“I’ve been so patient,” he murmurs, his voice thick with restraint, jaw tight. “Don’t I get something for playing nice?”

You and his wife exchange a look — heat sparking between you — and then move in unison.

She wraps her hand around the base of his cock, giving it a slow stroke, while you lean in to kiss just above his navel. He groans as your mouth trails lower, and the moment your lips meet the base of his shaft, he twitches.

You let your tongue glide down, slower this time, past the thick length of him — until your mouth finds his balls.

He lets out a raw, broken moan.

“Fuck, yes…”

You take one into your mouth, sucking gently, tongue swirling. You can feel the tension ripple through him immediately — his abs tighten, his hips lift slightly, almost involuntarily.

Meanwhile, she takes the head of his cock into her mouth with a practiced ease, moaning softly as she sinks lower. Her hand strokes what she can’t fit, saliva sliding down to meet your mouth below. The combination of your lips on his balls and her mouth working his tip has him unraveling fast.

“Holy shit,” he growls, head thrown back, eyes fluttering. “You’re gonna make me fucking lose it—”

His wife pulls off with a pop, smiling up at him, lips glistening. “Not yet,” she says. “She hasn’t had her turn.”

You switch — seamlessly — her tongue licking the underside of his shaft now while you take him into your mouth. He’s hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue. You swirl around the head before sliding down, slow and deep. His moan is long and loud, his fingers twitching at the sheets, like he wants to grab something — anything — but knows better than to ruin your rhythm.

She palms his balls now, then leans in to take one into her mouth the same way you had — wet, warm, deliberate. The groan that rips from his throat is filthy.

You bob your head slowly while she sucks below, her free hand stroking your thigh like encouragement — as if she’s proud of the way you’re making her husband fall apart.

Satoru is panting now, close to begging. “Please,” he gasps, “please, I need—”

But neither of you gives him mercy.

You both keep going, slow and torturous. Mouths and hands moving in rhythm. When you switch again, it’s with a kiss between you — tasting him on each other’s lips — before diving back down.

“I’m gonna come,” he warns, ragged. “I’m—”

And that’s your cue.

You both take him together — one licking at the base, the other swallowing around the head — and that’s all it takes. He comes hard, spilling into your mouth with a groan so loud it fills the room. His thighs jerk, his whole body tensing, unraveling under the two of you.

You take it. All of it. And when you’re done, you share the taste with her — a soft kiss between your lips, wet and messy and perfect.

He slumps back, wrecked. Satoru’s still breathless, but the fire in his eyes hasn’t dimmed. Not even close.

You’re on your hands and knees now, between her thighs, her body laid out like something painted in gold and sin across the bed. Her legs are already parted for you, glistening, open, welcoming — and her fingers slip through your hair the moment your mouth finds her again.

“Just like that,” she gasps, hips twitching as your tongue slides over her folds. “God, you’re good—”

Behind you, Satoru kneels. You hear him spit into his hand, hear the wet slide of his palm over himself as he positions at your entrance. One hand rests on your lower back, the other gripping your hip.

Then— He pushes in, slow but thick and deep, stretching you inch by inch until your moan vibrates into her.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice hoarse. “Tight little pussy… You were made for this.”

He starts to move — smooth, deep thrusts that make your body rock forward, mouth pressed even harder into her. She cries out at the pressure, thighs tightening around your head as your tongue flicks over her clit.

She tastes sweet. Sharp. Her hips start to grind against your mouth, chasing rhythm.

You’re trapped between them in the most perfect way.

Satoru’s hips snap harder now — deeper, rougher — slamming into you from behind. Your moans get caught in her, making her tremble. Her fingers clutch at your scalp, and her other hand reaches back blindly until it finds Satoru’s arm.

“She’s so good with her tongue,” she breathes, eyes fluttering. “Isn’t she, baby?”

Satoru lets out a growl as he slaps your ass once, making you jolt against her. “Yeah, she is,” he pants. “So fucking eager. Such a mess already.”

Your knees are shaking from the rhythm. Your tongue never stops moving — circling, sucking, diving deep — and her moans grow louder, needier, more ragged. She’s dripping now, her body arching into you, head thrown back against the pillows.

“Gonna come again,” she gasps. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

You don’t. And Satoru doesn’t either.

He fucks you deeper, angled just right — his cock hitting that spot over and over, one hand gripping your hip bruisingly tight while the other snakes around to rub your clit, fast and ruthless.

She comes first — with a high-pitched cry, thighs squeezing around your head, hips jerking. Her body shakes beneath your mouth, soaked and shivering as you kiss her through it. You’re next.

Satoru slams into you once more and growls, “Come for me.”

And you do — hard — your mouth muffled against her skin as your entire body tenses, thighs trembling, climax crashing through you so hard it leaves you boneless.

Satoru follows seconds later, groaning your name as he spills inside you, pushing as deep as he can go. His hips stutter before finally stilling, both of you sinking down between her legs.

The room is filled with nothing but panting, the slick sounds of release, and the scent of sweat and sex.

You're all tangled, all ruined — in the best way. Her fingers stroke your hair. Satoru presses kisses down your spine. No one speaks. There’s no need to. Not yet.

[void-kisses]

Just close your eyes

Pairing: Spencer Reid x reader

900 words

Warnings: gn reader, vague description of implied panic attack

Post case anxiety is hard to deal with on your own. When it strikes on the jet and everyone else is asleep, it falls to your more than a friend, less than a boyfriend to help you calm down.

After an incredibly long case, there is nothing you love more than decompressing on the plane. Your response –to relax as soon as you pass the threshold– is near Pavlovian at this point.

The soft hum of the engines is like an oath, a promise that home is on the way and the case is over. You should feel safe. You sit in one of the chairs, expecting calm to come to you like it always does, but it doesn't. As you sit on the cool pleather seats, your heart leaps into your throat. It feels like your head is packed full of cotton. You swear there must be rubber bands wrapped around your chest, preventing you from inhaling any more than a half breath.

Everyone else on the team is asleep. It's fair enough, considering how brutal the case has been on everyone. Hotch –who hadn't slept in what you're pretty sure is at least 48 hours– has passed out, sitting up with a folder still open on the table. Even Garcia is sound asleep. She’s been off all week. She always is when she’s brought along on a case. It makes you calm ever so slightly to see her dozing off on Morgan's shoulder. At least she found some peace.

You're left utterly alone with a creeping weight pooling in your stomach, choking your thoughts like a thick smog. In what should be peace, comfort, resolution, you find no closure. Maybe it's the long nights with only grisly autopsy photos to keep you company, maybe it's the way one of the mothers was screaming when you visited the crime scene, maybe it was the haunted look in the eyes of the last victim you managed to save. Dread sinks into your stomach. It coils in your gut, writhing like a snake. You can't place it.

A paper rustles. It's Spencer. You hadn't realised he was awake. He's usually a bit more active, bouncing his leg or tapping his fingers on the desk. It’s odd to see him like this. He looks so peaceful on the other side of the jet. The sight of him so calm feels surreal, given the looming sensation of dread settled over your shoulders. As a sting of panic wracks through you like lightning –no explanation in sight– you feel the urge to seek comfort in him. Not just an urge, a need. You've been something more than just friends with him for a while, but you've never needed him so badly before.

You're too nervous to approach. He looks so peaceful. You don't want to bother him with this. You wonder if you deserve to bother anyone. A shiver runs through your body, and suddenly you’re on your feet.

He looks up from the book that he's skimming as you approach. His eyes crinkle as he sees you. You feel picked apart in an instant. Under his gaze, you’re laid bare. His sharp mind must have already diagnosed everything wrong with you the instant he laid eyes on you. He hesitates for a beat. Then he puts his book to the side. With a slight shuffle, he makes room for you to join him.

Spencer's arms wrap nervously around you. He guides you down to lie with him. The two of you are precariously crammed on the sofa, at risk of tipping at any moment. His fingers twitch against your arm. He's held you before, and it always takes him a few minutes to get used to the sensation.

The soft wool of his vest scratches against your cheek as you listen to the soft thump-thump of his heartbeat. His chest rises and falls, tight breaths gradually becoming slower as he relaxes into you. He's tentative when he initiates, but by the way he grips your shoulder, you know he craves affection. He licks his lips, hesitating for a moment before speaking.

"You know... It's not uncommon to experience unexplained anxiety after a prolonged period of stress. The increase in cortisol can lead to hypervigilance, which can result in anxiety symptoms appearing when there's no apparent reason," he mutters, the words flying off the tip of his tongue as he draws circles against your back.

He speaks like he's expecting you to cut him off at any moment, but you never do. The longer he holds you, the more he seems to relax from his initial awkwardness. He smells like bergamot and a faint hint of vanilla. There's a spare bottle of this cologne in your medicine cabinet. He smells like home.

"It's… documented, pretty common, even," he continues abruptly. "It's normal for this to happen to agents sometimes… In fact, most agents report delayed emotional responses."

His touch helps make your heartbeat slow back down again. You even hadn't realized it was going so fast. You're sure he knows what he's doing. He's probably researched exactly how to calm someone down from this.

"Physical touch can help..." he offers, softening his voice further. “It releases oxytocin… you know what, nevermind.”

He retightens his grip on you. With a slow exhale, he positions you to lay on top of him like a blanket. One arm drapes over your waist, the other cupping the nape of your neck. He settles in, tucking your head under his chin. He picks up his book again, settling in for the rest of the flight.

He'll be here with you. For the next three hours, for forever if you’ll have him.

[lumosflairr]

Only you, my girl. - Cedric Diggory

summary: While you and Cedric are in a happy relationship, some girls can’t comprehend the fact he’s taken and shamelessly flirt with him. While your aware he wouldn’t dare give them a second thought, it hurts a little. However, Cedric being the amazing boyfriends he is - comes up with an idea to cheer you up!

warnings: none!

You weren’t the jealous type. At least, that’s what you told yourself. But it was hard to ignore the way girls trailed after Cedric in the corridors. The way they giggled too loudly at his jokes, found reasons to “accidentally” bump into him in Herbology, or lingered a little too long when handing him a quill in class.

He never noticed. Or if he did, he didn’t care.

And that should’ve been enough. He was yours. Cedric Diggory, golden boy of Hufflepuff, had picked you — not the girl with the perfect curls in Potions or the Ravenclaw with charm-glossed lips and far too much eye contact. You.

But it still sat heavy sometimes, that quiet ache in your chest. You hadn’t said anything about it, not really. Just smiled a little less some days. Went quiet when a group of girls passed and whispered — not even subtly — about how he was “too pretty to be taken.”

Cedric noticed.

And that’s how you found yourself being led out to the edge of the Hogwarts grounds one sunny Saturday afternoon, hand in his, a picnic basket swinging from the other.

“Cedric,” you laughed softly, trying to keep up with his long strides, “where are we going?”

“Not far,” he grinned. “Just… trust me.”

You did. Of course you did.

He brought you to a small clearing near the edge of the Forbidden Forest — far enough to be safe, close enough to feel like a secret. A patchwork blanket was already laid out, scattered with enchanted wildflowers that shimmered in the sunlight.

“Did you…?” you asked, eyes widening.

“Stole the idea from Flitwick’s third-year lesson,” he said proudly. “And maybe asked Sprout to charm a few extra blooms.”

He helped you sit, then opened the basket with a dramatic flourish. Inside: sandwiches wrapped in parchment, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and pumpkin juice in two little glass bottles.

You blinked. “This is…”

“I know,” Cedric said softly, brushing a hand over yours. “You didn’t say anything. But I noticed.”

Your smile faltered.

“I’m sorry if I made you feel second to anyone,” he added. “Because you’re not. You never are. I’m not oblivious — I know people flirt. But I only look at you.”

You stared down at your joined hands. “I know you’d never cheat or anything. It’s just… sometimes it feels like I have to compete. Like I’m supposed to prove I’m enough for the boy every girl wants.”

Cedric’s voice was gentle. “Love. You’re not competing. You already won. Its only you in my heart.”

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and he was looking at you with such honesty it made your chest tighten.

“Want to know what I think every time someone flirts with me?” he asked, tilting his head.

You nodded.

“I think, ‘That’s sweet, but I’m already completely, helplessly in love with someone else.’” He smiled — a little crooked, a little bashful. “And that someone’s sitting across from me eating all the strawberries.”

You blinked. Looked down. You had eaten half the bowl.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumbled around a bite, cheeks burning.

“Nah,” he said, leaning in to kiss your temple. “Just good enough.”

You spent the rest of the afternoon curled up against him under the trees, sunlight filtering through the branches as he held your hand and told you every ridiculous, rambling reason why you were more than enough.

By the time the stars came out, the ache in your chest was long gone — replaced by the warm certainty that Cedric Diggory was yours, and he’d never make you feel like you were anything less than his favorite person in the whole world.

[formula-fun]

please do tell the max yuki thesis I BEG

this whole thing was borne out of anatomy of a champion, max's docuseries from 2022 which goes into his relationships with his family and also features a lot of yontent (yuki content). honestly i opened it to check that the scene i was thinking of was still there but got sidetracked for like an hour. there were obstacles to my research. but anyway

so max and yuki are honestly kinda similar people and they tend to balance each other out a lot better than anyone gives them credit for! they both like to laugh, they have kinda crass childish senses of humor, and they spend a lot of time together doing media for red bull, often without their teammates. i think we were all blinded by yukierre when yuki first joined the team because their dynamic was so strong, but ever since pierre left it's been more and more often yuki max. it's fun and people like it: they both like roughhousing and swearing and playing around with weird cars, and it's just generally good tv.

in 2022 pierre was out of alphatauri, yuki was partnered with nyck de vries (remember nyck de vries?) and max was shooting anatomy of a champion. 2022 was also the year yuki was sent to mandatory anger management class, and aoac brings this up multiple times to 1. show how stupid all the drivers but particularly max think it is, 2. point out that max has gotten a similar reputation for being violently angry when all he really wants to do is drive, and 3. segue into the fact that jos has an extremely well documented bad temper and has acted violently toward many people throughout the course of his life, including his son.

you'd expect the scenes between yuki and max in this to be kinda fun and silly, and they sort of are? but there are also these weirdly heavy introspective moments where yuki is watching jos come out to greet max or max is staring unblinking into the middle distance while yuki talks about his anger management classes. and again i read into EVERYTHING but you can kind of see where the comparison is drawn, that there's a recognition between their two situations. they're both so similar to one another and so different to their shared reputations that it's a shock anyone got it so wrong

but yeah anyway

yuki is now in his 5th year at red bull. he's been in the family with max literally a few months less than daniel and max were in it together, which is wild. in a way he and max have had kind of similar journeys here: they both were welcomed in by an older teammate who they were extremely close with but who then left, and they've been eating the replacements alive ever since. they travel a lot together, they do a lot of media together (and sometimes it seems like they put max with yuki just to get him to crack a smile or two), and they've both grown and changed a lot since yuki joined in 2021. they've seen the team's most dominant era, and they've also seen it enter the tailspin that's brought us to where we are now. i think it's easy to see max as the one who's outlasted all his teammates, the only one who can survive in that environment, the golden boy etc etc but. yuki's been in the red bull family too, this entire time. he's seen all the same shit max has and he's dealt with the team's racism and control on top of it.

there's just something about it, idk. compels me

[in1-nutshell]

…tfa!Optimus Prime x Vespa?

Okay?!

Did not expect this to be a ship, but also I can see the vision!!!

Hope you enjoy!

3 times Vespa saw Optimus as a friend and the 1 time she saw him as something more

SFW, Platonic, Slight Angst, Romance, Cybertronian reader

TFA

Number 1. Pond watching

Optimus had been feeling the effects of burnout for a good couple of days.

He could relax, but he had a team to take care of and Cons to worry about.

Relaxing could wait.

An idea that didn’t sit well with Vespa.

She had been taking carefully observing the Prime’s activities and found it a bit alarming the limited amount of rest he was getting.

The smaller bot knew that if something didn’t happen soon, he would collapse.

So, an idea was made.

Vespa walks straight up to the Prime. Vespa: “You come with Vespa.” Optimus blinked. Optimus: “What?” Vespa just grabbed his servo and started leading him out. Vespa: “Come with Vespa.” Optimus, confused as ever, just follows.

He was a bit annoyed when they arrived at the ponds.

The only reason Optimus had left the Plant was because he thought Vespa needed him for something important.

Apparently pond watch was on that list.

He did try to go back to the Plant but was surprised when Vespa stopped him.

And by stopping him, Vespa had jumped onto his back and covered his optics, refusing to let go until he continued the pond watch with her.

She was going to make sure her friend relaxed!

Eventually Optimus decided to humor her for a bit and watch the ducks.

The planned 10 minutes turned into 3 hours of duck watching, petting and having long talks about life on Earth.

Mission Relax Prime was a success!

Number 2. Paint job

Vespa’s old color scheme had become faded and dull.

The last mission involving all that dust and dirt didn’t do any favors.

She had been going through every color pallet Sari had offered and had finally managed to land on one she liked.

Now the only question was who she could trust to get those hard-to-reach places.

Most of the team was out doing their own things… except Optimus.

Perfect!

One minute Optimus was planning on re-organizing some of his old datapads, the next, he was sitting down and carefully applying the first coat of paint on Vespa’s back.

Optimus: “Hey Vespa, why me?” Vespa hummed a bit confused. Optimus: “Why did you choose me to do this? I’m sure Bumblebee or Bulkhead could have done this for you. Not to mention they have a better knowledge of Earth paints than I do.” Vespa paused for a bit before speaking. Vespa: “Prime already here.” Optimus: “Ah…” But Vespa continues. Vespa: “And Vespa trust Prime with paint. Bumble bot can’t paint. Bulky servo too shaky. Prime servo steady. No mistakes.” Optimus just smiled at the compliment and the confession of trust. Trust that did not come easy for a bot like Vespa.

Number 3. Thunderstorms

A nasty thunderstorm had rolled in a couple of weeks since Vespa joined the team.

She didn’t even know that this planet could produce these kinds of things!?

It was the middle of the night when the first claps of thunder and lightning rang out.

The poor bot was petrified feeling how close they were.

She hated it.

It brought up to many memories of the stockades…

Vespa didn’t want to wake anyone up so she decided that maybe walking around the Plant would do her good.

It would at least take her mind off things.

And it worked for the first few softer thunderclaps.

Then a rather loud one startled her and immediately ran into the nearest room and hid under the closest thing she could find.

Vespa couldn’t stop shaking, keeping her servos over her helm and screwed her optics shut.

She nearly screamed when a much larger servo held her’s.

But the bot could recognize that soft hold anywhere.

Vespa slowly opened her optics to meet Optimus concerned ones. Optimus: “Vespa? What are you doing here? Is there something wrong?” Vespa was about to answer when another loud claps of thunder shook the ground. She made herself smaller under the berth, gripping the Prime’s servo tightly. He didn’t scream or say much. The larger bot just sat down near her and continued to let his servo be used as a stress ball. Optimus: “You’re safe Vespa. You’re safe here.” It took a bit for her to come out from under the berth and sit down next to him. There was no judgement or disgusting stares. Just silence. Vespa: “…sounds like in stockades… too loud…too much…” Optimus wordlessly allows the smaller bot to scoot closer to him as more claps came around. She was still shaking but lessened when he placed his arm around her. Vespa: “Vespa sorry for waking Prime bot up…” Optimus shook his helm. Optimus: “You have nothing to apologize for. We’re here for you, I’m here for you. And if you ever want to talk about what you went through or maybe about the ducks again, I’d be honored to be the shoulder you come for.” Vespa just looks at him in shock and looks back down at their now intertwined servos. The Prime notices her tighten grip on his arm. Vespa: “…Thank you… Optimus…”

Number 1. Con attack

The entire team was called out to the city.

The Cons were trying to attack a steel warehouse when they got there.

As much as the Cons scared the paint off Vespa, she managed to not run for the hills.

Besides, her job was to make sure all the humans had evacuated in time.

Soon enough it was just Sari and the Professor that needed to go.

Before she could shoo them away, the smaller bot was suddenly caught by the back of her neckcables and held up.

Vespa desperately clawed at the larger servo and tried to get out his grip.

Apparently Starscream thought it was a good idea to take this smaller bot hostage.

Keeping her in the base for a few days would surely give him enough time to think of the best exchange!

Vespa’s wide optics stared directly into Starscream’s. Starscream just smirked. Starscream: “Oh don’t give me that look. You’ll have a lovely cage once we leave for the Decepticon base.” The thrashing only increased after the word ‘cage’. Starscream just laughed at the smaller bots pitiful attempts to free herself. Starscream: “Look at you squirming! Do you really believe you can hit me?” Optimus spots Vespa dangling from Starscream’s hold. He doesn’t even register the yell before his pede came in contact with the back of the Con’s neck. The Seeker let out a loud squawk, releasing Vespa in the process. Vespa flipped onto her back and groggily sat up. Optimus was throwing punch after punch with a type of anger she had never seen before. Optimus: “Don’t! You! Ever! Touch! Her!” Vespa felt her frame grow warmer. Soon her vision of Prime was replaced with one of a concerned Bumblebee and Sari. Sari: “Vespa! Come on we gotta go!” Vespa just tried to look past them. Vespa: “But Optimus—” Bumblebee helped her up, hoisting her on his back piggy back style. Bumblebee: “Boss bot’s got this. But we need to go!” The warm feeling in her chassis didn’t go away, not even after the fight. A strange yet inviting feeling the smaller bot welcomed the second she saw the Prime’s relived face.

[rankheresy]

Alright everybody, the competition is officially up and running! Everyone has been assigned an order in the writing queue, and a prompt has been chosen. Now cometh the information!

The spreadsheet

We have comprised all the pertinent information for this challenge here.

Here you will find your place in the line, the due dates, links to the fics that have been written for this competition, the prompt the person before you decided on based on the fic they were given, and the status of the ongoing fic. You will also see who is willing to switch their place in the line with you.

Due to me being a neat freak, I will divulge editing privileges to none. You may comment however, so if you wish to signal that you are open to swapping your place in the line then let me know and I'll toggle you as a green "yes”. If we accidentally gave you a horrific slot, let us know and we can move ordering.

Unlike most competitions, the due dates here are pretty strict, because the next person in the queue is dependent on what comes before them (which means having enough time to read or think). If you can’t make it for whatever reason, let us know and we’ll see if anyone can swap in.

(If brainstorming, writing, and posting a fic all within a week is daunting: take your comfort in knowing all of us are in the same boat.)

As you can see, there is one available slot: we can fill this ourselves, or one among you may choose to write twice.

When you post

Please post your fic to this challenge on Ao3. 

When you do so, also put down your fic as “Inspired by” and link to the fic you based yours on, as well as the prompt you decided on in the summary.

I forgot what this competition was about/Wait, I’m confused

Everyone who signed up for this competition put down a prompt. From these prompts, one was randomly chosen to prompt the first fic. The next person in line will then use that first fic as inspiration for whatever they write, and they may be as closely or loosely inspired as they please. Lawrence of Arabia inspires Dune inspires Star Wars inspires Eragon.

We shall have a genealogy of fics where you may not be able to draw a clear line from Lawrence of Arabia to Eragon, but you can see how Dune inspired Star Wars.

If you have questions, let us know!

Oh no I wanted to sign up. Is it too late?

Yes and no. You can let us know you want to join the conga line by DM, and we’ll give you the available slot or, if that too is taken, put you on the waitlist in case anybody backs out.

Is a summer competition ending in October really a summer competition?

What do you want from us.

[blaze-sets-fires]

Being grabbed from behind startled Blaze. The swallowing darkness seeming to churn. Almost alarmingly so. The hand around the front of his neck wasn’t violent in a sense Blaze would expect it to. It was more to hold him against the body of his assailant. The immediate reaction was to break away. But the familiar breath against his ear, the sharp tip of a fang just barely enough to draw blood. More a tease than anything else.

“You look well…for a ghost.“ Dante’s voice said.

It was difficult to pull out of the vampiric allure being so carelessly thrown at him. But he managed, and the vampire let him move away.

He turned to face the vampire, slowly. Jerky movements tended to excite them. And Blaze didn’t fancy being dinner. At least not to Dante.

Dante stood still as a statue as Blaze gave him a once over.

Cocking his head, Blaze’s lips twitched a bit. “Same to you. Not even crispy.”

The two stood there for a moment, sizing each other up. Neither sure what was happening. Finally it was Dante who spoke first.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.” He said with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “No feathers.”

The familiar phantom pain of his wings made him stiffen. But his smirk was cold as ice. “I downsized.” He replied.

“Evidently so.” The vampire mused, moving to circle lazily around Blaze. Then he huffed. “Always so damned pretty. Vlad never did appreciate true beauty. Until you.”

The instinct to wince was difficult to ignore, but he managed. His eyes narrowed though, once Dante came back into eyesight. He frowned. “You weren’t there.” He realized. “That night…with the nephilim.”

Dante’s lips twitched into a feral smile. “Well color me surprised. Guess you aren’t just a blood bag.”

“You weren’t there.” Blaze repeated, not taking the bait.

“Neither were you.” He replied cooly. “Not when I got there. Funny how you ran. Once things got messy. I never did understand why Vlad kept you.”

Blaze blinked, pressing his lips together. He often wondered the same damned thing. But the accusation in Dante’s eyes. That wasn’t right. “That wasn’t my fault.”

Dante laughed, though it was anything but a happy sound. “Which part? The fiery inferno or the death by nephilim?”

His throat went dry. “Neither.” He said softly. “I didn’t…I wouldn’t.”

The vampire stepped closer then. Blaze could see the darkness in his eyes. “Wouldn’t you though? A warlock in a seethe of vampires? Didn’t you ever wonder why you were never turned? Why none of the stronger vampires were allowed to feed off you? You were Vladimir’s little puppet.”

“I was not.” Blaze snapped, squaring his shoulders to try and look bigger than he was.

“Found by chance. Kept by necessity. He needed your power. And he needed it to be unharnessed. To do the most damage.”

“For what?” Blaze asked, his voice cracking slightly as his nerve seemed to fade away.

Dante shrugged. “Whatever he wanted I suppose. Let’s be real here…warlocks are the only downworlders to strike fear into the hearts of nephilim. Magic.” He snapped his fingers and made a sweeping gesture. “Poof! Up in flames.”

Blaze shook his head. Whether it be the alcohol he consumed or the conversation, something felt off. Very off. “I don’t understand.”

“Do you ever wonder why vampire seethes like ours move around? And others like the ones here in Chicago stay put? Chicago has Magnus Bane. A warlock. Protecting all of the downworlders here. Not only the vampires.”

Dante watched Blaze lazily for a moment, though his dark eyes were calculating. Blaze’s teeth clenched threatening to chatter.

Dante took that as a cue to keep going. “The real feud is between the nephilim and the warlocks. We vampires? “ He shrugged. “We survive like the leeches we are. You being a vampire wouldn’t make much sense. You can’t control your power. There are crossbreeds. But they don’t tend to last very long. Not on their own.”

Blaze shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you though?” Dante snapped. “I sent the nephilim after you. I told them you caused that fire. Vlad only had to let them have you. Instead… his head ended up on a pike. And you ran like the little rodent you are.”

Flame sparked in Blaze’s eyes. The chattering in his teeth sounding like crackles of fire. “You… that’s why you weren’t there? Because you betrayed us? “

“Us? That’s cute. You aren’t a vampire. You aren’t really a warlock either are you? But you brought the nephilim on our heads. Multiple times. And you continue on… and my family is dead. Just like yours.”

Blaze blinked back raging tears. “The nephilim were…”

“The nephilim came to your village because someone told them about the young warlock there. They didn’t lay hands on you that night. Thanks to us.”

“I killed them.” Blaze replied. His anger continuing to simmer just below the surface. “The ones that you sent after your family. Every last one of them. What’s keeping me from doing the same to you?”

Dante’s lips twitched into a chilling smile as the shadows started to lick up around him. “Another thing about vampires.” He said as he disappeared into the darkness. Only his voice echoed. “We aly ourselves to someone stronger.”

Blaze gasped suddenly, taking a step backwards into Dante who had appeared behind him. This time when Dante caught him by the throat, it was to jerk him closer to his bite.

[marshmallowgoop]

Yoshio Urasawa AMV MEP Sign-Ups!

I'm hosting a weirdly specific Detective Conan MEP (Multi-Editor Project)—one focused on the eleven episodes written by Yoshio Urasawa, set to YUNGBLUD's "weird!"

If you don't recognize the name Yoshio Urasawa, you might recognize another: Smile Village. Urasawa is a Conan screenwriter known for penning the wackiest, most outrageous scripts, like "Intrigue at Smile Village" (Episode 997) and "The Genius Restaurant" (Episode 1,089). This is a MEP to celebrate these oddities, with one part per Urasawa episode!

All oddities in question:

Episode 943: "Tokyo Barls Collection" (cabbage core)

Episode 955: "The Secret of the Insect Man" (bug outfits)

Episode 976: "Follow Them! Detective Taxi" (armadillo)

Episode 997: "Intrigue at Smile Village" (does it need explaining)

Episode 1,010: "The Idol Whose Smile Disappeared" (dine and dash)

Episode 1,028: "Ballad of the Woman Who Loved Cake" (drowning in red bean paste)

Episode 1,057: "Bad Guys" (they really want to throw Conan off a roof)

Episode 1,067: "The Shopping Center In Love" (wrestling)

Episode 1,089: "The Genius Restaurant" (candy is for babies)

Episode 1,119: "The Four-Person Class Reunion" (host clubs are serious business)

Episode 1,126: "The Detective Who Lost His Mind" (most normal Urasawa episode)

How It Works

Open to editors of all levels!

As stated, each part will focus on one of Urasawa's episodes. While bringing in other sources from the anime or manga is permitted, the majority of each part should be the one Urasawa episode.

No style guidelines or color scheme! The only guideline is to be weird!

Please render your part in 29.97 FPS. If using Sony Vegas, please disable resample.

There is no preference on file format.

If possible, leave at least 15 extra frames at the end of your part for transition purposes.

The final MEP will be posted to this Tumblr and my YouTube channel. There will be optional subtitles on the YouTube upload, but the Tumblr upload will be hardsubbed with stylized subs like this sign-up video (though they're subject to change). Subtitles will be positioned to not cover up any editor's typography.

Deadline is 23 March

Sign-ups will remain open until 23 February. Any unclaimed parts will then be claimed by me and/or anyone interested in editing more than one part.

Sign-Ups

A sign-up form can be found here! Or, if you prefer, let me know the following in a comment/message/ask/etc.:

The episode and part you'd like to edit with

Would you be interested in editing more than one part?

Current parts under the cut!

Parts

Intro: Fake Name Part 1: Conan Ray Graves! - Episode 955: "The Secret of the Insect Man" Part 2: Jecka1021 - Episode 1,089: "The Genius Restaurant" Part 3: dipndops - Episode 1,010: "The Idol Whose Smile Disappeared" Part 4: Kava Plays - Episode 997: "Intrigue at Smile Village" Part 5: MarshmallowGoop - Episode 1,126: "The Detective Who Lost His Mind" + Episode 1,155: "Follow Them! Detective Taxi 2" Part 6: Jecka1021 - Episode 1,119: "The Four-Person Class Reunion" Part 7: Caliowl 333 AMVs - Episode 1,028: "Ballad of the Woman Who Loved Cake" Part 8: MarshmallowGoop - Episode 1,067: "The Shopping Center In Love" Part 9: dipndops - Episode 976: "Follow Them! Detective Taxi" Part 10: Liz Winchester - Episode 1,057: "Bad Guys" Part 11: MarshmallowGoop - Episode 943: "Tokyo Barls Collection"

[steinbit]

people don't know The Struggle of being a #TrueWinterhead and also living på sunnmøre ☝️😭

[tetohe]

Hana-Rawhiti's Haka was entirely appropriate, not only given the situation, but in keeping with the way Māori do things.

In formal situations, such as a pōwhiri (English might be something like a welcoming ceremony?), speakers always end with a haka or a waiata (song). This is exactly what she did. She spoke when it was her turn to speak, then started the Haka. It is also keeping with tradition that others joined in, including those in the public gallery. While it's the speaker's duty to lead the haka, or nominate someone to do it for them, it is then open for anyone else to join in and support it. The haka and the speech are attached, so supporting the haka is also supporting the speech.

Approaching Seymour is a little more unusual, but that's only because most formal situations like this are between peaceful groups. However, it also makes an important point. The speech and haka were not against the space, not against the mana of parliament. It was against Seymour and his supporters. So approaching him makes that clear where it's directed.

Given this, the speaker's response show utter ignorance and contempt for Maori ways. If he had any understanding of how any of this works, he could've simply waited for the Haka to conclude, then called on the next speaker. As the Māori Party were keeping with tradition, they would've had to respect that, and sit. Instead, he closed down parliament and cleared the public out. He made this contentious, and took what is traditional as in insult.

Seymour's response is no better, complaining about wanting a "reasonable debate" instead of a "dance", ignoring that the Māori party has been debating this, along with almost every other institution in the country, since the draft was released. This was the party's final word, their final push back against his racist bill.

This, in a nutshell, is what the government thinks of Māori. Ignorance and contempt. No attempt to blend traditions, or even basic understanding. Just constant demands to conform. It's hidden behind manners, but it's the same civilised vs savages racism that's justified colonialism for centuries.

Hana-Rawhiti acted with amazing poise and mana. Toitū te Tiriti!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson