#learning how to write is challenging and fun and you only learn to do that by doing

[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 💔

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🌙 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

[mandaloriankait]

Sweet Dreams

A/N: This is my second entry for @almostempty and @/gothcsz's EAT!2025 challenge! I, once again, had a lot of fun writing this. I got the sleep paralysis demon prompt with Clint....scary, I know. 😉

Warnings: dub/noncon, oral(f!receiving), unprotected pinv, horror elements

Tagging @nonbinairyboi

You crept from shadow to shadow, your own stretching out to make shapes only visible in the most horrid of nightmares. Typically, you had to go around and terrorize several people a night in order to not fade from existence; not tonight though. You could feel him, his pain and violent tendencies called to you through the dark misty shadows that you called home. You shifted into existence in his run down apartment and made your way through the shadows into his bedroom. You see him, stretched out on the bed, his long, broad frame barely fitting on the small mattress. 

Slowly, you shifted over to him until you hung on the ceiling above him, long stringy hair partially obscuring your vision. You reach down, grasping the headboard with a set of obsidian claws before you settled on top of him, knees pressed on either side of his broad body. One of the benefits of being a demon is how flexible your body is. You shuffled up until you're sat on his chest, your cunt throbbing in time to his pulse. 

You had been following the man, Clint Flood, you had learned, for almost a month now. The violence called to you, and there was so much of it. So much pain in one man was almost unheard of in your realm. However, the man rarely slept, so haunted was he by the pain in his head and heart. Tonight was the first night you had been able to see him asleep, with his guard down. Tonight, he was yours for the taking. You slid a hand into his hair, scratching his scalp lightly with your claws as you slowly woke him up. 

His eyelids fluttered, then opened fully, widening at the sight of you: pale, almost translucent skin, thin, skeletal body, obsidian claws long enough to be daggers. You held one of those claws up to your dark lips, pale irises flashing at him as you grinned, showing your sharp teeth. He sucked in a deep breath, only for it to come out in rapid puffs once he realized he couldn't move, couldn't speak. The two of you stared at each other until you took pity on him, pressing a claw to his mouth and allowing him the ability to speak. “What the fuck are you?”, he croaked out, voice rough from sleep.

You struggled for a second, unused to using your voice. Finally, it came out in a rasp, sending shivers down Clint's spine. “I'm your worst nightmare. Your pain…..it called to me.”, you said, staring down at him. You pressed a claw to his throat and he tensed as you ran it across his jugular lightly. “Tonight….you're mine.” He huffed out another breath, trying in vain to move his arms, his legs, anything to get you off of him. All he could do was breathe and groan in frustration. You sensed something else, however; his cock, stirring in his boxers. You cackled, a deep, grating sound that came from your ribs. “You like this, do you?”, you asked, caressing his cheek with the back of your hand. He struggled to move away, but he was still paralyzed, at your mercy completely. 

You stretched an arm back without moving, shoulder popping out of its joint in order to deal with the backwards motion. Your hand slid into his boxers, lightly trailing your claws down his cock. “Get the fuck off of me!”, he groaned, but his cock twitched under your claws. Carefully, you wrapped your hand around him, sliding up and down until he let out a completely different kind of groan. This one was soft, filled with need and barely concealed lust. “There we go, I'm not so bad now, am I?”, you asked, sharp teeth flashing in the moonlight shining through the window. 

You continued to fist his cock, alternating between that and trailing your claws up and down him, leaving scratches in your wake. His pained groans were like music to your ears, allowing you to draw some power from him in the process. Then, you stopped, withdrawing from him completely. Clint let out a low whine that caught in the back of his throat. You shuffled further up onto him until your bare cunt was in his face, his aquiline nose pressed against your clit. You let out a rough moan at the contact before lowering yourself onto his mouth. Circling your hips, you ground down onto his mouth, taking what you wanted as he lay there, helpless and unable to move. 

Surprisingly, his tongue dipped into your pussy, sliding through your folds and up to your clit in one swipe. You threw your head back, clawed hands grasping at the headboard as he started to eat you out ferociously. You moaned as he shoved his tongue deep into your cunt, lapping and pressing against spots you didn't even know you had. Letting out a deep whimper, one of your hands slid into his hair, cupping the entirety of his head with your claws as you ground down harder against his talented mouth. Finally, he latched onto your clit and sucked hard; you were cumming in an instant, letting him work you through it as your hips spasmed. 

You pulled away from him, admiring the bloody scratches you left in his scalp as you came down from your high. You glanced backwards; he was still hard, seemingly unbearably so. You grinned then, all sharp teeth. Looking down at him, the lower half of his face covered in your slick, you groaned. The sound came out like a rattle, traveling through the air and sending another shudder down Clint's spine. He knew you were evil, but he couldn't help but want more. Clint stared up at you, holding your gaze with more strength than you thought he'd possessed. 

Finally, you ran a claw down both his arms and his chest; as soon as he realized he could move, he sat up, gripping your waist tightly. You let him move you the way he wanted, letting him sink you down onto his cock with no warning. Clint grunted as he bottomed out, head coming to rest in your neck. You wrapped one hand around the back of his neck before you started moving your hips, causing him to groan deeply. You pushed your claws into his neck, just enough to draw blood and some of the pain he was holding onto. As it stabilized you, you started moving your hips faster, your other hand coming to rest on his abdomen, keeping him from bucking into you. “Fuck, please. I need to fuck you.”, Clint groaned, hips straining against your touch. As strong as he was, he was still no match for you as you drug more and more of your power out of him. When his eyelids started to flutter, you stopped, pulling your claws out of him. You leaned forward and licked a stripe up his neck, tasting the blood spilling out of his wounds. 

Your hips continued to grind against his own, slowly, way too slowly for him. He tipped his head back, releasing a groan into the room as you refused to let him move even an inch. You continued to take what you wanted, claws leaving marks up and down his body as you siphoned your power from him. Finally, you granted him full mobility; as soon as he realized that, you were flipped over onto your back. Clint started pounding into you with force, his eyes rolled back in his head as you clenched around him. He fucked into you so hard that your head smacked into the headboard; you grinned at the pain, becoming more powerful by the second. As he neared his climax, you suddenly flipped you both easily, causing him to stare up at you in surprise. You started bouncing up and down on his cock, and his hands came to rest on your hips, gripping until you thought the bones might break under his touch. The thought of that much violence and pain caused your eyes to roll back in your head, grinning at the ceiling as you continued to move. 

His groans and the rattling of your breath filled the room as you both neared your peaks. Clint reached down, thumbing roughly at your clit and causing you to clench down on him, gushing all over his cock, a guttural cry spilling from your lips. He followed suit, groaning deeply as his hips stuttered and finally stilled, pressed deep into you. Clint was breathing heavily as he looked up at you, then at where you were still joined. When he looked at you again, you had changed.

 Still monstrous, but somehow more so. Your hair now floated around your face, tips plunged into inky black shadows that swirled around you. Your body became even more skeletal, bones poking out from under deathly pale skin. Your claws had gotten even longer, if that seemed possible. Clint tried to move away, but suddenly found he was once again paralyzed. You grinned down at him, your teeth sharpened into fangs. “What, did you think I was going to let you go? I told you, you're mine.”, you growled, pushing your claws into his chest, right over his heart. He groaned in pain, desperately trying to move as you siphoned all that pain, all that violence from him.

 Even though you were sated, you couldn't help but keep going. Still you drained him, until the light faded from his eyes and his body was nothing more than a twisted husk beneath you. You twisted yourself off of him, returning to the ceiling with enough power to keep you sated for a week, at least. You grinned down at his body, content with his sacrifice, before twisting back into the shadows, back into the realm from whence you came. 

[undomesticated-animal]

Some tags from @hyenaboycunt, @darethebrave, and @seimsisk that really cut to the quick of what I was trying to do here.

Tag Set #1

#absolutely love this piece#it took a moment for me to properly catch on since i dont think ive encountered written spanglish before#relevant linguistic background for me:#monolingual english speaker‚ 3 years of latin in HS‚ & familiar with pronunciation rules for spanish#plus a few friends/acquaintances who've spoken spanglish around me (but they're not consistently part of my life)#so i did the monolingual thing and focused on the obviously english paragraphs first#but once i grokked what i was looking at i started over#when reading English i dont really have an internal voice. i usually know the words and what they mean#(i sometimes completely miss out on written puns because of this‚ funny enough)#anyway. i started over. and i know the pronunciation rules but i dont have much experience reading spanish.#so i had to sound out a lot of it (internally) while i was reading.#and i was surprised by how much i understood when i could “hear” the words#even if i absolutely couldn't translate them.#and i did have to look to the english paragraphs for help of course‚ but less often than i expected#it's funny too that i was reminded of two people in my life who i hear speak like this. one is a friend's mother and i can HEAR the way#the way she says “mijo” to her son (my friend)#the other is a family friend I haven't thought of in YEARS but this writing has me hearing her voice and seeing her mannerisms so clearly.#I'm enamored with how actually thinking about the *sounds* both 1) made this exponentially more comprehensible to me#and 2) brought to mind the voices of family friends speaking to their children#it feels so very much like *home*#not my specific home. but it's something I've personally only heard spoken in places that *feel* like home.#really wonderful writing here Domi.#there's more thoughts churning but ironically words fail me. and tragically i dont have any other languages i can try

Tag Set #2

#i haven’t used my three years of high school spanish in quite a while#but what a linguistically fun reading challenge!#also a very good poem OP thank you for sharing#it was neat to catch the little differences between the paragraphs#art#poetry

Tag Set #3

#this sentence applies to all languages I think#everyone go read op's tags please#I do not speak Spanish but I can read it more of less fluently because I'm Brazilian and it just works like that#reading the spanglish versions felt so good#and I related to so much of it even if my circumstances are completely different#I have been through the experience of trying to date in English and it was such a mess#how to explain to a gringo the meaning of carinho? carente?

I had a really public meltdown a few months back because something happened during a date that made me realize I had slowly let my entire love life happen in English. And while I didn't [and still don't] feel like the answer is to demand that my partners learn Spanish in order to talk with me, I did realize that part of why I felt so thoroughly alienated from affection in my relationships is because it is in Spanish and Spanglish that I feel verbal care and affection. English feels....sterile and professional. Which is maybe a reasonable outcome of a world where "home" welcomes my polyglot behavior and "the rest of the world" gets irritated with me for requiring extra work of them to communicate.

It somehow never seems to occur to people that the work they dislike having to do for me will have to get done regardless, and what they are objecting to is literally my attempt to not carry and perform all of that work alone and unsupported in relationships that are meaningful to me.

That's a dynamic that's hard to vocalize to others unless they already internally recognize the experience and can pick up on it.

My partners still don't speak Spanish. But these days I do. Almost universally in my relationships, Spanish and Spanglish are verbalized markers of my feelings of intimacy, care, and trust in another. I use more over time as I become comfortable, I rely almost exclusively on common MexíCalí pet names and diminutives for partners, and the more relaxed/less rigidly self-managed I am, the more likely I am to simply reach for Spanglish first and foremost.

When I wrote this, I wrote the English paragraphs first. It took a little while, but it was doable because I use English A LOT in my professional and personal life obviously. Next I wrote the Spanish. This was harder. I have few people to keep up with, so I was anxious about mixing up my spelling, my grammar, my vowel modifiers, etc. I did a lot more checking and rechecking of my work to ensure that I was not misremembering my conjugations and grammatical structures.

I wrote the Spanglish last. I wrote it in under five minutes. I wrote it without once feeling the need to confirm my grammar or vocab. I wrote it and immediately felt it conveyed my tone and intention far better than either monolingual version. It was the closest thing I've ever felt to not having to "translate" my thoughts for someone else, and I spent a little time after just quietly having a cry about reaching my 30s before ever letting myself write the way I think, before letting myself trust my partners and loved ones with this part of me that is so integral to how it feels to be at home with another person.

I actually considered recording myself speaking the poem aloud because I agree with @hyenaboycunt that the way I write is meant to be read aloud, not read in one's mind, and there were several times reading it to myself that I realized reading it would lose something too. Several words where my accent and pronunciation was not the same as the language of the word itself, or where the blending went further than simply mixing and matching words within a sentence. I still might take a recording, we'll see. I really do think it's the next logical place for this art piece to go. But I also know that speaking is so raw and vulnerable to me, and while I would typically just have someone else do the recording, this is a circumstance where that wouldn't solve the issue at all. It has to be me. And ironically, that's what may end up limiting me from being able to do it. Yet again, my relationship with language being complicated creates barriers to communication that even *I* can barely recognize without real intentional thought. How can I expect others to see how much I do to be understood when I can barely admit it to myself?

En íngles, y otra vez in Spanish

No sé to describe mi relationship con mi lingua. Complicado, I suppose. No sé qué the words that will come en mi mente primary, y sometimes es difícil traducir between las idiomas. Creo que most people figure translation ser word-for-word, pero no es menos un pequeño here and there. Sometimes I look for las palabras exactamente por way too long y sientame abrumado. People act like eres estúpido if words are hard for you. Y adorame cual ser talking down a mi en bed, pero tiempo otros I get so angry when people decide no es importante para mi tiene tiempo enough communicarse. I don’t know how to describe my relationship with language. Complicated, I suppose. I never know which words will come to me first, and sometimes it’s hard to translate between languages. I think people expect translation to be word by word, but it so rarely is. Sometimes I search for the correct replacement word for way too long and it makes me feel so overwhelmed. People treat you like you’re stupid if you struggle with your words. And I like to be talked down to in bed, but the rest of the time it makes me so angry when people decide it’s not important for me to have the time to communicate properly. No sé cómo expressar mi social relación con la idioma. Quizás complicado. Nunca sé qué palabras vendrán primero a mi mente y, a veces, es difícil traducir entre los languajes. Creo que la mayoria de la gente se figurarán que la traducción sea palabra por palabra, pero raramente está. A veces trato de encontrar la palabra exacta durante demasiado tiempo y me poniendo abrumado. La gente actúa como si fueras estúpido si las palabras están costarían. Y adoro que me traten con condescendencia en la cama, pero si no me airado mucho cuando la gente decide que no es importante para mí tener tiempo para comunicarme. I wonder often how it feels hablar o necesitar solamente una idioma, y inglés at that. ¿Reconocéis how much nuestro uso de language changes how nos entendemos y our place aquí en es? I often wonder how it feels to only use or need one language, and English at that. Do people realize how much our language changes how we understand the world, our place in it? Me pregunto con frecuencia qué se siente hablar o necesitar solo una idioma, y ​ lo que es más, inglés. ¿Reconocéis todos de lo mucho que la idioma cambia nuestra comprensión del otros y nuestras relaciones sociales? La idioma es all about relationships. La forma de la palabra implies más y mucho about la context sociales en el que it’s spoken. Crecí con myriad trozos de significado in each sentence spoken. English feels desolado en momentos. ¿Cómo se dice mijita como en una chica que es carnal para mi con el tono solamente? En inglés, estan mucho emphasis en the meaning of body language and I imagine los otros rarely notice this. Maybe por eso I have such a bad time entender mi role para las vidas de mis quieridos. Menos Mamá, lo no tengo con que hablar Spanish. Pero maybe menos los diminutivos y verbalizacion de relationships sociales en nuestro day to day conversacion, no créo sé how to fill la falta. Quizás part of el problema conmigo y my understanding of non-verbal communicación, and I figure it out claro que si, pero I forget how often no es necesito hacer que.

Spanish is all about relationships. The shape of a word implies so much about the social context in which the word is being used to communicate. I grew up with so many layers of meaning in every sentence spoken. English feels almost desolate sometimes. How do you convey that you are calling someone baby girl with the love you have for family with only tone? There is so much weight put on non-verbal communication in English that I think people rarely notice. Maybe that’s why I have so much trouble understanding my role in the lives of my loved ones. Aside from my mother, no one I love speaks Spanish well enough to use it with me. But maybe without those little suffixes and verbalization of social relationships in our day to day conversation, I don’t know how to fill in the gaps left behind. Maybe some of the conflict in how others speak and how I hear their words is the absence. I’ve never been good at reading body language, and I surely figure it out in Spanish too, but I forget sometimes how many little spaces it isn’t necessary in my mother tongue. La idioma del espanol es una cuestión de relaciones. La forma de una palabra expresarse mucho del contexto social en el que se habla la palabra. Crecí con tantas trozos de significado en cada oraciónes hablado. La idioma del inglés es desolado por momentos. ¿Cómo se dice mijita como en una chica que es carnal para mi con el tono solamente? En inglés se pone mucho énfasis en el significado que expresa el cuerpo y imagino que los otros ven es raremente. Quizás por eso me resulta difícil comprender mi ubicación social en las vidas de mis queridos. Menos mi madre, nul de mis quieridos habla español con sultura para usarlo conmigo. Pero sin esos diminutivos y la charla sobre relaciones sociales en nuestras expresiones, no sé cómo llenar la falta. quizás un componente del problemo en cómo entiendo a los demás es la falta de contexto. Soy malo para interpretar el expressiones corporal, y también lo entiendo en español, claro que si, pero olvido que con frecuencia no es necesario en mi lengua materna. Me pregunta how it is por la gente del otra cara. ¿How is it to see how much más acepción there is anytime una palabra cambia en español? ¿What do you notice changing when leé lo que está escrito aquí? I wonder what that is like for people on the other side of the coin. How does it feel to realize how many componants of a single word can be changed in Spanish to convey meaning? What do you see change when you try to navigate my language? What was it like to read this post? Me pregunto cómo será eso para la gente del otro cara. ¿Cómo es ver los muchos pequeños cambios en una palabra que tienen significado? ¿Qué ves cuando intentas interpretar mi idioma? ¿Cómo fue leer lo esto obra? Some say a mi está buenísima that I lapse en el español during sex. Some react poorly when I cambio en medio idiomas. Otros no tienen any reaction at all. No creó sé what I want people entender para mi behavior. Yo sé quiero to be loved en mi context. I know this makes la spoken idioma un dificíl way para mi aceptar love. I wonder how entendeís conmigo. Sometimes people tell me it’s hot that I lapse into Spanish during sex. Sometimes people react with visible discomfort whenever I move between languages. Others don’t have any reaction at all. I don’t know how to convey to someone what meaning I want them to take from this behavior. I know that I want to be loved in my own context. I know that I cannot be loved in a context others lack. I know this makes language a difficult form of love for me to accept. I wonder how others would come to understand that about me.

Algunas personas me dicen que está buenísima que hablo español cuando folo. Algunos reaccionan en contra de con desasosiego cuando cambio en medio idiomas. Otros no tienen ninguna reacción. No sé cómo decir qué espero que interpreten de esta acción. Quiero ser quierido en mi propio contexto. Sé que no puedo ser quierido en un contexto de lo cual otros es falta. Es difícil para mí aceptar la idioma hablado como una forma de cariño porque que esto verdad. Me pregunto cómo los otros entienden eso de mí.

[heroes-fading]

for the love of god stop feeding my dumb fic into LLMs. it'll only make you dumber, and me feel dumber along the way. i do not use LLMs.

[hsslilly-blog]

source

[burntheedges]

Meet the Teacher

Din Djarin x f!reader | 11.4k | 18+ | main masterlist | ao3

summary: After your first few weeks as Nevarro's new schoolteacher, there was only one student's parent that you hadn't yet met. When you decided to send Grogu's dad a message, though, you never would have expected where it led.

a/n: Din's back! This is my fic for @penvisions' give a little love challenge. My prompt was mistaken identity. 👀 Once I figured out where I wanted to take that, this was pretty fun to write! Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta and helping me whip this one into shape. Also, I did attempt to research how messaging would work in Star Wars, got conflicting results, and then gave up and decided I can do what I want. So consider this almost canon-aligned as far as messaging goes. lol

tags/warnings: epistolary, fluff, space texting, reader is an elementary-ish teacher with no physical description, a lot of school-talk, elementary school student shenanigans, flirting, teasing, pet names (cyar'ika/sweetheart, mesh'la/beautiful), mistaken identity, misunderstandings, Star Wars cursing (kriff, kark, dank farrik), a bit of ogling, smut (kissing, fondling, grinding, fingering (f!receiving), p-in-v sex, creampie)

...

You haven’t been on Nevarro long, but you’ve learned a lot about your new students already. When Karga recruited you, all the way from the Mid Rim, he’d told you it was a small but growing city with a small but growing school. They finally had enough students to need to split them up into multiple classrooms, and that was where you came in. You’d taken the job because you liked the idea of helping to build something, and because you were ready for something new.

You were taking over the room with younger children, which was your preference. And so far they’d been wonderful to work with – they were all so excited by new things, so happy to learn. Each day was a joy as you watched them grow.

As you got to know the kids, you also got to know the parents. Teaching the youngest children made you more well-known around town, and it had been easier to settle in than you expected. There was Diima, who was learning how to braid her own hair and had been teaching some of the other kids – her moms had invited you over for dinner and you thought you might end up being friends. Oora, the young Twi’lek who loved spaceships of all kinds – his father ran the food stall in the market that always had the best fruit. And Tamar and Ilana, the twins, who very intentionally never dressed alike – their parents ran the med clinic. 

And then there was Grogu, your smallest student. You’d never met his dad, though you knew of him from Karga and Cara. But so far you’d only learned that Grogu missed him and that he was off planet a lot. He was never there to pick up Grogu, at least not in the few weeks you’d been on Nevarro so far. It was always Cara or IG-11, or a few times even Karga himself. 

As you waved goodbye to the last of the kids for the day – Kiran, a young Mirialan whose mother was a mechanic at the shipyard – you collapsed into your desk chair with a sigh. Cara had come by to pick up Grogu again, but you’d been hoping to finally meet his elusive father. The kids would have a show at the end of the term to sing some songs and show off what they’d been learning. So far you’d been able to invite all of the parents personally when they came to pick the kids up. You sighed again and tapped your data pad – you’d just have to send him a message.

You’d sent him a message only once before, when you first started, just to introduce yourself. You hadn’t gotten a message back.

You stared down at the pad for a moment, biting your lip. Just be straightforward, to the point. You nodded and scrolled down to the contact for Grogu-parent. You saved all of your students’ parents’ contact info that way, though you added their names to the end if you knew them.

you: Hello! This is Grogu’s teacher, I sent you a message a couple of weeks ago when I started. I just wanted to invite you to our end of term show and to let you know that his schedule will be changing a bit, as we’ll be adding a rehearsal once a week. His class will be singing some songs and showing off what they have learned this term. They’re all very excited about it!

You sent another message with the date and time of the show and wondered how you should sign off.

you: I will also let Cara and IG know. Please let me know if you have any questions and if you’ll be able to attend. Thank you!

Once the message was sent, you leaned back in your chair, hoping you’d hear back from him this time. 

You were startled when your pad chimed before you’d even settled into your chair.

Grogu-parent: Hello. Thank you. I will be there.

You grinned. A response! And so quickly! You needed to say something back, to make it clear this was a way he could get in contact with you if needed.

you: Great! I know that will make Grogu very happy. He has really enjoyed learning to follow along to the notes of the songs and he is becoming a very enthusiastic assistant on the drums.

There was a pause, and you wondered if you had said too much, or if he’d gone quiet again. But then your pad chimed. 

Grogu-parent: Something he can hit that makes noise? Sounds perfect for him.

You laughed. If someone had told you that morning that you’d actually talk to Grogu’s elusive dad and that he would make you laugh, you weren’t sure you’d have believed them.

Grogu-parent: Thank you for telling me. I know I miss a lot when I’m off planet.

Suddenly, you realized you hadn’t thought of it that way and wanted to kick yourself. Of course his dad would be sad to miss hearing about what Grogu did in school, and all the little ways he was growing and learning. Your heart squeezed in sympathy.

you: Would you like me to send you more updates? I would be happy to do it. I usually share them with parents at the end of the day. I’m sorry I didn’t think to send them to you this way instead.

Grogu-parent: That’s alright. I know I never replied to your message, I didn’t get it until days later. Yes, please send me updates. I might not be able to reply right away but I will be happy to get them.

You tilted your head as you read his message, wondering what sort of work he was doing. 

you: Oh that’s fine! I’ll start sending you updates, but no pressure to respond to them. I understand you must be busy. 

Grogu-parent: I’ll respond when I can. Thank you again. 

You smiled as you set your pad down and stood from your desk. Finally, you thought. You’d made contact with Grogu’s dad! You walked out of the schoolhouse with a spring in your step.

As you made your way to the market to pick up something for dinner, you couldn’t wipe the smile from your face. You were happy you’d moved to Nevarro, you realized – you liked the people and the growing feeling of community that you had been welcomed to join almost immediately. There were beings of all kinds in the little city, from all over the galaxy – you’d met a fellow newcomer just the day before, a friend of Cara’s from the resistance who was good with plants. You’d met Carm, a Bothan, who had a knack for fixing droids. You were pretty sure you’d even spotted a Mando, once or twice, and Diima’s mom had told you about the family that had just moved in next door to them and was planning to open a restaurant. 

It was a nice place to live. You were happy you’d decided to take the offer.

…

The next day, when Cara picked up Grogu, you let her know that you’d also invited his dad to the show. Grogu chirped and smiled at you, and you smiled back.

“That’s right, bud, your dad is coming!”

Cara grinned. “See? I told you he would, squirt.” Grogu made a noise like a cheer and waved his little arms and you both laughed. “See you tomorrow, teach!” Cara tossed Grogu lightly in the air as she turned and he squealed. 

You smiled, shaking your head at their antics as you made your way back to your desk. You knew just what you wanted to tell his dad.

you: Today Grogu kept working really hard on trying to write his name! The Aurebesh characters are still new and tricky for them, but he honestly does pretty well when we can draw them in the sand with his claws. He also shared his snack with his friend Oora, which was sweet.

You didn’t get an answer right away, and you tried not to be disappointed. It had been nice to talk to him the day before, but you knew he was busy with work, whatever work he did. You packed up your bag and hefted it onto your shoulder.

When your pad chimed, you dropped it unceremoniously back onto your chair.

Grogu-parent: Are you sure you’re talking about my kid? He’s not usually one to share food.

You laughed, but before you could reply your pad chimed again.

Grogu-parent: That’s great about his name. I know he knows so much, even though he seems so little.

You nodded as you typed your response. 

you: He does! I can tell. Sometimes he gets a little bit frustrated when he can’t communicate the way he wants. But the kids are all great with each other and they really listen to him, even without words.

Grogu-parent: I’m glad to hear it. I worried he would be too little for the class, even though technically he’s older than I am.

You laughed and tucked away that little tidbit of information.

you: I know he’s technically the oldest, but he’s also not the youngest, in terms of development. They’re a good group and they get along well.

Grogu-parent: He is an old baby, isn’t he? Thank you. Again.

You laughed and found yourself smiling again as you walked to the market. You wished you knew his name, but it felt awkward at this point to ask. You supposed he’d have to stay “Grogu-parent” in your pad. For now.

…

After that, you fell into a bit of a rhythm.

He wasn’t always able to reply immediately – sometimes you came in to work in the morning to find his response waiting for you, and you didn’t let yourself wait for more than a few minutes at the end of the day.

But he always replied. 

You found him easy to talk to, with a clear sense of humor and love for his son that you could feel through the messages. It infused every word he sent you, and it made you smile softly whenever you thought about it. You still felt bad that you hadn’t thought of this arrangement earlier. But you tried to make up for it with more details now.

…

you: Grogu led the other kids in a game today at recess. It seemed to be a mixture of tag and catch, and I’m not sure if he made it up, but they had fun. And I was proud of him for teaching them without words!

Grogu-parent: Sounds like the game he learned from a friend’s kid on Sorgan. I’ve seen him play it before, but I’ve never figured out the rules. I’m not convinced they don’t make them up each time they play it.

…

you: Grogu drew you a picture today! From what I could tell it’s your house, he was very proud of it.

Grogu-parent: I can’t wait to see it. He has a collection growing at home on the walls of his room.

…

you: Today we learned about hyperspace, and Grogu got really excited when I showed some footage of what it looks like to travel in hyperspace from the cockpit. He’s not the only kid who’s been in space, of course, and they all had a lot of fun sharing about their experiences. He drew us a picture of what I think is your ship, and the other kids loved it.

Grogu-parent: He does love hyperspace. I think it’s the colors. That kid loves to fly, even to go upside down. Never seen someone treat an evasive maneuver like a thrill ride like that.

you: Evasive maneuvers, huh? Sounds intense!

Grogu-parent: It’s been a while, but when he first came to me we had to run from some people who were looking for him. And me. Took us around the galaxy for a bit.

You remembered the school’s security measures that Karga and Cara had told you about and furrowed your brow.

you: Is everything ok now? Is he in any danger? Are you?

Grogu-parent: We took care of it. But that’s why we have the alerts in place at the school. Don’t worry, nothing will happen to you.

you: I’m not worried about me! But Grogu and the rest of the kids! I can’t believe anyone would want to hurt them.

You could believe it, though. You just didn’t want to.

you: I mean, I know the Galaxy can be like that. I just wish it wasn’t.

Grogu-parent: I know what you mean. I wish that, too.

You didn’t realize until later while you were eating dinner that he’d never answered your question about his own safety, and it made you worry. You didn’t even know what his job was, you realized, and felt the worry settle in your chest.

…

you: Grogu made you another picture but this time he refused to use any color except blue. I’m not sure what it is, but he was very insistent about it! Cara took it home for you.

Grogu-parent: I’m not surprised, he loves blue things. I can’t wait to see it.

…

you: Today Oora gave a demonstration of a traditional dance he learned from his family, and surprised us all – apparently Grogu had been helping him practice and knew the dance, too! It was very sweet of him to dance with Oora when he got nervous.

Grogu-parent: He does love music, and he really loves helping his friends. He feels everything so strongly.

Grogu-parent: I’ll tell him, too, but if you remember tomorrow, please tell him I’m proud of him.

…

For once, you had evening plans.

You hurried home at the end of the week to drop your bag and then to meet Cara and Diima’s moms at the cantina. When they’d invited you, you’d internally done a victory dance – you’d made friends!! – but externally, you’d kept your cool. Mostly.

Cara was the only one there when you arrived, and you settled in beside her in the booth.

“Teach!” She greeted you with a grin. “Whatcha drinkin’? How are the kids?”

You gave her your order and soon you had a drink, too. You filled her in on what your charges had been up to that week, getting a few laughs at their antics. “What about you, constable? Anything new?”

“Well, we were going to take care of a reptavian problem over towards the east end of the lava flats, but Mando had to go off planet again. We’ll wait for him to get back, could use his firepower.”

You tilted your head. You figured she was talking about the shiny Mando you’d seen around the market sometimes. “Who–”

But before you could ask, Neela and Aminet arrived, and by the end of the night you forgot you’d even had a question at all.

…

you: Grogu got excited when we learned about banthas and blurrgs today! We’re focusing on the letter Besh if you couldn’t tell. Then he drew a blurrg, it was honestly a pretty great likeness.

Grogu-parent: He’s met a few before, so he knows them pretty well.

you: Wow! When did Grogu meet a blurrg?

Grogu-parent: When I first met him, we had a friend who kept them. He’s even ridden one before. 

you: You know, his picture from today makes a lot more sense now. He drew a little Grogu on top of the blurrg.

Grogu-parent: He really likes blurrgs. They seem to like him too, which is good. Otherwise I’d be afraid they were going to eat him.

you: That IS good because they definitely would.

…

At some point, your messages with Grogu’s dad became less focused on Grogu. You still always made sure to send an update, of course, but you were starting to get to know him, too.

You were trying not to look too hard at how that was making you feel. 

You’ve never even seen this man. 

You were starting to realize that that might not matter to you. 

…

you: Today we went on a little field trip to the market and Grogu was very well behaved! 

Grogu-parent: Are you sure you’re talking about my kid? He didn’t try to eat every blue treat in sight?

you: Well, no, he did do that. But then we stopped and talked to the man who makes those blue cookies he likes – his name is Tam – and he showed Grogu how carefully he has to make each one. The way Grogu held the one Tam gave him made me think he was in awe. Anyway after that he was very well-behaved

Grogu-parent: He does love to learn new things. I bet he loved watching the cookies get made.

you: He really did! And me, too. I had no idea they were so finicky

Grogu-parent: Not a baker?

you: I can make bread ok, I guess. Tam’s got real skill.

Grogu-parent: I can only make a few dishes but I’m trying to learn more for Grogu.

you: I bet he loves that! Is it hard to cook on your ship?

Grogu-parent: I don’t really, no space for it. I mostly rely on rations or quick things until I’m home.

you: Ok that sounds not so great, so PLEASE promise me you’ll try the new restaurant when you get back. It’s really good and you’ll deserve it after all those rations!

Grogu-parent: I will.

You tamped down the part of yourself that wondered if you could bring some long-lasting food that Grogu could give to his dad for his next trip. That was probably too much for a person you’d never even met. Right?

…

you: The kids have been taking turns telling stories about their families, and Grogu told us one in pictures today. It seemed to involve a lot of snow and spiders? Ice spiders? Are those real?

Grogu-parent: Of course he picked that story.

Grogu-parent: Yes, it was when we were on the run, like I told you before. My ship was damaged and we had to do an emergency landing on an ice planet.

Grogu-parent: The local fauna did not appreciate Grogu’s approach to exploring the area and chased us back to the ship.

you: Holy kriff! We’re they actually as big as a house, or was that his creative license taking over the drawing?

Grogu-parent: Most of them were small. One of them wasn’t.

you: That sounds absolutely terrifying

you: I’m so glad you’re both ok!! How did you get away?

Grogu-parent: A couple of the New Republic guys from Adelphi had followed us and helped out. But we had to limp over to Trask to get the ship fixed.

you: You know, that is basically what Grogu drew for us, I think I just couldn’t believe it was all true.

you: Ok my mind is totally blown. Does this sort of thing happen to you a lot?

Grogu-parent: More than I would like, yes.

…

you: Grogu did really well with addition today! We’re learning about adding and subtracting with piles of tokens. He even helped his friend Kiran with a tricky one!

Grogu-parent: He’s so smart, I’m glad he’s getting to show it.

you: He really is! And he loves to learn.

Grogu-parent: I’m glad he’s so good at making friends. I was worried about him. I don’t set the best example.

you: What do you mean? You have so many friends

Grogu-parent: I can’t tell if you’re joking.

you: Not joking! There’s Cara, and Karga, and IG. 

Grogu-parent: 3? Is that a lot? I don’t think I’m very good at being friendly.

You hesitated, but it did feel right to call him a friend, at this point.

you: Well, you’ve also mentioned knowing people on at least two other planets. And you’re friendly with me! That is, if you don’t mind being friends with someone who sometimes forgets to switch out of “talking to kids” voice when talking to adults. And who is usually partially covered in arts and crafts.

Grogu-parent: I don’t mind. I’d like to be your friend.

You grinned and did not do a little victory dance. Definitely not. 

you: me too!

That one had made you float home.

…

you: Wait, you really calculate all your jumps yourself?

you: That’s so impressive! Does it take a long time? 

Grogu-parent: It did when I first started, but I’ve done it so many times it’s not so bad now.

you: Grogu must get his math skills from you.

Grogu-parent: So much happened in his life before I found him. Most of the time I feel like I’m learning things from him, and not the other way around. 

You felt a little squeeze around your heart at the thought of Grogu without this man, without his dad. You were glad they’d found each other.

you: That’s adorable, but you should know he shows us things that you taught him all the time.

Grogu-parent: Uh oh. Like what?

you: Today he showed us how to tie a cape around your neck so it will stay on. It made me wonder – do you wear a cape?

There was a pause that made you wonder if you shouldn’t have asked. Your message screen moved up as if a new message was about to come in, but then nothing did for another minute.

Grogu-parent: I do. Sometimes.

You laughed, a bit wonderingly. Who is this man?

…

you: Today some of the students shared stories or keepsakes from their homeworld or families – this isn’t a mandatory activity, since I know it can be complicated for some. Grogu drew us a picture of IG-11, I think. But he got really excited when Tamar mentioned that the twins have family on Tatooine, of all places.

Grogu-parent: He’s been there, so that was probably it. I guess I do have another friend there, too. Maybe two.

you: Ok, I’m starting to think you really undersold your ability to make friends

Grogu-parent: I wasn’t lying when I said I’m not good at being friendly.

you: You’re friendly with me! And how else did you get all these friends, then?

Grogu-parent: I ask myself that all the time. 

Grogu-parent: But it’s easy to be friendly with you.

You blinked and felt your face heat up, suddenly glad you were alone in your classroom. 

…

you: Today in rehearsal Grogu showed us that he memorized his part for the show! It was very cute, I’m sure he’ll do it at home for you.

Grogu-parent: Oh I’ve seen it. He’s been working hard on it.

you: Of course he has! I could tell

Grogu-parent: I’ll be on planet next week, maybe I could watch a rehearsal? If that’s alright. I don’t want to be in the way.

You grinned at your pad, but you also felt suddenly nervous. Were you ready to actually meet him? You didn’t even know his name.

you: Of course! No, you won’t be in the way, we have plenty of space. It will be so nice to finally meet you!

Grogu-parent: Ok, good. Yes, it will be.

…

On the day of the rehearsal you walked into the schoolhouse buzzing with nerves and excitement. 

You were going to meet him. Grogu’s dad, whose name you still didn’t know, somehow, but whose kind, funny, possibly-edging-towards-flirty messages were starting to take over your thoughts. You didn’t want to get your hopes up, but you couldn’t help it.

You were going to meet him. 

You managed to tamp down your excitement as your class arrived and took up all of your attention, but it never quite left your mind. By the time rehearsal rolled around after lunch, the nerves were back.

With 10 minutes to go, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at the door what felt like every 5 seconds. Diima’s mom Aminet arrived, and then the twins’ parents. You knew Kiran’s mom was going to try to get away from the shipyard, too.

The door opened again, and you turned to see her slipping inside and smiled. When you looked past her, you were startled to see the Mandalorian you’d seen around town standing in the street, about 15 feet from the school and framed by the door to your classroom.

He was tall, with very shiny armor and very broad shoulders. He was also covered in a slightly intimidating amount of weaponry, though you knew he was Cara’s friend and so you weren’t actually that scared. For a moment you simply stared at him, and even though his face was covered, you had a feeling he was staring back.

Curious, you took a step towards the open doorway, but that seemed to shock him into action. He took a corresponding step back, looked around, and then turned and walked away.

You poked your head out of the door and watched as he turned a corner, heading towards the market.

Weird.

You heard the kids start to make more noise behind you and turned, realizing it was time to begin.

…

Grogu’s dad never did show, but you tried not to let it get you down. At least, not until after the kids had left.

When Cara came to pick up Grogu, she smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I know, he was supposed to come. Sent me a message asking me to swing by, something came up.”

You sighed and shrugged back. “That’s alright. I know he’s busy.”

Your pad stayed stubbornly silent, and you left it at the school to discourage yourself from obsessively checking it all night long.

What happened?

…

Yawning, you dropped into your desk chair the next morning with a sigh. You hadn’t slept well, too worked up over what had – and hadn’t – happened the day before.

But your heart leapt into your throat when you saw you had a message waiting.

Grogu-parent: I’m so sorry I couldn’t make it. I had to go off planet again, and it was pretty last minute. 

Grogu-parent: I already apologized to Grogu but I’m sorry we didn’t get to meet. I was looking forward to it.

From the timestamps you could see that he’d sent the messages while you were at home, trying to sleep. You bit your lip, wondering what to say back. It helped that he apologized but you still felt disappointed. 

you: That’s ok. I know you’re busy! I would have liked to meet. Maybe next time?

Grogu-parent: I shouldn’t be too busy for this. Next time, yes. 

you: Deal. I’m counting on you, friend

There was a long pause that made you bite your lip. Was that too much? You started to put the pad down, sighing.

But then another message appeared.

Grogu-parent: Since we’re friends, you should call me Din.

You froze. Din?

His name.

You started to grin.

you: I see you, trying to make me forget about missing you yesterday by telling me your name today!

As soon as you send the message you hesitate, wondering if that was too much. But he told me his name! This has to be flirting. We’re flirting. Right?

Grogu-parent: Missing me?

Kark. Of course he noticed that. Before you could even feel the heat reach your face he sent another message.

Grogu-parent: I really wanted to be there. 

you: I’m just teasing you, Din. Thank you for telling me

You grinned and changed his contact name.

Grogu-parent-Din: I missed meeting you, too

…

After Din told you his name, it seemed like your conversations just… flowed. You were opening up to each other in ways you hadn’t quite been able to before and it was making you feel giddy. 

On top of that, you were pretty sure he was flirting with you. At least, you hoped so. You couldn’t stop turning the question over in your mind. 

It’s not like you could ask anyone. You hadn’t told anyone you were having actual conversations with this man you’d never met – all Cara knew was that you sent him updates. 

These weren’t exactly updates.

you: Anyway, Grogu loved it. Painting with feet is always a popular activity but he was very enthusiastic

Grogu-parent-Din: That doesn’t surprise me at all. He loves making a mess.

You laughed.

Grogu-parent-Din: Is this one of those days when you’re covered in arts and crafts?

You blinked. He remembered that? And he was thinking about that? Was he thinking about what you looked like? You hesitated, and then typed your response.

you: Oh definitely. I’m wearing more paint than clothes at this point.

Kriffing hell. Why did I just say that? You stared down at your pad, incredulous. That had to be too much. You definitely shouldn’t be flirting with a parent like that. And you hadn’t even meant to flirt! You started to type again, to apologize, but he beat you to it.

Grogu-parent-Din: Sounds like quite a sight.

you: See, I warned you, being friends with me means being friends with someone who can’t stop kids from covering her in paint.

Grogu-parent-Din: Never said it would be a bad sight. 

You felt a tingle run up your spine. Did he–

Grogu-parent-Din: You’re not afraid of a mess. Neither am I. 

Grogu-parent-Din: You’re a good teacher. 

Kriff, you wished you knew what this man looked like. You said goodbye and stood up to leave, you should not be having thoughts like this in your classroom.

Not afraid of a mess, he’d said. 

Kriff.

…

Din kept flirting with you. It had to be flirting, you’d decided. (And you were definitely flirting.) But neither of you had addressed it directly. 

You spent your days with the kids, and about half an hour every afternoon flirting with Grogu’s dad. And then the rest of your evening thinking about it.

you: Grogu drew us a picture of a sort of humanoid-looking figure hanging off the side of a Jawa sandcrawler. It was pretty small in comparison with the sandcrawler, but was that you?

Grogu-parent-Din: Unfortunately, yes.

you: How did you end up hanging off the side of a sandcrawler??

Grogu-parent-Din: The Jawas took apart my ship, stole the parts. I was trying to get them back.

you: Well I assume you did, since you still have a ship

you: How did you get them back? Dare I ask?

Grogu-parent-Din: That’s a long one, but it involved me getting something they wanted from a mudhorn. 

you: A mudhorn?? An actual mudhorn

Grogu-parent-Din: I’ll tell you the whole story sometime. But yeah, I got the parts back. Got a whole new ship now, though, that one got blown up later.

You realized you were staring down at your pad, mouth dropped open, frozen. 

you: … Din. 

you: Blown up???

Grogu-parent-Din: You know, when I list it all out like this, it sounds kind of ridiculous.

you: Kind of?

you: Does this kind of thing still happen to you?

Grogu-parent-Din: I won’t lie, sometimes it does. But not nearly as often. 

Grogu-parent-Din: I promise, I’m careful. Much more these days.

you: You swear?

Grogu-parent-Din: I do.

you: Alright. 

As you set down your pad, you thought about what you knew about Din. He wore a cape, did evasive maneuvers in his ship, had friends on multiple planets, and sometimes hung off the side of sandcrawlers and fought mudhorns. Someday you’d find out what his job was, and this would all make more sense. 

You hoped.

…

At some point after he told you his name, you started taking your pad home.

It made sense, right? It would be rude to cut off the conversation because you had to go home, of all things.

And so like most nights, you found yourself sitting on your bed, smiling down at your pad, talking to Din for what you refused to recognize was over an hour at this point.

Grogu-parent-Din: You know, I didn’t realize how much calmer my life is now until I started telling you these stories.

you: I’m just glad your life IS calmer now! Din, sometimes you tell me things and I don’t know how you survived.

Grogu-parent-Din: Me too. That it’s calmer now, I mean. For Grogu, of course, but I get a lot more sleep these days.

you: I know you’re busy, but maybe you could stick around for a bit longer next time. Relax a bit? I think you need it

Grogu-parent-Din: I’m not very good at relaxing. 

you: Maybe you just need someone to show you how it’s done

You were flirting again. You bit your lip.

Grogu-parent-Din: You volunteering?

You grinned. He was flirting back.

you: I might be. What do you say?

Grogu-parent-Din: I say I’d like that. 

you: Yeah?

Grogu-parent-Din: Yeah, cyar’ika. Show me how to relax.

You let out a noise that you were glad no one was around to hear.

you: What’s that mean?

Grogu-parent-Din: I’ll tell you when we’re relaxing.

you: Promise?

Grogu-parent-Din: Promise.

…

With only a couple of weeks to go before the show, you were starting to feel the pressure, both for the kids and because you were finally going to meet Din.

He would have to come to the show, right? He said he would. You were pretty sure your distraction was noticeable – Cara had almost called you out on it multiple times. She’d taken to squinting at you and smirking knowingly when she caught you checking your pad. 

A few nights after the promise to let you show him how to relax – which you couldn’t let yourself dwell on, not if you wanted to get anything done – he told you about his ship getting blown up.

Grogu-parent-Din: I’ve got a new one, of course, but I do miss that ship.

you: Of course you do! How long did you have it?

Grogu-parent-Din: Almost 15 years.

Your jaw dropped. He’d lost his home of 15 years?

you: Din, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.

There was a long pause that made you worry you’d somehow overstepped. You started to type, to backtrack, when his response appeared.

Grogu-parent-Din: Thank you. 

Grogu-parent-Din: I think people expected me to just get a new ship, but for a while I didn’t want to.

you: Of course not!

you: ugh, who said that? Let me talk to them

Grogu-parent-Din: It’s ok, cyar’ika. No need. 

Grogu-parent-Din: Of course you can make me smile when I’m thinking about this.

You sucked in a sharp breath and tucked yourself into a ball around your pad on your bed. He smiled. 

you: I made you smile?

Grogu-parent-Din: You always make me smile.

Your own smile felt so big it was taking over your face.

you: You make me smile too, you know. Even when we’re not talking, you make me smile

Grogu-parent-Din: Yeah? How do I manage that?

you: I may or may not think about you, you know… sometimes.

Grogu-parent-Din: I think about you all the time.

You felt your entire body get hot and tingly and gasped.

you: Din!

Grogu-parent-Din: I do. Lately you’re all I want to think about.

you: Din. Are you flirting with me?

Grogu-parent-Din: I’ve been flirting with you, cyar’ika. Nice of you to finally notice.

You wanted to hide your face, even though you were the only person in your apartment. You settled for kicking your feet like a weirdo.

you: I hoped you were. I’ve been flirting too, you know

Grogu-parent-Din: Oh I know.

you: Din!

Grogu-parent-Din: I’m sorry I couldn’t come see you last time. I wish I had.

you: Well, the show is next week! so soon! We can actually meet

you: It’s not your fault you had to work.

There was another long pause, and you furrowed your brow, but it couldn’t quite wipe the smile off your face.

Grogu-parent-Din: So I might have lied about that.

you: About what?

You frowned down at the pad.

Grogu-parent-Din: I didn’t have to go off planet suddenly.

you: What?? Din what are you talking about

You didn’t like the swooping sensation in your stomach. So then why had he left?

Grogu-parent-Din: I did come by the school that day, but I couldn’t go in.

you: Why not??

Grogu-parent-Din: I saw you, and I know, I’m sorry. I know it’s not fair that I’ve seen you. But I saw you, and you were smiling at someone, and you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, cyar’ika. 

Your mouth dropped open. What?

Grogu-parent-Din: I froze. I got tongue-tied, I guess. All of a sudden I just knew, but I wasn’t prepared. And then I ran like a coward. I’m sorry.

You handled your pad in shaking hands, making a few more typos than you usually did.

you: Din, are you tellign me that you thought I was so beautiful you ran awaY?

Grogu-parent-Din: Basically, yes. I know, I know, Cara already read me the riot act. I’m sorry. I promise I won’t run next week.

you: You better not!! I can’t believe you’ve seen me and I’ve never seen you.

He ran away because you were too beautiful? What the kark? This sort of thing did not happen to you.

Grogu-parent-Din: I promise I will be there next week and I won’t run away.

you: Good.

you: No one’s ever thought I was so beautiful they RAN before, you know

Grogu-parent-Din: That you know of.

you: You know, that’s a good point

…

By the day of the show, you were a wreck.

You and Din talked every night, and it was wonderful, but it felt like a build up to something that was going to change your life. You didn’t want to put that much pressure on a simple meeting, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

You liked him so, so much.

And on top of that, the kids were excited and nervous and bouncing off the walls. Literally, in some cases. You wanted things to go well for them, and you wanted things to go well for you.

It was a lot.

Grogu-parent-Din: Can I come by early? Or should I wait until after?

you: PLEASE come early. I can’t wait through the whole show to meet you, I’ll be too nervous! The kids are going home for a couple of hours after school, and then they have to be back for the show

Grogu-parent-Din: Cara is taking Grogu with Oora for a final practice together and I said I’d meet her there. So I can come as early as you’d like. You tell me when to be there and I will.

Your hands were shaking again.

you: How about half an hour before the kids are due back? Gives me time to have emotions but not to get TOO distracted.

Grogu-parent-Din: Am I going to give you emotions, cyar’ika?

you: You know you are, Din.

…

Somehow, the kids had been gone for an hour and you’d managed to finish setting everything up in the small auditorium. The little stage was ready and the decorations were perfect.

And now all you had to do was wait for Din.

It was nerve-wracking. You were doing your best not to watch the clock, but with fifteen minutes to go before he was supposed to arrive, you found yourself pacing around your classroom, talking to yourself.

You were debating running to the corner and back just to work out some energy when someone cleared their throat behind you.

You whirled, heart in your throat, and were surprised to find the Mandalorian you’d seen around town standing in the doorway of your classroom.

“Oh! Hello, Mando.” You took a deep breath and resisted the urge to twist your hands together. “Can I help you with something?”

He didn’t answer right away. He looked around the room, and you took a moment to study him. His armor was very shiny, and it fit him very well. He was a very broad man, you realized. And he had fewer weapons on him than the last time you saw him, though of course he still had some.

He took a step inside and his cape swayed behind him.

“You know,” he said, and his voice was deep and warm. You thought he might be smiling, but wondered how you could tell. “I know it’s not realistic, but I really did picture you more covered in paint.”

You froze and felt a tingling sensation flow from your feet to your head, making you suddenly lightheaded. It can’t be. 

“...Din?” you breathed, stunned. Your eyes traveled over the length of him again, and then suddenly caught on the cape. 

He stepped forward again and then he was right in front of you. You couldn’t stop gaping at him. 

“Hi, cyar’ika,” he said, voice deep. He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers against yours. 

Your body finally kicked back into gear at his touch and you shoved him lightly in his armored chest. “Din!” You put both of your palms on his chest and marveled at the fact that he was here, in front of you, solidly physical and real. “You’re here!”

He chuckled, and you marveled again at being able to hear him. “I promised I would be.”

You felt yourself start to smile and noticed his helmet dipped. “I can’t believe you’re here.” You ran your hands down his chest and then froze. “Oh, I’m sorry, I just started touching you, I didn’t even ask–” You started to pull your hands away but he caught them and placed your hands back on his chest.

“You can touch me,” he murmured.

“Yeah?” you asked, grinning.

He nodded. 

“I may have thought about it… a lot,” you confessed, stepping even closer. 

His hands released yours and came to rest on your hips. “I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

For a moment you just grinned at him, a bit stunned. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come in last time,” he said, and he did sound sorry. “I wanted to, I just…”

Now that you had him in front of you, real and solid and a man, it felt suddenly easier to tease him. “But you were overwhelmed by my beauty, huh?”

You gasped when he tugged you closer and squeezed your hips. “I was,” he agreed. “You are so kriffing beautiful, cyar’ika.”

You felt yourself begin to melt, but then remembered. “Wait,” you said, looking up at his visor. “You promised – what does that mean?”

He leaned down and nudged your forehead gently with his helmet.

“Sweetheart.”

…

The kids’ show went off without a hitch. Grogu was overjoyed to have his dad in the audience and played the drums with more enthusiasm than you had ever seen him have in practice. All of the kids did well, and their parents kept telling you how impressed they were as they headed home.

As soon as the area around you cleared, after the show, Din appeared with Grogu in his arms.

“Grogu, you did so well!” You reached your fist out to bump his little one and he cheered. “I’m so proud of you and I know your dad is, too.” You looked up at Din, who nodded. 

“I am,” he agreed, “I told him.” He looked down at Grogu. “Right, bud?” Grogu made a little noise that definitely sounded like agreement.

“Are you heading out?” You asked, smiling at Cara when she came to join your group. 

Din nodded. “Taking this one home. But, I wanted to ask – are you free tomorrow?”

You grinned. “I am.”

He took a step closer and Grogu made a little bah noise. “I’ll message you. But you have plans.”

You could feel Cara smirking at the two of you but you couldn’t look away from Din. “I do?”

Din leaned a little bit closer. “You do now.”

You said goodnight, but the warmth from finally meeting Din and knowing you had plans later carried you home. 

Grogu-parent-Din: Meet me at the market after lunch?

you: Yes! What are our plans?

Smiling, you made an update to his contact.

Din: I’m ready to learn how to relax.

…

You stood by the large tree at the edge of the market, nervous but excited. You’d spent too much time picking out your clothes and now that you were there, you couldn’t stop remembering how it had felt to finally touch him.

“You look beautiful,” a warm voice said from behind you, and you spun around.

“Din!” You grinned. He was very shiny in the midday sun. 

He stepped closer and one of his hands came up to cup your upper arm. His gloved thumb moved back and forth across your skin in a light caress. “Hi, cyar’ika.”

You felt your face heat at the endearment, now that you knew what it meant.

“I’m ready to relax,” he said, voice teasing. 

You laughed and leaned a bit closer. He was right there, in front of you, and you felt like you were floating. “Alright. I say we walk through the market and stock up on some snacks, and then we’ll try out some aimless relaxation. Preferably on a couch or other soft surface. And maybe we’ll listen to some music.”

Din nodded along to your instructions, turning to follow as you walked towards the market. He slid his hand down your arm and slipped it into yours. “Does your place have a couch?”

You looked at him. “Din, would you like to come back to my place? Do you have time?”

He leaned forward and nudged his helmet against your forehead again. “Cara’s got Grogu. I’m all yours. And yes, I do want to.”

“Great,” you said, smiling, and started to point out your favorite stalls. You collected some fruit and cookies from Tam and some other snacks as you walked. 

Din took each item and stored them in a bag as you collected them. “Are these the cookies Grogu learned how to make?” 

You nodded. “And he still loves them.” 

Din laughed. “Of course he does.”

Once you had a nice assortment, you turned in the direction of your apartment. As you walked, you marveled at how easy, how right it felt, to spend time together in person. 

“Is it nice, being back on planet?” you asked. 

He nodded once. “Food’s much better,” he said, and you smiled. “So’s the company.”

You turned onto the small street with the door to your apartment. “Flatterer.”

As you stepped up to your door to unlock it, Din stepped up close behind you. So close you could feel the heat of his body. “It’s the truth, cyar’ika.”

You felt a shiver travel up your back as you finally unlocked the door, followed by the tips of his fingers as they followed the shiver. “Well, here it is.” You waved your arm at your apartment and stood to the side to welcome Din inside.

He looked around, and suddenly you felt nervous. Before you could get too worked up, though, he said, “I like it. It’s very warm, like you.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

Din stepped closer and nudged your forehead with his helmet again. “You’re easy to talk to, and so warm in all of our conversations. It feels like that.”

You leaned closer. “Does this mean something?” You nudged his helmet.

He hummed. “It’s a Keldabe kiss. It’s how we kiss without removing our helmets.”

“Din!” You exclaimed, leaning back to look at him. “You kissed me when we met yesterday?”

“Couldn’t help it.” He leaned in to do it again and you grinned. “I’ve been wanting to for weeks.”

You reached down and took his hand, tugging him towards the living area. “Come on. We have some relaxing to do.”

To your surprise, rather than joining you on the couch, he started stripping off his armor and placing the pieces carefully on your dining table. He must have noticed your surprise because he explained, “Relaxing, right? This will be more comfortable.”

You watched carefully, taking note of each piece. When he was finished he was just wearing his flight suit and helmet. You couldn’t help but ask, “not the helmet?” 

Din seemed to tense for a moment, but then he relaxed. “No. I… my creed. I can’t take it off in front of other living things.”

You tilted your head, considering this information. “Not even Grogu?”

He shook his head. “Grogu is clan, he’s my son. Our clan can see our faces.”

That made sense. “Alright. Want to sit?”

You gestured at the seat next to you and smiled as he sat. 

“You don’t…” he trailed off and turned in his seat to look at you head on. “You don’t have more questions?”

You turned sideways and leaned against the back of your couch, propping your chin on your hand. Your knee brushed against his leg. “No, not right now. I mean, I want to know more, but mostly I figure you’ll tell me when you’re ready, right? If it’s stuff I can know.” You reached over and slipped your hand into his and squeezed. “I don’t want to push you, and I like the way we’ve been talking.”

He leaned forward and squeezed your hand. “I like it too.” His voice was suddenly much deeper. “Thank you.”

You smiled. “Are you thanking me for being patient?”

Din nodded. “I am. So what’s the next step in our day of relaxation?”

You gestured at your sound system. “Let me put on something soothing.” You grabbed your data pad from the coffee table and set it up. “There.”

Soft music started to play and you eased back into your seat. 

“Do we just sit here?” Din asked, sounding a little baffled. 

It made you smile. “Yes, but we can talk. Or you can always lie down, that’s much more relaxing.” You grabbed a pillow and placed it against your thigh. “Want to try it?”

“Here?” He pointed at the couch and you nodded. He hesitated and then took off his boots. He slowly leaned down until he was lying back against the pillow. As soon as his back was flat he groaned. “Ok, maybe I needed this.”

“Maybe you need a back rub,” you replied. 

Din laughed. “Probably. I don’t know if I’ve ever had one. You offering?”

“Never?” You shook your head, incredulous. “Ask me again later. We’re relaxing right now.” You fell into an easy conversation about your week and you finally found out more about his job. As you talked, you leaned further into the couch and started idly tracing shapes along his chest with your fingertips without even realizing you were doing it. 

“A bounty hunter makes so much more sense than what I was thinking,” you remarked as he finished telling you about his last job. “All of your ridiculous stories make sense now.”

Din laughed again and you realized you wanted to hear that sound more. Every day, if you could.

“That’s good. I realized in retrospect how it all sounds when I was talking to you.” He reached up and laced his fingers through yours, stilling your hand against his chest. “It doesn’t scare you?”

You looked down at his visor and smiled. “I was already worrying about you, but I know you’re capable. I could tell from your stories. If anything, it’s reassuring — you must be good at it, to be doing it this long.” You sighed. “But I probably will still worry, yes.”

Din hummed and you felt certain he was looking at you, too, even though you couldn’t tell through the dark glass. “Cara offered me more work around here. I think I’ll take her up on it. I’ll still go off planet sometimes, but not as much.”

“Well,” you said, smiling, “I won’t pretend I don’t like the sound of that. But you don’t have to do that just because we’re, um…” you trailed off as you realized you didn’t exactly know what you were. 

“Relaxing together?” He teased, and you laughed. “It would be better for Grogu, that’s important. But I do want to be here more so I can see you more. Not only send messages.” He squeezed your hand. “I like you.”

You felt something warm settle inside you at his words and you were certain it showed on your face. “I like you too, Din.”

You told him more stories about the kids’ antics during the week, but you realized as you finished a story about Kiran trying to adopt a lizard from the lava flats as the class pet — and Grogu wanting to eat it, instead — that Din had fallen asleep. 

You smiled and curled your body more around his helmet and the pillow in your lap. The fact that he felt comfortable enough to fall asleep with you filled you with warmth. You took the opportunity to study this man who had somehow swept you off your feet through pad messages. Even without seeing his face, you could tell he was attractive – his body was toned and strong, but not thin. You could tell he was used to very physical work. You traced his shoulders and arms and chest with your eyes and bit your lip – he was much more exposed like this, without armor. You could see the outline of his body and it made you press your thighs together under the pillow. 

Get it together, you told yourself sternly. We are relaxing, not ogling. 

He stirred, suddenly, and you couldn’t help but soothe him. “Shhh, go back to sleep,” you murmured. “Relax.” He seemed to settle again at the sound of your voice, so you kept talking. “I’m really glad you feel comfortable here, Din. With me.” You hummed along to the music softly for a moment. “You really are very handsome. I can tell. And kriff, these shoulders. And your hands.” You laughed softly at yourself. “I already liked you, you know? Without seeing you. But now…” you trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by what you were admitting even though he was asleep.

At least, you thought he was asleep.

He startled you by responding, suddenly, and tightened his hold on your hand on his chest to keep you from pulling away. “Now?” he asked, voice scratchy and deep. “Now what, cyar’ika?”

You felt your face heat up. “How much of that did you hear?”

Din hummed and settled more into the couch. “Something about my shoulders.”

“Kriff,” you said, laughing. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He shook his head. “No, I liked it.” He squeezed your hand. “What were you going to say? But now…” he prompted you, and you could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Now I like you and I can’t stop looking at you, I guess.”

He looked at you for a moment, helmet tilted back. Then he started to sit up. You made a noise in complaint but he settled in much closer to you than before with his arm over the back of the couch. You were touching from shoulder to knee. Your breath caught. 

“Is that really what you were going to say, mesh’la?” He leaned in towards you and pressed his helmet to your forehead again. 

You shivered. “Din—“ you started, not sure what you were going to say. 

“Tell me,” he urged you softly. He dropped his arm over your shoulders and suddenly you were totally wrapped up in his warmth. 

“I already liked you,” you repeated, leaning into his embrace. “And I already wanted you. Before I’d even seen you.” You stumbled over your words but felt a surge of confidence when you felt him draw in a sharp breath. “And now I can’t stop looking at you. Because you already had me with your flirting.” You reached out and placed your hand on his thigh and squeezed, and you couldn’t take it anymore. “But Din, I am so turned on. I know we just met, officially, but—“

“Cyar’ika,” he murmured, wrapping his free arm around your waist. “I’ve been hard since you told me to lie down in your lap.”

Your gaze shot down to his pants, but you couldn’t see any proof. 

“These pants don’t show it. But believe me,” he lifted your hand from his thigh and placed it over his hard length. Your eyes widened. “I want you. Badly.”

“Din,” you breathed. You looked back up at him and squeezed his cock, and watched a shiver travel across his shoulders. 

“How dark is your bedroom?” He asked suddenly. 

“Very,” you said, a bit confused. “I have those curtains that block out the light, helps me sleep.”

“Perfect,” he replied, and tugged you up off the couch. “Come here, mesh’la.” He grabbed something from the pile of his things on the coffee table and led you towards your bedroom after you pointed it out.

Once inside, he moved towards the windows and closed the curtains. The room immediately darkened. He stood with his hands on his hips, looking around the room, and nodded.

“Good,” he said, and you stepped closer.

“Good for what?” 

Din held up his hand and you realized he was holding a length of black cloth. “It’s dark enough in here. But just to be sure… if you, would you wear this?” 

Suddenly you realized the reason why he was doing all of this and your entire body lit up in response. “Your helmet?” you asked, eyes wide.

He nodded. “Will you?” He held what you recognized as a blindfold towards you, and you nodded before he’d even finished speaking.

“Of course,” you said, stepping closer. “Din, I promise, I won’t look. But yes, I’ll wear it.”

You saw some of the tension fade from his shoulders and smiled. He took you gently by the shoulders and turned you around. “Thank you,” he murmured as he lifted the blindfold into place. He tied it tightly, but not too tight. “How’s that?” You felt air on your face and wondered if he was waving his hand in front of your eyes.

“I can’t see anything,” you confirmed. You reached back, trying to find him, and he caught your hand. “I promise.”

He turned you back around slowly and suddenly you were pressed up against his chest with his hand on your back. “I believe you. I trust you.”

You thought of the way he had fallen asleep so easily in your presence and smiled. “What now, Din?”

You heard a hissing noise and then a large thump and realized he must have removed his helmet. The sound of his voice confirmed it. “Now, cyar’ika,” he said, and you shivered when you felt his breath on your face, “I’m going to kiss you.”

You opened your mouth to respond, yes, and maybe please, but you never got the words out. His lips met yours and every other thought flew out of your head. You could tell he was somewhat new to this – that wasn’t surprising, considering what he’d told you about his helmet – but he learned quickly and you barely noticed any awkwardness. You lost yourself in his kiss, in his arms, in the darkness of your blindfold. 

When his tongue traced along your bottom lip, you moaned, and his answering moan made you feel lightheaded. He broke away suddenly to press kisses down your neck and you sighed. “Din,” you said, and realized your hands were tangled in his hair. His hair. “That feels so good.”

“Does it?” He murmured, and you could hear his smirk. “Tell me, cyar’ika.”

You pushed yourself closer until you were pressed fully against him. “Yes, Din. Can we– can you–” you weren’t sure what you were asking, and he interrupted you with a nibble at your neck.

“We can do whatever you want,” he promised, voice low. “What do you want, mesh’la?”

That word, the new one, finally snagged at your attention. “What’s that mean?”

He lifted his head and pressed his smile to your cheek. It made you smile back. “That’s what you want? To know that?”

You nodded. “Please. And then I want you to make me come.”

Din growled and tugged you in the direction you were pretty sure led to your bed. “Beautiful,” he said, voice intent. “It means beautiful. Because you are.” He tugged you downwards and you realized he was sitting on the bed. You settled into position straddling his lap and ground your hips down. His answering moan was very gratifying. “Let me make you feel good.”

He had one arm around your back, and you felt his other hand trail along the waistband of your pants. You tilted your hips forward to encourage him. He undid them deftly and you sighed when his large fingers slid inside your underwear.

He teased you, and you knew he could feel how wet you were without even pressing inside.

“Did I turn you on, cyar’ika?” He pressed his lips to your ear and you shivered at how deep his voice was. “Is this for me?”

“Yes, Din,” you said, and before you could say anything else his fingers parted your folds and slipped inside. 

“So wet,” he said, voice awed. “And all for me, hmm?” His fingers found your clit and circled it and you gasped. He swallowed it with a kiss. 

You broke away on a gasp when he replaced his fingers with his thumb and trailed through your wetness to circle your entrance with his fingertips. “Din,” you said, pleading.

“Is this what you want, mesh’la?” You nodded and he nipped at your neck below your ear. “I thought about this,” he said, lips brushing against your ear as he slid his fingers inside you. “Thought about this when you talked to me, when I pictured you covered in more paint than clothes.” He curled his fingers forward and you moaned. “Thought about this when you made me smile, when you said you think about me.”

“I do, Din,” you said, voice unsteady. You wrapped your arms around his neck and ground down on his fingers. “I thought about this, too.”

“Yeah?” he asked, and you nodded against his neck. “My fingers?”

“Yes,” you said, building up a rhythm with your hips. “And your cock. And your tongue.”

Din let out a noise you could only classify as a whine and it sent sparks shooting up your spine. “You want that? My mouth on you?” You nodded, almost frantically, and he shuddered. “I want that too. You have no idea how much.”

You could feel it building inside of you and you buried your face in his shoulder. You marveled at feeling so much of his skin as you did. 

“I think you’re close, cyar’ika,” he murmured between kisses on your neck. “You’re squeezing me.” His thumb started to move faster and you knew you were about to fall over the edge. “Come for me, beautiful. I want to feel it.”

You did, with his fingers thrusting in and out of you and his arm holding you tight in his lap. You cried out his name as you fell and shuddered at the sparks flying through your body. The pleasure washed over you like a wave, head to toe.

When you came back to yourself, you were on your back on the mattress with Din’s body pressing you down. 

“You with me?” he asked, and you nodded. “Good. Cyar’ika, I want to fuck you.”

Your head swam at his words, and you nodded again.

“Let me hear your voice,” he murmured, and kissed you. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me, Din,” you said, and felt it when he smiled into a kiss. “I’ve wanted it, badly.”

“Me too,” he promised, and lifted off of you to remove his flight suit. When he pressed back down and you felt his skin on yours your eyes rolled back in your head.

“Dank farrik,” he said through gritted teeth. “You’re so soft.” He rubbed his body against yours and you gasped at the sensations he sent through you. His hard cock was trapped between your stomachs and you lifted your hips, wrapping your legs around him, trying to change the angle. 

Din tilted his hips and suddenly his cock was nestled against you, and you gasped. “You feel so kriffing good,” he moaned, and you nodded.

“You too, Din,” you cut off on a gasp when the head of his cock nudged your clit. “Please fuck me.” 

Din huffed a laugh, and murmured, “so polite.”

You smacked him lightly on his very shapely ass, and then paused to fondle it. He laughed again and you grinned into his neck. “Is there something wrong with polite?”

Din nudged at your cheek until you turned into a searing kiss. “No,” he finally replied, lifting his hips and reaching down to move his cock right where you wanted it. “Just makes me want to give you what you want. Even more.” The head of his cock pressed against your entrance and you sighed. “I’ve thought about this so many times, almost since the beginning.” He started pushing inside and you tangled your fingers in his hair. You were panting. He was big. “And then I saw you, and you were flirting with me, and I couldn’t,” he pulled out slightly and thrust forward again, “stop,” he did it again, farther in this time, “thinking about it.” He pushed steadily forward until his hips met yours and you both moaned.

“Me neither,” you said, turning your head and nipping at his ear. He moaned again. “So much, Din.” He shuddered as he pulled out and thrust forward again, and you lifted your hips to meet him.

He found a steady rhythm that sent sparks up and down your spine, building you up and sending you closer and closer to the edge. Your mind was spinning with pleasure and a bit of awe that you were finally there, that Din was inside you, like you’d been hoping for. Like you’d been craving.

Din leaned his weight onto his left arm and snaked his right hand between your bodies until he found your clit. When he circled it with his finger you almost sobbed.

“I want to feel you come again, mesh’la.” Din’s voice was rough with his own pleasure and it made yours shoot higher. “Squeeze me tight. Dank farrik.” His chest heaved when you did as he asked and squeezed. “Let me feel it. Come for me.”

He thrust forward again and circled your clit just right and you fell off the edge again, but this time it felt like you were flying. You spiraled upwards on the wave of pleasure and when it crashed down again it flowed over your entire body, leaving tingles in its wake.

You squeezed his cock and he moaned into your ear. “You feel so good when you come, kriff, your pussy feels so good.” His hips thrust forward again, losing their rhythm, and you knew he was close. You tugged at his hair until your mouth hovered over his.

“Din,” you said, and kissed him. “Come inside me.”

He moaned and he did, thrusting twice more before stilling and moaning your name. When he collapsed on top of you you wrapped your arms and legs around him and sighed.

“Kark,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses along your neck and throat. “That was so good.”

You laughed, and gasped when he laughed too and you felt it against your chest. “It was, wasn’t it?”

He nodded. “You know, I like this relaxation thing.” You laughed and squeezed him. He grunted. “I have another confession.”

“Uh oh,” you teased. “Is this the last one?”

Din pushed himself up until he was leaning on his left arm again and kissed you softly. “I promise. After this it’s just getting to know each other more.” He kissed you again. “But I need to tell you. I didn’t just run because you’re beautiful.” another kiss. “Even though you are and that was part of it.” A longer kiss this time followed by a nip to your bottom lip. You smiled. “But I also saw you, and all of these feelings I’d been putting off and denying came rushing up and I couldn’t deny them anymore. I think I was afraid, since we’d never met, never seen each other.”

You nodded. You knew that feeling.

“It was all real, suddenly, and I wasn’t ready for that.” He nudged at your nose with his and hummed.

You kissed him. “But you’re ready now?”

“I am,” he said, voice firm and warm. “I want you. I want this. I want to figure it out.”

You grinned. “Me too, Din.”

“Good.”

…

a/n: I hope you enjoyed this fluff. lol

[angelicgirlmj]

cultivating your hobbies to become that girl

as summer starts to end, i find my days a little emptier and im full of anticipation for the coming academic year. but the last thing i want to do is waste the last part of summer so now is the perfect time to cultivate or begin a new hobby, focusing on four areas to level up your body, skills, mind and passions! enjoy angels and i hope this gives you some inspiration.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────

body

having a hobby that helps you reach your dream body, maintain a healthy lifestyle or just help with your mental health (as moving your body always does!) is such a good idea. the past few months my workout schedule has decreased due to the amount of schoolwork i have had and exam season so now is the perfect time for me to get more disciplined and build up a good workout scheme. my hobbies based around my body are pilates or yoga, both of which help me with my fitness goals. here are some more ideas/inspiration for some hobbies you could start:

‘hot girl walks’ - set a goal for your daily steps and go on walks everyday to help you achieve that.

running daily.

swimming daily.

tennis or badminton daily.

joining a sports club such as football or gymnastics.

dance - could be by yourself at home following dance workouts!

strength training.

starting a fitness challenge - such as a month long youtube challenge.

start making your own fitness content! film videos or write tutorials.

bike riding daily.

skills

finding a hobby that helps you develop/cultivate your skills is so important. mine personally is cooking/baking as it helps me focus on giving my body what it needs, becoming more independent and providing for those i love. here are some ideas/inspiration:

painting.

making your own clothes - sewing, knitting or crocheting.

gardening.

scrapbooking.

photography.

drawing.

writing - poetry, novels, articles or anything similar.

acting - helps with public speaking, confidence and making friends.

jewellery making.

chess or a similar intense mental game - cultivates your thinking skills and mind.

mind

finding a hobby that helps you mentally, especially if relevant to schoolwork or career plans is so helpful. mine is reading/engaging with literature as not only does it align with my academic work but also helps me with how i think, view the world and allows me to be more empathetic.

mindfulness/meditation.

learning to play an instrument.

writing/researching around your subjects.

budgeting - good way of keeping track of and understanding money even if you aren’t planning on doing anything economics based!

journalling or keeping a diary.

joining/starting a book club.

starting a studyblr, study youtube channel etc.

learning a new language.

tutoring someone - great way of helping yourself learn as well!

joining a debate team.

passions

finding a hobby around one of your passions is such a fun and unique way of engaging in things you enjoy. mine personally is visiting museums/areas of historical importance as i am so passionate about history.

visiting art galleries.

attending the theatre/cinema.

going to live music events.

visiting libraries/book shops - growing your wish list, finding new book inspo etc!

going to cooking classes, restaurants or cafes.

travelling to new areas (could be local or international) - perhaps to develop language skills, find places to hike etc.

attending lectures on subjects youre interested in.

watching documentaries or video essays.

starting a new course - i do several history courses, my most recent was on European empires!

making a blog, channel, instagram etc for a new hobby or interest.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ─────── thank you for reading angels! hopefully this will help us all on our hobby journeys and have given you ideas of hobbies to try or develop for the end of summer or just in general! love, m.

[thealchemistbae]

North Node Persona Chart Notes 🌟

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

Nobody really talks about this persona chart, so I decided to do my own research to give you guys some knowledge. DON'T forget to check out my Patreon for more exclusive astrology notes etc. Uploading more about this persona chart on my Patreon tonight.

In this chart, the houses show where you're being called to grow, stretch, and fully step into your divine assignment. Think of them as the "scene" where your North Node comes to life. Here's what each house means specifically in a NN Persona Chart:

🏠: 1H -> Look here to see how you need to step into your identity. Confidence, self-image, personal power...it's giving main character energy. If NN or planets are here, your entire destiny depends on owning their authenticity.

🏠: 2H -> This house shows how you'll create stability, money, and self-esteem. You're learning to claim your talents, feel secure in who you are, and not settle. Ask: How are you evolving in how you value yourself and what you deserve?

🏠: 3H -> Check this for communication style, social skills, and mental expansion. Your soul path could be tied to talking, teaching, writing, speaking up. Are you embracing your voice? Are you sharing your truth?

🏠: 4H -> This is the inner child healing, home, family, and roots house. This tells you what you must heal emotionally. Your NN path could depend on emotional safety, ancestral healing, and learning to nurture yourself. Deep inner work = required.

🏠: 5H -> This is where you're learning to create, perform, love, and play. Your purpose could shine when you embrace creativity, romance, fun, and being unapologetically yourself. Are you letting yourself shine?

🏠: 6H -> This house shows what you must master daily. Check this house to see what work, health, and service habits support your soul evolution. You need structure, rituals, and aligned productivity. This is the glow up through discipline house.

🏠: 7H -> This house shows your soulmate work, business collabs, and mirror dynamics. It shows how you grow through love and reflection. Your destiny could be unlocked through partnerships that challenge and evolve you. Who you choose to grow with is everything.

🏠: 8H -> Look here for power struggles, transformation, and rebirth energy. This house shows what you must release and reclaim. You're meant to go deep, face fears, heal trauma, and rise like a phoenix. Sex, money, and emotional intensity may all play big roles.

🏠: 9H -> This house shows where growth, wisdom, and spiritual evolution happens. How you expand your soul. Travel, higher education, philosophy, or publishing might be key. How are you breaking out of limitations and thinking bigger?

🏠: 10H -> This shows show what legacy you are building. Look here to see your career calling and public destiny. Your soul wants to be seen, respected, and successful in a big way. How are you showing up in the world? What are you meant to lead or create?

🏠: 11H -> This house shows how you impact the collective. It shows your soul tribe, activism, innovation, or spiritual friendships. Purpose unfolds when you stop doing it alone.

🏠: 12H -> This is the spiritual and karmic release house. This house shows what you must surrender. Your path is mystical and requires faith, healing, solitude, and trust in divine timing. Are you letting go of fear, or clinging onto old patterns?

The planets in your NN Persona Chart:

🌞 Sun: This shows the core identity of your purpose path. Where you need to confidently shine and lead as your higher self. Your soul's mission persona is infused with this sign & house energy.

�� Moon: This shows what your soul needs to feel safe on its growth journey. These emotions and instincts support (or block) your NN path depending on how you honor them. Nurture your Moon sign and it will fuel your purpose.

☿ Mercury: How you think, learn, speak, and share your ideas in service of your purpose. Also, how your mind processes your karmic lessons. Great for identifying purpose-linked communication gifts or mindset blocks.

♀ Venus: What you attract effortlessly when you're aligned with your destiny. How you love, what you value, and what makes your path feel beautiful, worthy, and abundant. Venus shows how to make your North Node journey feel luxurious, magnetic, and enjoyable.

♂ Mars: Your action style, ambition, and how you go after your soul’s mission. Mars is the gas pedal; it shows what motivates you to evolve and what triggers resistance. Mars also shows how you fight for your glow up.

♃ Jupiter: Your luck and soul growth are amplified in this area. Jupiter shows what makes you feel alive, inspired, and divinely guided on your North Node path. Jupiter is the cheerleader of your chart.

♄ Saturn: Hard lessons, karmic responsibilities, and what you must master to fulfill your North Node mission. Saturn shapes the structure and boundaries of your glow up. Saturn is strict, but it wants you to win long-term.

♅ Uranus: How you rebel, innovate, and liberate yourself to align with destiny. Uranus adds shocks, awakenings, and unique genius to your path. Where you’ll stand out or change the game.

♆ Neptune: Where you’re asked to surrender, trust, and lean into higher wisdom. Neptune is mystical and creative; shows how you connect to your soul and the divine. Your dream world, psychic downloads, and divine inspiration.

♇ Pluto: Where your soul is reborn. Pluto reveals what you must let go of to rise into your North Node purpose and the intense transformation you’re destined for.

Bonus planets & asteroids:

⚜️ Chiron -> This shows a deep soul wound that activates your purpose. You teach what you’ve had to heal. Chiron brings pain, but also wisdom, empathy, and soul medicine.

🌟 Vertex -> Major turning points, people, and destiny doors. The Vertex shows where fate intervenes to push you into alignment with your North Node. Often triggered in relationships or key events.

💫 POF -> This is your joy code. When you’re aligned with your North Node, this area brings abundance, happiness, and natural success. It’s what feels “meant to be.” When you're vibing here, blessings chase you.

🌑 Lilith -> Lilith shows where you’re unapologetic, wild, and magnetic but also where you’ve been shamed or silenced. In the NN chart, she tells you what taboos you’re meant to own and liberate through.

🌸 NN -> This is your destiny energy. The sign = what you must become. The house = where your soul work plays out. In the NN Persona Chart, everything else supports this journey. This whole chart is the personality of your purpose.

Here are some PLACEMENTS/OBSERVATIONS:

💡: NN 5H -> You aren't meant to play the background. You came to SLAY, create, and have fun. Stop dimming your light. You are the main character so act like it.

💡: Venus conjunct NN -> Your glow up is directly tied to self-love, beauty, and maybe bagging a rich boo. Luxury is your birthright so manifest it.

💡: Mar square NN -> You're impulsive af sometimes and it blocks your blessings. Slow down and stop trying to fight the universe every other week.

💡: Chiron 1H -> Oof...identity wounds. You've been hurt for just being you. But healing that? That's how you become unstoppable.

💡; Lilith 10H -> Corporate people beware. You were born to intimidate the industry. Your power makes people nervous. Own it.

💡: Jupiter trine NN -> You got favor. Period. Doors fly open when you're walking in your purpose. Just don't get cocky and forget to do the work.

💡: NN Scorpio 12H -> Whew. You came to transform from the inside out. Psychic as hell, probably emotionally intense. Go meditate and mind your business.

💡: Sun opposite NN -> You might be stuck on your comfort zone and ego right now, but once you align with your soul mission = ICON status.

💡: Mercury sextile NN -> That mouthpiece is going to take you far; speak, write, tweet, teach. Your words shift timelines, boo.

💡: POF 9H -> Blessings come when you travel, teach, or get spiritual. Baby, book the flight or start that blog because it's giving "rich abroad."

💡: Moon square NN -> You cling to comfort like a weighted blanket. Let it go. That growth you're dodging? It's where your power at.

💡: Saturn conjunct NN -> You're not here for the easy route. Your blessings are locked behind discipline and delayed gratification. But when it hits, its' boss level.

💡: Sun 6H -> Your glow up requires structure, daily habits, and actually clocking in to your purpose. Can't manifest millions if your life isn't organized.

💡: Mars 12H -> You fight silent battles like a warrior monk. Your power activates in private. People underestimate you, then gag.

💡: Lilith 11H -> You're here to lead the weirdos, rebels, and people with vision. But don't let society silence you. You're the trendsetter.

💡: Saturn 10H -> You're building an empire from scratch. It's giving "slow grind to legacy." Your name will be remembered, but you gotta earn it.

💡: Uranus opposite NN -> You keep fighting your path because you crave freedom. But guess what? Freedom is the path, just on the other side of discomfort.

💡: Chiron 4H -> Your roots were rocky af, but you're here to break the cycle and build a soft, safe life. You are the generational shift.

💡: Moon 9H -> Your intuition guides you toward expansion. When you trust your gut and take risks, whole new worlds open up.

💡: POF 7H -> That dream relationship is tied to your destiny bag. Soulmate love = divine alignment + coin boosts. Pick the right one.

I will be posting more about the NN Persona Chart on my Patreon. So subscribe my lovelies or you can purchase the post separately.

thealchemistbae © do not copy, redistribute, or edit my content.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at goddessguapa@gmail.com or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

[the-one-who-lambs]

Sheep body language

Since the body language of cats is pretty common knowledge, I haven't had to research it too much for fic-writing purposes. I haven't gotten a chance to interact with sheep nearly as often as I have cats, though, so I find myself looking up the body language of sheep quite often. I thought it might be helpful/interesting to share some of what I've found over the years of writing CotL fics, in case anyone wants to use it to help with their writing/art c: Some of this I've learned from professional/farming resources, but most of it is honestly just from reading forums about sheep and reading the "informal data" about people's experiences with sheep!

Stomping, quite predictably, means a sheep is irritated/aggressive, but their stomping isn't actually all that loud as you might expect with hooves. (Thus, it's easy to misjudge how aggressive a sheep might be feeling if their stomping is fairly quiet.)

If they're pawing someone, though, it often means they're trying to pester for treats/pets.

Ears turned sideways or a bit backwards means a sheep is relaxed. Pointing backwards usually indicates fear. Pointing forwards, especially if the head is tilted up, can indicate either stress or curiosity (the common denominator here is the sheep is trying to figure out what's going on/if something is unfamiliar or new). Asymmetrical ears are associated with stress or frustration as well.

Scared or uncomfortable sheep might drop their heads, as if to blend in with the flock/their surroundings

If the ears are flicking, the sheep is probably frustrated or stressed. Their ears tend to move more often the more uncomfortable they are

They also tend to snort when they're annoyed

Half-shut eyes indicate feeling safe, but squinting can indicate the sheep's in pain. Another common sign of pain is grinding their teeth.

Bunting is an aggressive gesture, and so is lowering the head/presenting the forehead and backing up (preparing to bunt).

On a similar note, head pets or horn touches can similarly be taken as a show of dominance/challenge since rams headbutt. Top-of-the-head pets should be given with caution, only if you know the sheep enjoys it, but it'll depend on the individual

Common places sheep like to be pet: base of/behind/inside the ears, under-neck, under the jaw, chest, under the belly, top of the tail, behind the horns (apparently sheep can get itchy behind the horns). If they're really happy with the scratches they might lick the air.

Happy tail wiggles.

Sheep can get the zoomies when they're excited.

It takes about 4-5 sheep to get them to display their normal flocking behaviors. Isolation from other sheep "causes severe stress and should be avoided," and sheep separated from their mothers in young childhood tend to be more anxious in adulthood even when in company of others :)

Take the above info as much or as little as you'd like to, since we're all making fan creations that are fictional anyway so you should do whatever you want forever. Anyway, have fun with these

[gatorbites-imagines]

Omni-man being defeated in battle and subsequently dominated? Maybe the trophy wife concept you mentioned in the NSFW alphabet for him?? I just love him

Nolan Grayson x Galactus inspired male reader

Headcanons

Imagine a big evil smirk growing on my face when I saw this request. set somewhere after Nolan leaves earth and Mark has taken Oliver back to earth.

Readers inspired by Galactus. Because I go apeshit for extreme size differences. I wanted this to be smutty, but it just ended up getting kinda cracky...

had a lot of fun writing this reader, would love to write him again.

You were an ancient immortal being known for devouring planets for power, feared across the universe and multiverse. You fought many battles with the people of viltrum, mainly because of how powerful you were and how much of a threat you posed. Of course, they never won, which wounded their ego.

But at some point, you guys struck a deal. You would stop attacking them and they would stop attacking you. You guys would stay out of each other’s way and territory. Sometimes they would even offer you planets if your heralds found it worthy of consumption.

How Nolan fell into your lap could happen in many ways, but I find the most interesting being him leaving Andressa and Thraxa. Maybe he travels so far, he succumbs to exhaustion like when he left earth, and he just happens to fall right into your giant palm.

You weren’t mindlessly evil, but you weren’t good either. And the small violent viltrumites had always intrigued you. You had always wanted one of them to be a herald of yours, but you also knew you wouldn’t have their loyalty.

Nolan would wake up well rested and healed, curled up on a hard purple surface which he would later realize is your palm. You had been floating through the universe simply holding him like one would hold a little bird or mouse, or maybe more a small vulnerable flower petal.

Nolan has most likely lived long enough to have fought you before, so he knows who you are, what you can do, and the deals he’s broken by ending up in your territory. Maybe hes just too depressed to care about himself, his people, anything.

To you, hes kind of like a little pathetic creature, like how we see a baby animal missing a leg and coo, wanting to keep it and care for it. well, maybe its more like you want to own him. A being like yourself don’t experience emotions like everyone else, but there’s interest.

It’s a bit sad to see a viltrumite so wilted and weakened. You had expected a fight, and order your heralds to try and goad him into one so you can crush his will yourself. But Nolan just sits on your palm with a blank look in his eyes, even as you devour planets right in front of him.

The whole “wife” process kind of starts up after Nolan and you have shared silence for a while, who knows how long. The universe is vast, and you guys just keep moving from one planet to the next.

Maybe he just starts telling you about his life on earth, his wife, or wives, his sons, how he’s starting to think everything he’s learned maybe isn’t right. How he’s tired and feels like he doesn’t have a purpose.

In the beginning you offer to make him one of your heralds, but being able to enter people’s minds you also pick through his memories, wants and deeper wishes.

A being like yourself has never had much interest in a spouse, at least after ascending into what you are now. There is the fact that you will exist until the universe ends completely, how you travel the dark emptiness of space, and how you are one of the most evil beings in the universe, if others ask.

Sliding the mental image into Nolans head, of being your so called “wife” is the first time you get a major reaction out of him. Maybe its viltrumite instinct or his own pride, but he wont just take it laying down.

Fighting him isn’t a challenge for you, you could have crushed him very easily, but you make it seem like you put in an effort to calm whatever struggles Nolan might have in his mind. It’s only after you’ve defeated him, and there’s literally nothing else he can do that Nolan will shyly agree.

To him theres no life to return to, so why not live out that little fantasy of his. It’s not like you’ll demand him to do more carnal wifely acts… right?

(spoiler, you will, but that comes later when you guys gain a deeper more intense attraction to each other. And when that time comes Nolan agrees very willingly)

In the beginning there isn’t really any change in the relationship you guys already had. Being a literal cosmic being means you normally don’t feel a lot of carnal urges or wants, so it’s all up to Nolan to make a move.

You visiting Herald almost choked when they saw Nolan floating up to your massive face and kiss your lips, even if he only is able to kiss your bottom lip.

The other Heralds also have a similar reaction when you start referring to Nolan as your wife. They can’t question you, and some of them just give Nolan a “good luck” and are on their way.

You don’t really care whatsoever about gendered terms, and as much as Nolan blushes and denies it, your mental bond lets you feel how much he likes being called Wife.

Its digging around Nolans mind that you see his deeper fantasies and start bringing out the things that go along with it. like, materializing a skimpy “slave” outfit for him, in purple and blue of course so he matches you.

When you order him to shave his beard Nolan almost, almost, blows up and starts arguing. But deep down he also knows its what he wants, to disconnect himself completely from who he was before and just allowing himself to be someone new.

At some point you start referring to him as your “viltrum slave” and later just “slave wife” because it gets Nolan really excited, if you know what I mean. Being mentally connected means that Nolans pleasure is your pleasure. You technically could shrink and enjoy the throes of the body with him, but being so much bigger excites both of you.

It does worsen your already horrible image somewhat, and give people stupid ideas. Planets start trying to offer you women, or their species version of it, to try and make you leave their planet. Its always denied though.

When planets realize you don’t want women, they start trying to offer you “wives” that look like Nolan, which just makes Nolan pissed, because he’s as possessive as you. On those planets you let him indulge in his viltrumite urge for destruction, before you devour it.

Nolan will regularly forget just how strong he is when he’s around you and your heralds. They start referring to him as your “pet” or “wife” too, just playing into Nolans little fantasy. And who are you to stop them? Happy wife, happy life.

This also just means that Nolan can shock himself by wiping out entire planets in hours. In the past it might have taken months or weeks, but with the cosmic powers from you as well, nobody really stands a chance.

It will be very fun if rumors get back to earth somehow that you have “kidnapped and enslaved” a rogue viltrumite. I’m not sure they’d send anyone to save Nolan, but they gotta live with that.

Maybe you pull up to earth for one reason or another. Big chance its because your scantily dressed wife has been fantasizing about this one gelato Nolan used to eat on the regular, so of course you have to go get it.

You could have sent your heralds or just teleported maybe Nolan to do it but… you want to go on a date…

So, you shrink from “I swallow planets whole” size to “im big enough to knock down this skyscraper” size, and just… appear on earth. Cue huge chaos and extreme fear, because you can’t tell me Cecil wouldn’t know of you at least.

Cue guardians of the globe pulling up, and someone, probably Rex, going “hold up… isn’t that your dad?” to Mark, because of course Nolan is sitting all pretty and “enslaved” looking on your shoulder.

The whole “slave” outfit also put these shackle looking things around Nolans wrists and ankles, as well as a collar, to make it look like you were somehow suppressing his powers. Sometimes they actually did that if you wanted them too. Most of the time it was for looks.

Its… very awkward. Nolan would be embarrassed if he hadn’t wiped out an entire planet wearing only a purple bra and panties once. This one is at least more like Leias slave outfit than the almost nonexistent stuff you sometimes had him wear.

Theres a chance its more surprising to see Nolan without his moustache honestly, than it is seeing him in the bra and fabric ensemble.

I have a feeling you would, in your powerful godly cosmic entity voice, booming loud enough for the entire state to hear, tell mark that he may refer to you as stepfather, if he would like.

Someone, Rex, would start wheezing so hard with laughter he would struggle not to pass out. I have a feeling most of the guardians would start snickering, except for the more serious ones like Rudy, who knows you could snuff them all out if you wanted.

For some comedy and crack, Debbie gives you, devourer of planets and immortal cosmic being, the shovel talk. Nolan is impressed that you seem more attentive to her words than entire planets begging for mercy.

Nolan doesn’t return to earth, or to Debbie or anything, but you do offer your stepson (Mark groans and covers his face), that you will help him out if he needs it. you also offer to play baseball with him, or take him to “the game” (you still don’t really understand what that is), for family bonding.

You keep eating planets, Nolan keeps being your little trophy wife, but maybe the ending of this universe won’t be the same as in the comics, since Mark now has his “sigh… step father” on his side. You and Nolan just keep being a happy married couple, in whatever way someone like you two can be.

[kabr0ztrousers]

Got a request! A rich male alien that adores and loves to spoil a fem reader who is his captive lover. She tried to escape and he gives her a choice in punishment. She chooses the least threatening one which is to be the refreshments for a party he's hosting. Whatever the heck “refreshments” mean. She'll know when her tits get bigger and start to leak a lot.

Kabr0z Writes Episode 26: Disciplinary action

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Lactation; dubcon; noncon; intox; Interspecies; sextoy use; lack of liberty; sexual punishment; cunnilingus; some femdom; it's a fun time

A/N: This is the last request in the box 😱 If you have an idea you'd like me to write into being, have a kink you want me to indulge, or just want to tell me my writing's hackneyed and uninspiring, please please please click my profile and send an ask, a DM, it's all open. Do it now before the post-nut clarity hits!

And with that out of the way:

#########################################

It's been six months since humankind was bought in a land deal. Most of your race exists in vast facilities where they're milked like cattle, kept alive on a mixture of algae and drugs. Some still live in cities on Earth, playing pretend that the world hasn't ended for the benefit of tourists. The rest are like you: domestic housepets.

You touched the back of your skull, feeling the almond-sized implant your owner put there. Somewhere between an ID and a shock collar. You don't know what happens if it triggers, and hopefully you'll have it cut out before you find out. A chittering sound echoed over the ships tannoy. You listened intently. The Chitinid language may sound like a can of dry peas being dropped down stairs, but it's intelligible if you learn how. You catch the important parts.

You'll hit the jump gate in 20 rels, then be in witchspace for another 30. You know you're in Sol at the moment. 20 rels is about an hour old-Earth time. Plenty of time to get to an escape pod. If you time it just right, you'll jettison on the Solar side and the ship will be God knows where by the time they notice you missing.

Now's the time to make your move. You hurry down the azure-lit hallways of the starship. Your clothing isn't meant to be easy to move in, all wispy fabric and high heels. It's not doing anything to preserve your modesty, rather drawing the eye to your bare tits, ass, and pussy. The Chitinids don't even have compatible genitals to fuck a human with, but it still seems to be fashionable to dress their pets like they do.

Playing the idiot housepet has its perks. Chitinids don't expect you to understand them when they speak their language. Humans can't make those kinds of sounds, and they're capable of speaking Human languages, so English, Spanish, and Mandarin tend to be the common languages. Nobody challenges you as you pass them, they barely look at you.

At last, the escape pod door. Now just to open the hatch.

You realised your mistake as soon as you touched the controls. A heat radiated from the nodule at the base of your skull. Static radiated down your spine. Your arms went to sleep, then your legs. You collapsed into a heap, limbs twitching.

You don't know how long you stayed there. You felt the lurching sickness as the ship jumped to witchspace, then the reverse-headache of regaining normality. Only then did your owner appear.

He was as grotesque as the rest of his race. A huge beetle, stood on its spindly hindlegs, the stopping slouch of all Chitinids keeping him no more than about 4 or 5 feet tall. The two left forelimbs held a staff, some symbol of office. In his right he held your remote. He clicked a button and your arms came back. You dragged yourself to a sit, your legs still twitching and numb.

Your owner walked away, leaving you to drag yourself behind him using your arms. The bastard was leading you back to his cabin, you were sure of it, but he was taking the scenic route. He made sure to pass every damn member of the crew, the chittering laughs turning your face red with embarrassment and rage. At last you reached his quarters. Two armoured security guards stood to attention as he passed them.

"So. You are the rebellion. This to be punish." He still hasn't got the hang of English. "I am generous owner. Pet gets to choose punish.

You glared at him, silent hatred burning in your eyes

He didn't notice, or didn't care. "First option: Brig, I turn on your collar and you stay in brig for week or two" Staying in the brig without even the use of your limbs? Not particularly enticing. "Second: I get male Human from friend. You make me many more pets" You almost shuddered at that one. "Third: We travel to a business deal. Big party after. You give refreshments"

Ok. Two nightmare scenarios, or a shift working hospitality for some assholes? Fuck, you were a cocktail waitress before the world went to Hell, it'll almost be nostalgic. "Three" You spat the word at him, and he sat back.

"Good. Party in a day. Put on nice clothes. Best behaviour, or you get brig and I get more humans." You bit your lip, you knew better than to try and backtalk him when he got like this. Especially not now you know what the "collar" implanted in you does.

He switched your legs back on after you'd left the cabin. You could at least walk properly back to your room. You whiled away the time imagining yourself cracking open his carapace like an overgrown lobster, before dressing in some fresh silks and making your way to the docking umbilical. He was waiting for you there, chittering with another one you didn't recognise, also holding a staff.

You could see the other ones pet. A young man. You shivered to look at him. Angry welts criss-crossed his back. While your silks were revealing, they were comfortable. He was dressed in leather straps, over-tightened and decorated with spikes pressing into his skin. He was gagged tightly, a rubber ball stuck in his mouth and a strand of drool leaking down. His genitals were bound up in a shiny cage, indicator lights flashing on it occasionally. You noticed he would twitch and groan when they did, it was probably set up to electocute him periodically. You knew better than to ask, but this was probably your prospective mate if you misbehaved tonight.

"Are we early?" You asked as sweetly as you were able. Your customer service voice was a little rusty, but you had all night to practice.

The Chitinids laughed "Right on time" The new one spoke much better English than your owner. "But you're not fully dressed."

You felt a sharp pain in your ass. Your owner had stuck you with something. You shot him a glare, but they only laughed harder.

You stepped into the party, and the room looked at you. Most were uninterested, paying more attention to the beetles behind you as you let yourself be ushered to the centre of the room.

A rail shot up around you, and an azure containment field snared you. Your arms lifted above your head and hung there, pushing your tits out. You felt strange, a tingling feeling spreading across your body.

Your tits started to ache.

The man you saw in the umbilical stepped towards you, gazing up apologetically as he knelt down. He parted your legs.

You felt fingers press against your pussy, gently rubbing into you, making your body respond. You felt yourself getting wet around him and could hear the sound of his fingering as he played with your hole.

One of the guests stepped towards you, and loudly chittered at the crowd. Something about a story, a couple, drinking, milk? Wait. Milk. Fuck. The guest produced a flask from its exoskeleton and tipped your head back, pouring the contents down your throat. You gagged at the bitter taste and the stinging burning as it flowed down. Then you moaned as your pussy became dripping wet all at once. The man's fingers slid inside you and you came hard. Your body seized as you shook in the containment field. His fingers kept pumping up into you as he buried his face in your pussy. You writhed as you felt a tongue lapping at your clit, his gag must have come off.

Your chest felt heavy, you looked down and saw your tits were growing. They were already twice as big as they were before and weren't stopping, ballooning cartoonishly more and more with every moment. You gasped and cried as the man found your g-spot, another orgasm hitting you like a train and making you lift your legs as your body tried to double over, held upright by your wrists. You'd settle for wrapping that man's head in your thighs, keeping his tongue where it belongs.

The constant stimulation along with the drugs brought you to another orgasm, then another and another. Your tits had stopped swelling now, though they're still way past conventional bra sizes. You could still feel pressure building in them, growing with every passing moment.

A servant Chitinid approached with a pair of devices, clear plastic cups with valves on the stems and strange modules inside. It wasn't until he fixed them to you that you understood. They're the devices used in the farms. To regulate flow of milk from the cattle. The servant turned a tap, and you felt it start extracting milk from you. The feeling of being milked, on top of the fingering and riding the man's face was too much. Your head rolled back and you screamed put your orgasm to the cheers of all the Chitinids present. The servant filled a glass with your milk and fed it too you, warm, creamy and sweet. Then the rest came, each filling glasses and chittering to one another as you came over and over again, barley giving the man working your cunt enough time to breathe between squirting your orgasms into his face.

The party lasted for hours. By the time it was over the man had already passed out between your legs and was slumped on the floor, long since replaced by a curved vibrator. Your tits were still huge and set you off balance, tipping invitingly forwards as the spigots leaked the last of your milk.

The containment field snapped off. You fell onto the unconscious man, startling him awake. Your owner stood over you, alone but for the servants and you two humans.

"Male's owner, tired of him. Sold to me for two thousand credits. You both mine now. You two get along. Make me more humans."

He walked away. You struggled to your feet, still dripping from the spigots attached to you. You helped the man up, you told him your name, he told you his.

You'll have plenty of time to get acquainted

############################

A/N (again): Just taking the time to reiterate what I wrote at the top, if there's anything you want to see, anything at all, let me know. Ask soon and you might wind up prompting the next episode

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ body double.

sugar baby!paige x sugar baby!azzi. men & minors dni.

synopsis: azzi and paige are both sugar babies who have no prior knowledge of each other. they end up meeting when their shared client invites them to the same hotel room. on the same evening.

cw: power dynamics, mentions of drugs (neither p nor a are the ones using), non-graphic & non-fatal overdose, non-sexual intimacy, suggestive content, the eroticism that comes with finding someone almost exactly like you, strangers to maybe lovers.

notes: hello, my loves. this was written as a part of a challenge to help me write more. the challenge was as follows:

work with isolated locations for the majority of a piece. only one place or two, almost like a film. pairing is pazzi. type: oneshot. prompt: body double.  

d.c. can feel exactly like new york city if you drink enough. azzi learns this about two months into the sugaring game. she also learns that people with copious wealth will wield it to test your willingness to receive it. 

azzi wonders if they see something when she looks up at them. if there’s a large question mark that they click onto that asks them: what else can i do for love? and the thing is, it’s not about love. it’s about affordability. but still, the wielding of wealth is exactly what’s gotten her into this hotel room with two women she doesn’t know.

one of them is clearly another baby, sugar. the one with the money, and therefore the most power, is currently in the bathroom getting ready for their “night of fun.” azzi and the other girl are sitting so still, each frozen on one of two twin beds, faces steadfastly turned away from one another. 

azzi is pressing her thoughts down like petals under glass. she’s trying to forget she has a body at all. the other girl seems to be evaluating whether or not this is really worth it. azzi understands. 

the drip of the shower is abysmally insanity-inducing, so azzi turns herself slightly so that she can study the woman who still refuses to look directly at her. she’s beautiful, even from the side.

she’s all-american: blonde hair like wheat tumbling past her shoulders, blue eyes that seem to x-ray anything she’s looking at, skin that’s probably more pale than the tanning spray it’s been painted with tonight, a sharp jawline that leans into a strong neck.

she’s awkward, tall, and a bit gangly. slacks. a collared shirt that doesn’t quite fit right. it looks too nice to be hers, probably the client’s pick. azzi fidgets with the glittered hem of her mini dress, which, too, is the client’s pick.

they fit the profile of what most older women with money seem to need: younger, younger in posture still, bodily desperation or at least the shape of it, wide eyes because it makes them appear more into it than they ever are. 

the other woman turns her wrist over, studying underneath her unpainted nails. azzi catches a flash of a tattoo sitting sweetly on her inner wrist. scales. libra, azzi thinks. she tries to think if libras and scorpios are known to be compatible, and she finds she can’t remember. 

she once had a client so into astrology that he used to check his horoscope before they ever slid into bed. he drove her insane. 

that was a valium heavy year. 

the shower is still running, and azzi belatedly wonders what the water bill for the hotel must look like. it’s how she knows she’s getting bored. next to her, on that other bed, her blonde counterpart shifts impatiently. azzi feels a smile flicker along the curl of her mouth, and she bites down on her bottom lip to keep it captive.

something about that urges the woman to look at her, and as she does, azzi lets her bottom lip slide out from where she’s bitten it bloodless. the plumpness returns to the vermilion, and the woman watches as the skin steadily fills back out. it sits pretty and wet in the low light. 

a pause. then:

“you know about this?”

the words both startle and provide clarity to azzi. she knows almost immediately what the appeal is. her voice is low, deliberately kept that way. azzi can tell. her thing is probably not to talk much unless necessary. the charm is always in what you never say.

“about…” azzi says, tilting her head.

“the alleged threesome we’re about to have,” the other woman says, voice just on the side of dry.

azzi gives a non-answer. “alleged is a great word, because with the size of her pupils and the slur of words, i’m not sure she’s making it out of that shower.”

there’s another pause, and then they both slide off the edge of the bed and stand. they do an odd dance for about five minutes: azzi forward, the woman backward, then stand side to side. all of this and never moving closer to the bathroom. finally, azzi is the one to push ahead and knock the door open with a manicured finger. 

they find their client slumped halfway in the shower, water still cascading down the curve of her back, mascara in twin tributaries running past her temples. azzi is the first to move, toeing off her heels, padded and slow over the tile. the other girl doesn’t move from the doorway, only exhales loudly. there's no scream, no panic. just a long, stunned silence.

“she breathing?” she asks, voice flat.

azzi kneels, checks a pulse she barely remembers how to find. “um, yeah,” she says. “i think so.”

they exchange a look.

“do we…call someone?”

azzi’s lip curls. “what, 911? and say what? ‘hi, our shared sugar mommy did too many muscle relaxers and now she’s unconscious in the waldorf astoria bathroom’?” 

her voice goes high as she does the impression, her cheeks slightly puffing so that she can mock pout as she blows her eyes out to look as innocent as they’re paid to be.

the blonde presses her thumb to the bridge of her nose. “we are not getting paid.”

“not tonight,” azzi agrees.

azzi stands up from where she’d crouched beside the tub, brushing her palms over her thighs like she can shake it off. she doesn’t look at paige when she says, “her lips look a little blue.”

the girl—azzi's coined her blondie— frowns. “what?”

azzi turns, finally, eyes more honest than they’d been all night. “i’m not a nurse, okay? but she wasn’t that color before.”

that’s what makes them check again. blondie steps forward, nudging the shower curtain back with two fingers like it might bite. the woman is still breathing, barely, but her head has lolled too far over the side of the tub, and her chest rises, falls, stutters again.

“fuck,” blondie groans.

azzi’s already moving, digging through the woman’s massive purse like she owns it. lipstick. loose twenties. pills. more pills. 

“are you stealing?” blondie asks, and she knows its the wrong thing to say but she’s shit at this. 

azzi tenses and doesn’t look at her as she answers. “i’m looking for narcan.”

“oh.” blondie's voice sounds steadier than she must feel, less apologetic than she wanted. “well, you’re calling.”

azzi glances over her shoulder, brown eyes dark like a deer’s in the light. she studies blondie for two seconds flat before nodding sharply. there’s hesitation, only for a second, then she dials. the conversation is short and strange: no real names, just room numbers and coded panic. she hangs up and drops the phone face down on the carpet.

“she’ll live,” azzi says, finally. “they said they’d send someone. told me to leave her in the tub. that seems cruel."

blondie says nothing.

paige observes how the other girl tucks a strand of hair behind their client’s ear, how she fixes the strap of her dress so she’s more dignified in her self-designed destruction. then, whatever paige sees? it’s gone. there’s nothing. just the buzz of silence around them, and water still running because neither of them dares to reach in and touch her again. azzi moves again, turns the water off. 

they slink out of the bathroom and sit on the beds again. paige rises, always antsy in conflict, and azzi watches her as she reaches behind herself to grasp her curls in one hand and pin them with the claw clip in the other.

paige leans on the dresser. “guess we’re not going anywhere.”

azzi snorts, then sighs like something inside her unhooks.

she stands, crosses the room, and tugs at the zipper of her dress. it’s glittery and stiff; it could hold its shape without her. 

“jesus, i can’t feel my ribs,” she mutters, more to herself.

the dress peels off like fruit skin. underneath, azzi wears something so worn it’s almost faded: a ribbed cotton tank with a thin daisy print and matching boyshorts, simple, clean, hers. paige is pretty sure it's from h&m.

azzi stretches, shoulders rolling back, head falling to one side in a sleepy waterfall. paige can’t not look. and then can’t stop.

azzi is beautiful. she’s fuller where paige isn’t, hips wide and waning like the moon. her chest is full, the skin glowing with an endless layer of body butter and maybe oiled perfume. her thighs are strong, indicative of an athletic background—her arms too.

paige is helpless to the way her eyes catch on the spill of her ass from her boyshorts, the high rise of them in the front that strip down in a tiny patch of fabric to keep her cunt hidden and alluring. she tries not to look at it for a second time, a third. tries. fails. then begins to wonder.

what does she look like in motion? in your mouth? is it like a flower rising toward the sun?

azzi glances over her shoulder. “are you okay?”

paige nods, too quickly. “yeah. yeah, ‘m fine. i’ve just never seen glitter look so relieved to leave a body.”

that gets a laugh, a bright, real burst, and azzi flops onto the nearest bed, folding one leg over the other. it’s the one paige had been sitting so clinically on before. “you’re kind of funny. didn't expect that.”

“why would you? you don’t know me.”

azzi hums, not disagreeing. “i’m azzi.”

“paige.”

azzi nods, then leans over and yanks a beaded clutch from underneath the bed.

“you’re kind,” paige says after a minute, voice quieter now. “didn’t expect that either. you kind of come off as…”

“a bitch? yeah, i know.” azzi shrugs. “it’s not kindness, it’s survival. but thank you.”

paige wants to sit, but she doesn’t want to take the other bed. it’s too close to the bathroom. azzi looks up from where she’s scrolling on her phone, its delicate skeleton encased in a pink, plastic case with gold lettering airbrushed across it that looks as though it's seen the world. she shifts, makes space. paige climbs up to be with her. 

they sit like that for a while. the wet gurgle of the bathroom, the long shadows, the strange closeness of a night that probably would’ve been later repressed. 

outside the window, the city murmurs on without them. inside, paige’s eyes won’t stop catching on the soft places azzi has let show. not just skin, but still skin.

“what’s it say?” she asks, and azzi looks at her. “your phone case.”

“oh,” azzi says. she flips the phone over, holds it up to the light. “you have all these things inside of you. [i wish] you could turn into something beautiful.” 

“why the brackets?”

azzi brings the phone to the pit of her lap and looks at paige. “without the brackets, it’s a great motivational quote. with the brackets, it’s itself.”

“meaning…”

“it’s the last thing my mother said to me before she kicked me out and cut me off.”

paige lets out a breath. azzi smiles wryly. “we’re kind of okay now. she got comfortable with the liking girls thing when she realized it was technically half of me.” 

the joke makes paige laugh. 

“but still, bisexuality is a large pill for her to swallow. by the time she started to try, i was already thick in the game.”

azzi says it like she’s over it. like it’s a throwaway story she only tells when she’s bored or brave or buzzed off a stranger’s attention. but paige can tell by the way azzi presses the phone to her lap as if it might spill something, by the way she won’t meet her eyes again yet, that there’s nothing throwaway about it.

“that’s kind of beautiful,” paige says softly. “in a fucked up sense.”

azzi's shirt is clinging to her like a second skin, damp where the collarbones dip and the cotton’s gone sheer with sweat. the room smells like sterile panic, like baby powder and bile and something almost sweet underneath. paige’s perfume, maybe. azzi saw the valentino on the nightstand. or maybe it's the city. 

azzi tends to find the skyscape sweet when she has time enough to enjoy it.

paige shouldn’t still be watching her. should’ve turned away after that first scan down her legs, after the boyshorts and the way they cut in at the curve, gave shape to things paige wasn’t supposed to be cataloguing. but it’s like catching sight of your reflection in a window you didn’t know was there. she can’t look away, and azzi doesn’t seem to mind it.

“you always wear them like that?” paige asks. it’s nowhere near as casual as she hopes. she blames the question on adrenaline. on proximity. on whatever the fuck is happening with the allegedly arriving emts and the non-present narcan.

azzi raises an eyebrow, half-lidded, a little mean. “wear what like how?”

“you always wear your favorite underwear under a thousand-dollar dress? then strip down like you want someone to notice?”

a pause. a glint of something dangerous moves through azzi’s expression, then quiets. “how do you know they’re my favorites?”

paige raises a light brow. “baby, those things have seen leagues of better days.”

the pet name hangs between them like a dare. azzi’s mouth twitches.

“bitch.”

“sorry,” paige quips, smiling fully now. azzi can see teeth.

“don’t be.”

that hangs between them, too. 

paige looks down at the bed, at the mussed sheets, and then toward the bathroom where the person who paid for it is still lying. her gaze transfers to azzi, whose mouth is slightly parted like she’s catching breath that won’t come easily. paige feels her own stutter, short-circuit. 

azzi doesn’t look scared. she looks resigned, empty. nothing about this scenario is new to her.

paige thinks: she could be me. if i let go of the wheel. 

azzi catches her staring.

“would you have done it? fucked me, i mean. i’m starting to gather we both didn’t know about this...endeavor.”

it’s the answer to paige’s question from earlier. it’s not coy or flirtatious. it’s almost accusatory, clinical. like she’s calling paige on a secret she didn’t mean to let slip. paige doesn’t answer right away. her eyes flick down, then up again. the air hums.

“since i didn’t know about this whole proposition till we crossed the threshold, i don’t know if i would’ve fucked you,” she says. 

azzi looks at her from beneath her lashes. “do you want to?”

paige leans back on her hands, stretching her body out across the pillows she’s sitting on. she shrugs.

“i think i wanna figure out what happens if i do.”

azzi leans back a little, her head tipping so the tendons in her throat show. her arms are crossed but loose, like she’s considering the confession academically. there’s no warmth in her smile.

“you think it’s something about how we live the same?”

paige swallows. “a bit, yeah. but you’re not that hard to look at.”

azzi laughs again. second time tonight.

there’s a sudden knock, a bang against the doorframe, then rubber soles and clipped voices calling in. azzi rises and grabs one of the satin robes hanging in the room’s wardrobe. she ties it around herself, the belt coming into a neat bow along her hips. she turns, leans forward just enough so that paige can smell the caramelized citrus and musk of her perfume, and pops a few buttons of the shirt paige wears.

“try to look like you’re getting ready for bed,” azzi tells her. paige stands, tries to do her best.

the door opens.

“hi, ma’am. we’re answering an earlier call about an overdose. is she breathing?”

azzi nods jerkily. paige moves up behind her, arms up, closing the space like it’ll prove something. she presses two fingertips to the small of azzi’s back. azzi leans into her.

“she hasn’t woken up,” paige says. “we didn’t want to leave her alone.”

“how do you know her?”

“uh, we had dinner together.”

the excuse makes no sense, and they both ignore the knowing gaze of the team’s head member. a pair of emts flood the space with too much presence, all nylon and light and metal clips. one kneels beside the older woman on the tile, shining a small penlight into her eyes, asking questions she can’t answer. the other reads her vitals off the monitor like a grocery list.

paige backs into the corner, unnoticed, but not unseen. azzi is quiet.

the woman is now out of the tub, a puppet with its strings cut. she lets them touch her, prod and measure, like none of it matters. paige watches the whole time, arms crossed tight over her chest. she should leave. should fade into the background like any good girl caught someplace she wasn’t supposed to be.

instead, her eyes stay trained on azzi’s body, which now seems on the verge of collapse. paige slides closer to her, fits a finger into the hollow under her ribs. the room’s residue of glamour is approaching its expiration date.

“we’ll take her in,” one of the professionals says. “she’ll make it, but just barely. she needs observation.”

azzi finally turns her head, catching paige’s gaze like a hook in the mouth.

“that’s fine.”

it’s not a plea. it’s not a question, even. paige hesitates. then nods. the woman, nothing more than a bank deposit and a shared gps pin, is gone in under five minutes. a transaction cleared.

the silence after is paramount. paige closes the door, latches it. she turns, leaning against it with her arms crossed. 

“want to go to bed?” azzi asks. 

paige huffs out a low laugh. “might as well, mama.”

the sheets are still warm from when they’d sat on them. it makes them both shiver. they don’t say anything about it. 

paige pulls her shirt off first, then kicks out of her jeans, the slow reveal of ink across her shoulder blade catching azzi’s eye in the mirror. sports bra, soft boxers. nothing delicate, but it still makes azzi blink. her gaze stalls on the cut of paige’s abs, and when she’s caught, there’s nothing said.

paige knows she can’t say anything, not when moments before she was thinking about sucking azzi loose enough to make her cry, right through her fucking see-through underwear.

“do you think they have extra toothbrushes in the bathroom?”

“it’s the astoria. of course they do,” azzi answers, already turning toward the phone. “but probably only one. we’d have to call reception.”

they do. two pristine bamboo toothbrushes are left outside the door on a silver platter alongside a slim tube of marvis toothpaste. they wait for the other to finish despite there being two sinks.

azzi climbs in first, wriggles to the far end of the bed to steal the cold side, but paige follows. long limbs, loose breath, the heavy scent of sleep, something like chlorine and money.

they don’t cuddle. this isn’t what this is. not really. they just… end up there. one turn, another. an arm flung out. a thigh slips between the other’s legs. the legs that hold that thigh clench closed, keeping it there.

“it’s too fucking hot, bruh,” paige mutters, peeling herself off azzi—whose thigh is freed—and stumbling to the thermostat. “what is this, dubai?”

azzi laughs into the pillow.

“d.c., paigey.”

paige shoots her a look at the nickname.

“you could’ve asked her to pay for better a/c.”

“i don’t ask for shit.”

“you’re such a liar.”

“sue me.”

“maybe.”

paige doesn’t answer, just flops back onto the bed. azzi shifts, her knee bumping paige’s thigh as if trying to get her to open up again.

“stop moving,” paige mumbles, one hand flattening against azzi’s hip, her voice heavier now, eyes half-lidded.

“don’t tell me what to do,” azzi snaps back. but she doesn’t really mean it.

she moves more. on purpose. wiggles until the sheets shift and whisper in the most irritating manner allowed.

paige sighs, sharp. she presses a large hand flat against azzi’s stomach, just low enough to make azzi’s chest sing. her palm spans the place paige would push if she wanted azzi to cum on her.

“azzi, chill. ‘m tryna sleep.”

azzi only grows more agitated; she hates the pressure. she tenses, rolls halfway over paige with an arm to the side. her other hand sneaks low, fingers slipping just under the waistband of paige’s boxers before pausing.

“no.”

she rolls away, securing the colder side.

paige’s laugh is low, rough around the edges. a warning bell in a dimly lit room. 

she reaches, snaps the band of azzi’s boyshorts sharp enough to sting.  

azzi gasps, half-startled.

paige pulls her back anyway, drapes her arm over her waist, presses their bodies close, spine to chest. the room tilts. azzi goes heavy, steeped in jasmine and amber. she’s a little dizzy. paige’s scent curls around her throat like a loose ribbon. threatens to tighten.

“go to sleep, azzi,” paige murmurs.

and they do.

they don’t wake up at the same time.

paige stirs first, slow and unspectacular. she’s rising from too many layers of sleep, more than she’s had in weeks. her limbs are heavy, eyes gummy, the weight of another body is still pressed to hers like a shadow she can’t fully shake. 

azzi’s hair is a mess against the pillow. her lashes are long enough to cast shadows. her lips, parted. there’s a faint imprint of paige’s chain on her collarbone. paige thumbs over it, then remembers herself.

she does it again and understands—it's time to go.

she slides out from under the covers with practiced stealth. quiet but not quite careful. not tender, but still respectful. she dresses without ceremony: yanks on her jeans, and tugs her hoodie over her head. no perfume. no lip balm. not even a glance in the mirror. she ties her hair in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.

she doesn't take anything but her phone.

as she passes the room desk, she spots a little leather portfolio with the wifi information tucked inside. beside it, a small tray meant for bills, folded sharply, ideally meant for tips for the cleaning staff. she pauses.

pulling a pen from the nightstand, she lifts the thick body of her phone case and slides out her last twenty. scrawls something quick, crooked, onto the face of jackson. she crosses the room again, barefoot. the carpet is plush, apricot-colored, and a little worn out.

azzi has rolled closer to the bed’s edge.

paige lifts the duvet, lifts the underside of azzi’s waistband, and tucks the bill against her skin with a faint twist of her mouth. she presses a kiss to azzi’s cheek. it’s barely there, more breath than lip. 

“see you, mama.”

she disappears. the door closes with a whisper, not a click.

she takes the elevator down to the lobby. nobody looks up. paige keeps her hood on, shoulders loose, head tilted forward like she's dodging the day.

outside, it’s too bright. the city is alive in that expensive, awful way it is at 9 am on a weekday. people in trench coats and bluetooth headsets. black cars. barking dogs. everything important, no time to feel. paige walks a few blocks before finding the metro.

she checks the time, taps her card, and descends.

halfway down the escalator, her phone buzzes. she closes her eyes, mildly irritated, already assuming it's her boss once again requesting that she cover another shift. she fishes it out, taps the screen.

unknown number. a text.

the twenty’s unusable btw.

your number’s all over it.

she stares at the screen for a second longer than necessary. then she smiles, small and stupid.

sorry

was trying to do something nice 

another minute passes, then,

hmm

make it up to me. 

it’s not a request. paige shakes her head, laughs once. it comes low.

course

she tucks her phone into her pocket.

the train screeches into view.

© hcneymooners.

[obsessedwhyyes]

The Learned Observer

Fic Request: Voyeurism

Summary: On a sleepless night, Gale notices the distinct sound of hushed voices outside his tent. It couldn't be you and Astarion… could it? When he decides to take a peek - to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, of course - he gets more than he bargained for.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2623 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader, implied Astarion x Gale x Fem!Reader Content: Gale's POV (first person), voyeurism, dry humping, handjob, public sex, male masturbation, a little bit of jealousy.

A/N: Gale, in my humble opinion, would not use the word, “cock.” I cannot express how hard it was to not use the word, "cock" in a smut fic. I frigging love that word. Anyways, writing entirely in Gale’s voice was honestly the most fun mini challenge I’ve set myself so far, and I would gladly do first person BG3 companion POVs again. Thank you, dear anon, for the request!

Another sleepless night.

The orb pulses beneath my skin, each throb a reminder of my predicament.

I implore my mind to wander to the events of our journey, to the challenges that lie ahead, in pursuit of a worthwhile distraction. But the orb’s hunger grows stronger, like a raging maelstrom, each tribute to its insistent pull a mere ripple against the tide of its endless consumption. Perhaps I should consult the others about–

… Voices drift from outside my tent before I can finish my thoughts. Curious.

Hushed laughter and whispered words. Astarion's distinctive timbre and… you.

The sound is soft, subtle - a quiet exchange. Yet, here I am, catching fragments of something private, something perhaps not intended for outside ears.

I shift, the faintest spark of curiosity pulling me from my solitude. It's innocent, surely - a late-night conversation, perhaps a shared joke. And yet, as the moments pass, I can't ignore the intimacy in your laughter, the way Astarion's voice drops to that silken murmur he reserves for his attempts at enticement.

Just a glance, I tell myself. Merely to understand what could be so amusing at this hour.

Slowly, carefully, I draw back a sliver of canvas, just enough to peek through.

My breath catches as my eyes adjust to the firelight outside. There, on the other side of the campfire, resting against a fallen log, you sit beside him, close - very close - your faces inches apart.

Your legs are entwined, and there’s an intensity in the way you look at each other. I’m taken aback by the hunger in the kiss that follows - one neither timid nor restrained. Your hands begin to explore each other with what I can only call fervour - the kind of urgency I hadn't known either of you possessed, let alone with each other. 

The way you move together speaks of raw desire rather than tender affection - this is clearly a new physical relationship.

When did this start? How did I miss the signs? Though perhaps I was too caught up in my own concerns to notice the lingering glances, the way you always seemed to find reasons to be near each other…

I tell myself it’s simple curiosity that keeps me here, observing. A certain academic interest, if you will. After all, Astarion has always been something of a hedonist - a man who indulges in his desires with a recklessness I sometimes envy, though rarely approve. But to see him like this - in action, as it were - offers a unique perspective on his character.

You murmur something I cannot make out, a teasing lilt in your voice, and Astarion laughs in that rakish, honeyed tone of his, as though thrilled to have you so wholly entranced. His hands grip your waist, and with a practised grace, he pulls you into his lap, the hem of your skirt spilling around you both. As his hands settle on your hips, you grind against what I can only assume to be a prominent hardness in his trousers, judging by the satisfied smirk on his face. 

You seem eager, pliant under his touch, responding in ways I confess I hadn’t thought you capable of - no, not like this. Not with him.

My heart hammers in my chest, a tension spreading through me that’s… increasingly difficult to ignore. And yet, I remind myself, this is mere observation, nothing more. A clinical exercise in understanding the intricacies of interpersonal attractions between a vampire and a mortal; the undercurrent of danger that befalls such an arrangement.

He holds you with a blend of confidence and entitlement that borders on decadent, his mouth at your neck, lips brushing against your skin with a maddening leisure that’s somehow indulgent and teasing all at once. His fangs linger there and, for a moment, my heart stops - surely he wouldn’t… Ah, no. No, he’s not feeding. He merely kisses your neck, fangs scraping lightly against your throat - close enough to tempt and tantalise. I see the goosebumps flare on your skin.

He whispers something low and unintelligible, and you let out a soft giggle, yielding in a way that speaks of trust - trust that’s he’s earned, somehow, despite his nature.

And then your hand drifts between you both, touching him through his trousers.

Gosh. I hadn’t thought you so bold.

Astarion’s body arches into your touch, his gaze darkening as he watches you with a hunger that’s both terrifying and… strangely beautiful. I find myself entranced, my breath shallow as I observe the way your fingers trace over him, the way he leans into you. The noise he makes when your fingers flex, squeezing him gently over the fabric… Gracious. 

There’s a strange, reluctant curiosity building within me. I should look away. I should grant you both the privacy you likely assume you have. And yet, my gaze remains fixed, drawn to the details of your encounter: the way his hands tighten on your waist, the way your breaths synchronise, the way he murmurs softly into your ear…

I am aware - painfully so - of the ache low in my body that has built with each passing moment, each glance, each touch. I am no stranger to restraint - I have spent years tempering my desires, sacrificing comforts in the pursuit of knowledge, of power. Yet, here, now, I feel that restraint begin to falter; to dissolve like ink in water, dispersing until it is all but unrecognisable. It has been so long, after all. So, so long.

When your hands move to the waistband of his trousers, my breath catches. Gods above, surely you won't, not out in the open... but yes. Yes, it seems you will.

When you pull him free, well - I’ve always wondered about vampire physiology, purely academically, of course. But the sight of him prompts rather less scholarly thoughts. He’s impressively endowed - perhaps it is wishful thinking to believe that this is but another gift of his condition. It’s fascinating how vampiric transformation affects every part of the body - he’s almost luminescent in the firelight, every inch of him perfect and unmarred. I notice the veins that trace along his length, faintly visible beneath his skin. He is, even now, a study in confidence, exuding a subtle power that one can only achieve when utterly comfortable in one’s own skin.

Your hand wraps around him, sliding up and down his length at a teasing pace, drawing forth a sound I have never heard our pale companion make - a soft, broken gasp, caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh. It sounds almost reluctant, as though he hadn’t meant for such a sound to slip past his lips. He twitches under your ministrations, and his grip on your hips tightens enough that there will surely be bruises tomorrow.

My fingers rest at my thigh, trembling ever so slightly. A small part of me - a remnant of reason, perhaps - tells me to pull back, to look away, to let this moment pass without surrendering to the need that has taken root within me. But my body, the traitorous thing it is, does not heed such commands. Instead, I find my hand drifting lower.

My fingers trace over the fabric of my trousers, over the aching hardness beneath. A gentle palming, barely enough to ease the tension that coils tighter with each passing moment as I watch the scene unfold.

Your hands elicit quiet murmurs from Astarion that grow deeper and more insistent with each passing moment. For a moment, the two of you share a look - one of conspiratorial mischief, perhaps - and then a soft, shared giggle, the sound mingling with the crackling of the fire. 

You're so utterly engrossed in him; so utterly unselfconscious.

You shift, a question in your eyes, and as he nods, giving his assent, you rise just enough to shift, positioning yourself over him. Your skirts drape around you both, providing a veneer of modesty, though there's no mistaking what follows when you sink yourself down on to him. The way your lips part in a gasp as he enters you, the way his head falls back with a victorious grin - it makes the tightness, the great ache between my legs, almost unbearable.

I find my hand slipping beneath my waistband.

Just a little relief, I tell myself. Just enough to ease this maddening tension.

There is a certain poetry to it, I suppose - this surrender to the pleasures of the flesh. I allow myself to imagine, as my hand finds the throbbing heat of my arousal, what it might feel to be in your place, to have someone look at me with that same confidence, to experience touch imbued with the certainty of one who knows precisely how to elicit pleasure - a knowledge gleaned from centuries, no doubt, of indulgence and conquest.

It’s enough to leave me aching for more than mere observation.

The fervour with which you move against him… it’s hypnotic, each roll of your hips drawing forth increasingly wanton sounds from you both. Astarion's carefully crafted demeanour gives way to something more roguish, a playful daring that glints in his eyes as you rise and fall and rise and fall on his length.

I find my hand instinctively matching your rhythm, every shift and motion, as though I, too, am bound to the undulating tempo that you and Astarion have created.

Gods… what must it be like to be him? To have someone so openly, eagerly drawn to you, meeting every touch with matching fervour? To hold someone close and feel their raw desire, the thrill of each laugh, each gasp, offered without hesitation? I wonder what it must be like to inspire such a response, to be desired so freely, without need for pretence or restraint?

With Mystra, I was ever the pursuer, striving tirelessly to earn even the barest hint of her approval, each moment together feeling like an examination I desperately hoped to pass. But Astarion… well. He needn't chase or convince. Despite his vampiric nature - or perhaps, in part, because of it - he is simply desired, freely given all that I once had to beg for. The inequity of it all would be rather poetic, if it weren't so personally vexing.

“A-ah!”

Your gasp cuts through my ruminations, pulling me back into the scene.

Astarion’s hand has slipped between you, guiding you to that final crescendo with a practised touch. The sight of it is utterly spellbinding: his fingers moving with a precision that speaks to centuries of experience, knowing just where to press, where to linger. The control he exercises over you is enviable, each movement of his hand coaxing you closer to that peak, his attention wholly focused on your reaction, even as your hips rock back and forth on his length with an increasingly frantic, unrestrained urgency.

The way your eyes roll back... Gosh.

The expression on your face, one of pure, unfiltered abandon, is a sight to behold.

Your body trembles as you reach your peak, and a sound - a cry, too loud in the stillness of the night - escapes your lips. Astarion’s palm clamps over your mouth, a futile attempt to muffle you in the throes of your climax. Though he hushes you, his expression suggests that he is not in the least bit concerned. In fact, he seems rather pleased - more than pleased, really. 

There’s a thrill in such a public display for him too, no doubt.

I swallow, the sound almost too loud, my heart pounding against my ribs as though it seeks to betray me. Astarion's head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to the shadows, and for one heart-stopping moment, I think he has sensed me, that his attention has shifted from you to this invisible interloper, the scholar caught red-handed in his quiet act of voyeurism.

Could he... sense me here, lingering on the fringe of his private moment? Could he smell the stir of my own arousal, feel the faint tremor of my breath as I fight for composure? For several heartbeats, my hand freezes. I dare not even breathe.

But then his attentions return to you, and I breathe a sigh of relief. 

He brings his hands to your hips, holding them firmly in place as he drives himself upwards into you, deeper, with mounting desperation. It seems he seeks to chase his own release, content with the pleasure he has wrought you.

You respond eagerly, pressing closer, your own sounds growing louder, heedless of who might hear, and I can see that thrill in his face - the satisfaction of knowing he’s eliciting every reaction from you, drawing out each gasp, each shudder.

My hand glides hastily across my arousal, my own breathing growing ragged as I watch his control begin to slip. Even from here, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips back in pure abandon.

In the final throes, he presses himself against you, buried firmly to the hilt. It’s almost animalistic, all thoughts, all calculated movements, making way for one singular goal: to empty himself into you, filling you with all he has to offer with breaths rugged and low. All composure is stripped, replaced with instinct and pure need.

I find my own movements quickening to match his pace, as though some invisible thread binds us all to this moment. My hand tightens as I lose myself in the same tempo, every sound from you both spurring me closer. The sight of his final shudder, the look of utter satisfaction crossing his face as he reaches that height, is enough to tip me over the edge.

For a heartbeat, the night seems to hold us all in perfect suspension - your quiet gasps, his satisfied murmurs, my own silent echo of shared pleasure - all woven together in this clandestine tableau.

Only then, as the euphoria begins to fade, does a most uncomfortable awareness creep in.

Gods above, what have I... A scholar of worldly acclaim, reduced to voyeur, caught up in base desires like some common... No. Best not to dwell on such things. Though I suspect sleep will prove rather elusive tonight, haunted by questions of propriety and... other matters.

With a groan, I roll onto my back, the orb’s steady throb now a minor annoyance compared to the tangled thoughts that flood my mind. Perhaps I can chalk this entire… incident up to fatigue, a wandering mind, even a fevered dream. Yes, that must be it. The product of a restless night and, possibly, a touch of indigestion. After all, who could believe that I, Gale of Waterdeep, would be brought so low as to... well, that.

As morning light spills across camp, I attempt a façade of normalcy, willing my cheeks to cool and my mind to settle. Just as I convince myself the night’s events were nothing more than a peculiar dream, Astarion sidles up, his expression one of leisurely amusement.

"Restless night, Gale?” he murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear. His gaze is as sharp as his tone, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes my stomach twist in the most uncomfortable way. "I thought I heard a... stirring from your tent."

The corner of his mouth quirks up in that infuriatingly smug way of his, and I nearly choke on my response. 

He knew. 

Astarion knew. 

I force a cough, pretending to inspect the morning sky.

"A dream," I reply a bit too quickly. "Perhaps the cheese at dinner was... overly ripe."

But Astarion merely chuckles, a wicked sound, before strolling away with a satisfied air. And as I watch him saunter off, I’m left to question just how much of the night was a dream - and how much, mortifyingly, was very, very real.

Masterlist can be found here!

No Pressure Tags: @roguishcat @davenswitcher @silverfangmarks @sparrowbard @chonkercatto @stokzr @trafalgarussy @asterordinary

[revelboo]

as the other metroplex writer on this website, I feel you. I understand your pain. I made the call early on to not do the idw 'they can only talk to the cityspeaker' because I knew I would immediately proceed to write myself into a corner lmao. (although I decided against giving him superfine control over his inner mechanisms, which is its own set of challenges)

Good luck, soldier! It's just us out here doing Primus' work

He’s a fun challenge to write, but I feel for the big guy so much

I Can Feel You Pt 4

IDW Metroplex x Reader

• By morning, the glyphs are gone leaving you disappointed and wondering if just maybe you’d imagined it all or dreamed it. If you’d been able to take a picture, you could have asked someone else to read it to you, because if Metroplex is reaching out? You want to answer him. Staring at the spot the writing had appeared doesn’t offer any answers. What was it Hound had said? Something about a city speaker? “Are you trying to talk to me?” You ask, but the Titan is quiet and still around you.

• Halfway between waking and recharge because of the energy he’d expended trying to focus, to communicate, he’s half alert as he tracks you. Drifting in and out, but aware of you all the same, his little anchor to reality. Sometimes in his dreams he’s closer to your size and when he reaches out a hand, you come to him, let him pull your warmth into his body and just hold you in his arms. But even there, you can’t hear him. There, holding you, but still isolated and it hurts. You’re speaking again and it pulls him into alertness. Focusing on you as you reach out a little hand to Hound as the mech kneels in front of you.

• “City speakers?” Hound repeats, idly toying with one of his alt mode’s tires. “They could speak to the Titans. Hear them. Don’t know if they ever were real, though. Might have been just a legend.” It’s not exactly what you want to hear and you wrap your arms about yourself. Remembering those glyphs showing up slowly one by one like it was taking the massive Autobot an effort. Like it cost him something to try and it has been for nothing. Whatever he was trying to say lost on you, because you couldn’t understand.

• “How hard is it to learn Cybertronian?” You slowly ask and his massive spark aches at the determination in your voice. Because you’re trying for him, trying to find a way to speak to him. Reaching out a hand to him just like he’s reaching out to you. And he wants so much to protect this feeling, to protect you. Throughout the day, he tracks you like he always does. Listening to you telling him you have an idea. Watches you request a human sized data pad from Bumblebee loaded with simple educational programs meant for sparklings.

• Back in the little home Metroplex fashioned, you stretch out on the floor with the data pad. Flicking at the screen, searching until you pause. Half drowsing, relaxed at the feel of your little heart beating against him, it’s the touch of your warm fingers that focuses him again. You’re tracing shapes against him, your bottom lip between your teeth. Hesitating, then drawing again. And again. The same shapes. You’re spelling out a simple word he realizes, a ‘hello’ and now he’s wide awake. “Can you even feel this? Or understand?” You murmur and he focuses, mimicking your crude glyphs with an effort. Replying and feeling warmth spread through him when you grin. Can you understand how much this means to him? How precious you are to him for trying? For caring? “Hi, Metroplex,” you whisper as he wishes that his arms could hold you.

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[https-lvesick]

♡ ⭑.ᐟ 엔시티 드림 . . “first date!”

content . . 𝜗𝜚 boyfriend!dream x fem!reader, fluff fluff fluff!! and down bad dream!

lola’s notes .: and i did it! hahaha truly, i want mark’s date (totally not because i’m biased, but because it looks soooo fun) well, hope y’all like because i had fun writing it!

late night riding with mark lee

You couldn’t sleep, so you sent a message to Mark, asking if he was awake. You didn’t have much hope—after all, it was 2 a.m. Work had been draining your boyfriend, and he usually fell asleep the moment he got home. But to your surprise, he replied. He was about to sleep but just couldn’t put down his phone. Mark was tired, though he would never admit it. Instead, he asked you to get dressed because you were going out.

You questioned him, but he didn’t respond again. So, you changed. Meanwhile, Mark splashed cold water on his face to wake up and only swapped his pants before heading out. Barely twenty minutes passed before he was parked in front of your house, texting you to come outside. The familiar sight of his motorcycle made your heart skip.

The two of you riding through the city at night had always been a favorite thing to do together. There was something inexplicably magical about the way the world looked under the glow of moonlight—the traffic calm, the city finally breathing slower without the chaos of the day.

You wrapped your arms a little tighter around Mark’s waist, your hands lingering as you traced soft circles with your fingers. He felt your touch and couldn’t help but smile to himself beneath his helmet.

There were a few places still open despite the late hour. You stopped by one, wandering into a small store with just a few lights on. Some fast-food joints were still serving customers, and you grabbed quick snacks together. You picked out little trinkets for each other, playful and thoughtful.

When it came time to choose one for him, you found yourself torn between options, debating with the shopkeeper about which one would suit him best. Mark, leaning casually against his bike, watched you with a quiet, adoring smile. The way you lit up over something as small as a superhero keychain made his heart ache in the best way.

He could barely remember a time you looked more beautiful—so animated, so full of joy over something so simple.

By the time you decided it was finally time to head back, he drove you home but didn’t leave. Instead, he stayed, curling his arms around you as you lay together. You talked about where you’d put the keychain and how you planned to add a photo of the two of you to it, your voice soft and filled with warmth.

Mark didn’t hear the rest of your plans. He was already asleep, his breathing deep and steady, lulled into dreams by the sound of your happiness.

painting with huang renjun

Renjun took advantage of your shared love for painting and drawing as the perfect excuse to spend some much-needed alone time with you. You had only been dating for a few weeks, and somehow, you never truly had a moment to yourselves—someone was always around to interrupt. So, he made sure to claim your entire Saturday afternoon, casually mentioning that he’d bought some new art supplies he wanted to show you. He even promised to order hot pot, making the idea impossible to resist.

The afternoon was simple yet full of joy—so lighthearted and meaningful, the kind of day that becomes a core memory in your relationship. It was an opportunity to learn more about each other: your likes and dislikes, the quirks and hobbies you hadn't yet shared, wild life stories, silly habits, and the little things you adored about one another.

You painted a canvas together, your brushstrokes merging in a beautiful, chaotic mess of colors. Then came the portrait challenge, an attempt to capture each other’s likeness with steady hands and focused eyes. But, of course, Renjun accidentally bumped into your brush, smudging your masterpiece into a disaster. The laughter that followed was infectious, filling the room like sunshine.

By the end of the day, the two of you were more covered in paint than the canvas itself. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, your bellies were full, and your hearts were even fuller. As the last light of the evening faded, you realized you’d fallen even deeper for him—and by the way his eyes softened every time he looked at you, he felt the same.

cinema and pizza with lee jeno

It was your first date with Jeno. After finally working up the courage to ask you out, he decided on a movie. At first, you doubted his intentions, but when you saw how focused he was on the film—so much so that he didn’t even notice you—you let it slide. What you didn’t realize was that Jeno had been trying, all evening, to recreate every romantic movie cliché he could think of. From the accidental popcorn-hand touch to the classic arm-around-the-shoulder stretch, you missed it all, oblivious to his awkward attempts.

After the movie, he took you out for pizza, where conversation flowed more easily. Laughter and playful banter filled the air, and Jeno sheepishly confessed his failed romantic gestures. You giggled at his adorable honesty.

On the walk home, he took your hand in his, and a wave of pure happiness lit up his face. His heart raced each time he glanced at your intertwined fingers. At the door, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and teased, “I hope you’re free for a second date.”

Trying—and failing—to play it cool, he replied with a simple, “Of course.” The second you disappeared inside, he barely resisted rolling around with glee.

cooking with lee donghyeok

Haechan was absolutely smitten with his girl. Anything involving you? He was all in. So when you suggested cooking lunch together—your favorite dish—he couldn’t resist. It was the perfect excuse to spend time with you, flaunt his questionable kitchen skills, and sneak in a few kisses.

You tied an apron around his waist and planted a peck on his cheek, handing him a knife to chop the vegetables. You knew better than to let him near the stove. Turns out, knives weren’t much safer—he managed to cut himself and immediately whined like a baby. The dramatics ensued until you comforted him, rolling your eyes at his exaggerated pout.

In the end, Haechan sat back, happily watching you cook while claiming the all-important role of plating the food. “Every great chef needs a brilliant assistant,” he grinned, proud of his minimal contribution. Oh, and he made the juice—forgetting the sugar, but that was the least of your worries.

photo session with na jaemin

One of Jaemin’s favorite hobbies was photography. And what better way to indulge in it than by photographing his favorite person? He invited you to the park for a photoshoot, where you’d be his model for the afternoon. You agreed, despite feeling shy about posing—especially in public—because seeing him happy made it worth it.

Jaemin, ever the gentleman, found spots with as few people as possible. He directed you gently, making you feel comfortable. Between every few shots, he stole kisses and showered you with compliments. “You look so beautiful,” he whispered, eyes sparkling with admiration.

He beamed with pride as he captured candid moments of you laughing, your natural charm shining through. His heart swelled with love—his girl, so perfect and radiant.

At the end of the session, Jaemin promised to develop the photos and make an album just for you. “Maybe I’ll give you a few prints if you’re lucky,” he teased. The day had been incredible, and he hoped for many more just like it.

zhong chenle’s favourite date

For Chenle, the perfect date was simple: anything with you. His mission in life was to see you happy. And there was no greater joy for him than spoiling his girl. Whether it was a trip to the mall, a stroll through market stalls, or a visit to quirky little shops—he made it his goal to find something that would make your eyes light up.

Chenle had a talent for remembering the smallest details. That random item you’d mentioned months ago? The one that was nearly impossible to find? He had it. Wrapped neatly, ready to surprise you. Watching your excitement as you unwrapped his gifts was his favorite feeling in the world.

Every moment was filled with sweetness—his hand never leaving yours, his laughter echoing yours. For Chenle, your joy was his greatest treasure.

gaming nights with park jisung

Most of your dates with Jisung were spent gaming. Late-night sessions—whether online, multiplayer, or even single-player—were your shared passion. Your first date? An arcade marathon.

He usually came to your place since his roommates made his home too chaotic. Armed with snacks and drinks, he’d bring the newest games to test together. Your greatest shared accomplishment? Completing Red Dead Redemption 2—an adventure that left both of you in awe.

When the night stretched on and sleepiness crept in, Jisung always tidied up while you got ready for bed. Then he’d join you, wrapping you in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. He’d play a calm song from his special “sleepytime” playlist, and together, you’d drift off, tangled in warmth and contentment.

did you enjoy your reading? why don’t reblog, like or leave a comment? this way i know you liked what i wrote and surely will keep up with the good content! 𖹭 masterlist

🏷 @jungaji @spacejip @lyvhie @sinisxtea @jirsungs @polarisjisung

[gingerteafairy]

friends conversations lead to this kind of idea @blueikky

𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 masterlist

𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐝𝐨𝐧: 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Tate wouldn’t feel embarrassed to ask you out and immediately establish that you’re the only one who matters to him. He’s certain that you’re his soulmate, and he’d do anything to protect the little world the two of you share. He would go to great lengths to keep it safe. Hobbies would include listening to music together, making fun of new clothes from the mall, playing card/board games and discovering some online game where you both could both play on his computer and your phone simultaneously. He’d also give you a pair of headphones as a gift.

𝐤𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫: 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝

Kit kept vision for the future, getting involved with someone with the goal of building a family, overcoming challenges, and dreaming of growing old together. He makes it a point to be a safe harbor, which can sometimes cause stress due to his constant drive to be the perfect husband, finding in you a reason to fight and lean on during tough times. He knew you were the one from the very first date but wanted to wait a little longer to propose so as not to scare you off. Kit would always surprise you with random gifts, like a pair of earrings he thought would match your eyes perfectly. He’d pay attention to the little details, wanting to make you feel special with thoughtful gestures that show how much he cares.

𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐭!𝐤𝐲𝐥𝐞: 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Typical boyfriend material. You two would explore life together, with trips to the movies and amusement parks becoming part of your routine. If you ever struggled with a test, he would help you study, even if the subject was completely different from what he knew. He’d definitely fix your computer for free if it broke since he spent a lot of time watching YouTube tutorials as a kid (he even recorded one).

𝐳𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞!���𝐲𝐥𝐞: 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬

Even without knowing it, he would be your anchor. With a lot of patience, you’d help him understand the world, teach him to speak and write, guide him in learning how to be “grown-up.” It would be hard, but in no time, Kyle would become a strong man, protecting you and the mansion with his life.

𝐣𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐩. 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡: 𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫

James' captivated by darkness and the concept of sin, inherited from his father. You, being a sweet-looking girl in a stable relationship, would be a formidable prey. With a carefully controlled tone, accent, and just the right amount of manipulation, he would lead you into adultery and eventually much worse, with you becoming his protégé. Even though James March is quite the tightwad, he’d make sacrifices to give you things depending on the hunt you two had together, from an expensive necklace to your favorite food. He’d only offer these gestures as a way to mark a special moment, something that proves he values the bond you share—even if it’s always under his own twisted terms.

𝐤𝐚𝐢 𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧: 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭

The relationship with Kai would be intense and complicated. It was too shallow to be just a relationship but too deep to be just a friends-with-benefits situation. It would be a draining relationship, where the question “What are we?” would linger, only to be answered with “We don’t need labels” by Kai. It'd be definitely intense, passionate, and unforgettable. However, the relationship would also be restrictive due to his insecurity and jealousy, at times manipulating you when you wanted to leave, using compromising photos and messages to keep you tied to him.

𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐬: 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐛𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐬

Austin Sommers is pretty laid-back. You were a great friend to him, and sometimes he’d stick to the promise of “If we’re both single at 40, we’ll get married and have three cats.” As the person closest to him, he would definitely use some of your shared moments and phrases in his books, even adding you as a character, with a few tweaks here and there.

𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐱: 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

Like Austin, he’s chill, living in the moment, using you as the muse for many of his art pieces. As a true introvert, it would take him a while to open up, but soon the two of you would be cuddling after hours of oversharing about life. It would be obvious that you both shared deep feelings for each other, but a barrier of professionalism might prevent the relationship from progressing into something more. He'd give you little paintings and handmade fridge magnets.

𝐩𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐱𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐟𝐟: 𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

Despite being a hero, Peter wouldn’t have the courage to ask you out right away. He’d stew over that strange feeling for a while, until one day he’d stop suddenly during a walk and ask if you wanted to be his girlfriend. If you didn’t hear him, he’d pretend nothing happened and wait for another opportunity, hoping you’d be distracted when he tried again. If you heard, he'd ran to his house and make paper rings for you both.

𝐦𝐚𝐱 𝐜𝐨𝐨𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧: 𝐛𝐨𝐲𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝

Max'd be a sweet, goofy boyfriend, always taking pictures of you, keeping a special box just for storing all the memories. He’d let you play with his hair, wear his clothes, and, of course, he’d snap pictures of you wearing every single one of them. For your birthday, he’d give you a Polaroid camera, since you complained that he always takes photos of everyone else, but never has one taken of him.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐤𝐚: 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲)

Your relationship would be intense from the start to the end. Impulsive as he is, he’d take you to get married in Vegas, not knowing that by doing so, you’d legally be married on paper. Well, he always wanted to be yours in the end, and Vegas was just a bonus from fate.

part two here ♡