#the other started snorting and she was like

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?�� he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[mcrdvcks]

i hate it here

chapter summary: You meet Bucky at therapy where Dr. Raynor shares a small office with Dr. Cole. You two slowly connect over mystery books and coffee outings. Until one day you don't show up. word count: 3.4k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: i've mentioned a few times offhandedly that i have depression (and anxiety) and i that i have attempted - i don't want pity or anything, just stating a fact. i started therapy like 4 months ago and have been doing much better! anyways, i got to thinking about how one of the only characters who has been in therapy (in the mcu) is bucky. i guess you could kinda count tony, but he was talking to bruce so idk. anyways, that's how this came along. it was kinda my version of journaling, since i suck at it. please read the warnings/tags! warnings/tags: post tfatws, therapy, allusions to depression, alpine mention!, reader has a dog, mentions/allusions to a suicide attempt, some fluff, two people finding each other through trauma, insomnia, nightmares, slight angst, depressive spiral

The Brooklyn office is small—four hardback chairs, a scuffed laminate floor, and walls the color of old oatmeal. You’re already there when Bucky shuffles in, early as usual, hood pulled low despite the July heat.

You’re curled over a paperback, thumb smoothing the crease in the spine. He recognizes the look: concentration hiding nerves. He clears his throat, drops into the chair opposite you.

Silence stretches. Tick-tick-tick from the receptionist’s keyboard. Bucky counts each tap like gunshots until— “Chapter’s not great,” you mutter, not looking up. “It’s supposed to be a detective story, but the villain is obvious by page three.”

Bucky blinks. Small talk, right. He hunts for something non-awkward to say. “Maybe the detective’s just slow,” he offers.

That earns a tiny huff of laughter. You glance up, eyes warm but tired. “You ever read mysteries?”

“Not since… a long time.” He swallows. “But I used to like Agatha Christie.”

“Classic.” You close the book, mark your place with a Metro receipt. “I’m Y/N.”

He opens his mouth—hesitates—then sticks out a flesh-and-blood hand. “Bucky.” The metal one stays shoved under his sleeve.

The receptionist calls your name first. You stand, shoot him a quick, encouraging smile. Something inside his rib cage gives a startled twitch.

---

“Still having trouble sleeping?” Dr. Cole asked. She shared an office with Dr. Raynor, you were just lucky to find a therapist close to your place.

You shrugged, “yeah. It’s just insomnia. I did a sleep test, had to put the mask on and sleep with it for 2 nights. Doctor found nothing, so...”

"Let's talk about what happens when you try to sleep," Dr. Cole said, pen poised.

"I stare at the ceiling," you answered. "Count cracks in the paint, listen to Sparky snore, think about—stuff."

"Stuff?"

"Classes, rent, whether my brother’s eating decent food at school—everything that isn't restful."

Dr. Cole nodded. "Nightmares?"

"More like reruns. Same memories on loop." You rubbed your eyes. "They don't even change; they're just… loud."

She clicked her pen. "Medication helping?"

“I guess. Not with the sleep part though. But nothing helps with sleep.”

Dr. Cole tilted her head. “What do you do between the moment you turn off the light and the moment you give up?”

“Phone. Crossword. Sometimes I Google ‘why can’t I sleep’ like it’s gonna give a brand-new answer.”

“Ever try talking instead of scrolling? Out loud, I mean—narrate the day, get it out of your head.”

You snort. “My dog’ll think I’m confessing state secrets.”

“Sparky might surprise you.” Dr. Cole’s smile is small but real. “Okay, homework: pick one night this week, no screens after ten, narrate the day to Sparky, then lights out. Deal?”

“Fine. If she tattles, that’s on you.”

“Noted.” She scribbles, caps the pen. “Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” You stand, tugging your bag onto your shoulder. The chair legs squeak; the sound feels louder than it is.

---

Bucky’s still in the waiting area, elbows on knees, staring at the floor like it owes him money. He glances up when the door clicks shut behind you.

“How’d it go?” he asks, voice low.

“About as fun as a dentist with feelings.” You fish the Metro receipt-bookmark from your book, wave it. “But I got homework.”

“Therapists love homework.” He shifts, pats the chair beside him that you’re about to vacate. “Good luck.”

“You, too.” You nod toward the closed door. “Raynor doesn’t bite, right?”

“She’s thinking about it.” His mouth twitches. “You really hate that book?”

“Detective’s got two brain cells, both fighting for custody. I’m gonna finish it just to spite him.”

“Want a recommendation when you’re done?”

“Only if it’s Christie.” You step backward toward the lobby doors. “I like the classics.”

He lifts two fingers in a mock salute. “Deal.”

The receptionist calls, “Mr. Barnes?”

Bucky pushes up, metal hand still hidden in the sleeve. As he passes, he murmurs, “see you next week, Y/N.”

Your pulse trips over itself. “Next week.”

---

Raynor doesn’t wait for him to sit. “Early again. You practicing small talk in the hallway?”

He drops into the chair. “Maybe.”

“How’s the loneliness doing?”

He thinks of a paperback clutched between your hands and the way your eyes lit when he said Christie. “Less loud.”

“That’s new.” Raynor flips her notepad open. “Let’s talk about it.”

---

A week later you’re back, five minutes early for once. Bucky’s already there—of course—thumb tapping a silent rhythm on his thigh.

“You beat me again,” you say.

“I’m competitive.” He nods to the paperback in your grip. “Finished?”

“Killer was the dog walker. I want my money back.”

He chuckles—actually chuckles. “Brought you this.” From his jacket pocket he produces a scuffed copy of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

You take it, thumb the brittle spine. “Vintage.”

“So am I.”

You sit—this time in the chair beside him, not across. Your shoulders almost touch.

Receptionist looks up. “Y/N?”

You rise, clutching the book. “Hold my spot?”

“Always.” He watches you disappear behind the door, heart beating a little less like a war drum. Raynor will call it progress. He’ll call it something quieter: hope.

---

July heat’s worse a week later—New York humidity that sticks to your lungs. You and Bucky leave your sessions at the same time for once, shoulders brushing as the door swings shut.

“Raynor let you out early?” you ask.

“She thinks negative five minutes counts as progress.” He eyes the battered copy of Roger Ackroyd in your hand. “Any good?”

“Ten times smarter than last week’s disaster. Thanks for the rec.” You nudge his elbow. “Coffee? There’s a cart across the street.”

He squints at the sky. “Gonna melt anyway. Sure.”

---

The cart umbrella rattles in the breeze. You order an iced latte and Bucky sticks to plain drip, black.

“Old-man coffee,” you tease.

“Watch it, I’m sensitive.” He sips, winces. “So—you do the Sparky homework?”

“Yeah. She stared at me like I’d grown a second head, then fell asleep halfway through my monologue about rent.”

“Did you sleep any better?”

“Hour, maybe two.” You shrug. “But hey, progress.”

He nods, knocks a knuckle on the paper cup. “Nightmares kept me up. Raynor wants me journaling.”

“Journaling, narrating—therapists love verbs.” You dig in your tote, pull out a slim notebook. “Take mine. Blank pages intimidate me anyway.”

He turns it over. “Purple glitter stars?”

“Judge and I take it back.”

He clutches it to his chest. “No, no—precious now.”

Your laugh bubbles out before you can stop it. A beat passes; his smile lingers. Something warm hangs between you—comfortable, tentative.

“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, tapping the notebook. “For the… sparkly lifeline.”

“Anytime, Barnes.”

You check your phone. “Gotta run—class in fifteen. Same time next week?”

He hesitates, then, “Actually—Raynor’s moving my slot. Thursday, four?”

You scroll your calendar. “I can swing that.” Smile. “I’ll bring a better bookmark.”

He salutes with his coffee. “Deal.”

---

The waiting-room AC’s broken. You fan yourself with your Metro receipt as Bucky strides in, hair damp from a shower that didn’t stick.

“Hey,” you say.

“Hey.” He holds up the notebook—half the pages now filled. “Turns out journaling’s just talking on paper.”

“Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

The receptionist calls his name first this time. He freezes. “Switch with me?”

You shrug. “Fair’s fair. Go.”

He exhales, heads in. As the door shuts, you spot the corner of a page sticking out of the notebook—your name scrawled at the top. Your heart skips and you look away fast.

---

Bucky’s session is short—fifteen minutes. He steps out, cheeks pink.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Raynor… uh, suggested social exposure therapy.”

“Meaning?”

“Coffee that isn’t from a cart.” He scratches the back of his neck. “With a friend.”

You grin. “I know a place that sells donuts bigger than your hand.”

“Sound dangerous.”

“Live a little, Barnes.”

He offers an arm—the flesh-and-blood one. You loop yours through without overthinking.

“Hope they have purple-glitter donuts,” he mutters.

You snort. “Don’t tempt me.”

Street noise swallows the rest, but the silence between you feels easy, not heavy. Two insomniacs, two notebooks, one slow, stumbling orbit.

And maybe—just maybe—sleep won’t feel so impossible tonight.

---

You push the shop door open, tiny bell chiming. The smell of fried sugar and espresso hits like a hug. Bucky’s already at a corner table, sunglasses perched on his head, studying the menu like it’s classified.

“Morning,” you say, sliding into the seat across.

He looks up, relief softening his shoulders. “Saved you the last maple-bacon monstrosity.”

“You get a medal for that.”

“Working on it.” He nods at your iced coffee. “Still cold-brew loyal?”

“Ride or die.” You sip. “How’s the notebook?”

He pulls the purple-star journal from his jacket, thumb tapping the cover. “Halfway through. Raynor says I’m oversharing—‘but in a good way.’”

“Therapist code for ‘keep going.’”

“Yeah.” He hesitates. “I wrote about… the bridge dream. First time on paper.”

You lean in. “Any lighter?”

“Maybe a gram.” He flicks his gaze to the donut display. “Your turn—sleep narration working?”

“Managed four hours straight on Wednesday.” You raise the coffee in salute. “Progress.”

He grins. “Therapists everywhere rejoice.”

A server comes by to hand off the plates: his chocolate-glazed, your maple-bacon slab.

You rip off a chunk, point it at him. “So—social exposure therapy. How exposed are we aiming?”

“Raynor suggested a museum. Crowds, but no one expects small talk.”

“I’m free Sunday afternoon. Think you can handle the Met?”

He pretends to weigh it. “If they still allow grumpy ex-assassins.”

“Only if they don’t touch the art.”

“No promises.”

---

You both pause at a sarcophagus. Tourists swirl around, soundtrack of camera shutters. Bucky leans close. “Mummies have it figured out. Eternal rest.”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

You smirk. “Try counting cracks in the ceiling. Works great.”

“Smart-mouth.” He nudges your shoulder. Metal—the sleeve’s rolled up. First time he hasn’t hidden it.

You glance at the vibranium, then meet his eyes. “Cool arm.”

He exhales—some tension you didn’t know was there. “Thanks.”

A kid nearby gasps, whispers to her dad. Bucky stiffens. You step slightly in front of him, blocking the view. “Ignore them. They’re staring at the arm, not you.”

“Same thing.”

You tilt your head. “To me it’s just… part of the package.”

He blinks. “Package, huh?”

“Don’t get cocky, Barnes.”

He chuckles, shoulders loosening. You wander onward, conversation dipping from art to worst cafeteria food, back to sleep tactics.

---

Apartment’s dark except for phone glow. Sparky snores at your feet.

Your screen lights: Bucky Barnes – New Text

“Tried narrating to Alpine. She walked off mid-monologue. Rude cat.” “You asleep?”

You smile, thumbs flying.

“Wide awake, obviously.” “Want to test a theory? Phone call, five minutes max. Talking’s supposed to tire the brain.”

Three dots… then your phone rings.

“Hey,” you whisper.

His voice is low, scratchy. “If this puts you to sleep I’ll be offended.”

“Then be interesting.”

He snorts. “No pressure.”

Minute one: weather complaints. Minute two: misheard song lyrics. Minute three: you yawn.

“Tired?” he asks, softer.

“Keep talking.”

He does—about the Met gift shop, how the snow-globe pyramids looked fake, how he bought one anyway.

“Why?” you mumble.

“For you,” he says. “Figured you could narrate to it when Sparky’s bored.”

Warmth floods your chest. “That’s… weirdly sweet.” There was silence for a few seconds, except his breathing. You blink, heavy-lidded. “Still there?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Don’t hang up yet.”

“Not planning to.” He pauses. “Sleep, Y/N.”

“Night, Bucky.”

Phone still against your ear, you drift. First dreamless night in months.

Bucky listens to your steady breaths, eyes finally closing. Tomorrow’s problems can wait. Tonight, two insomniacs found quiet on the same line.

---

Dr. Cole taps her pen lightly on the pad. "You seem brighter today."

You shift slightly, feeling oddly caught out. "Actually slept last night. Whole five hours."

She raises an eyebrow, gently amused. "And what changed?"

You consider the phone call, the quiet voice on the other end, and shrug. "I think talking helps more than I realized."

Dr. Cole nods knowingly. "Having someone listen tends to do that."

"Yeah." You pick at your thumbnail. "I might be figuring that out."

"Good," she says simply. "Keep figuring."

---

Bucky’s waiting outside when you finish, leaning against the brick wall in sunglasses and a worn ball cap. He pushes off as soon as you step into the sunlight.

"Stalking now?" you joke, nudging his shoulder.

"Just passing by." He falls into step beside you. "Coffee? I need advice."

"Advice?"

He grimaces. "Raynor wants me attending a group session next week. Apparently, that's my next exposure step."

You glance at him. "Sounds terrifying."

"It is. Hence the advice request."

You smile softly. "I don't do groups, but… you handled crowds at the Met fine."

"That was because of you." He shrugs one shoulder, eyes ahead. "You distract me."

Warmth blooms in your chest. "In a good way?"

"In the best way."

Silence lingers, comfortable this time. The coffee cart is in sight, heat shimmering off pavement.

"Maybe… I could wait outside the group room," you offer quietly. "Just for moral support."

He stops, turns to you, eyes bright behind the lenses. "You'd do that?"

You tilt your head, fighting a smile. "I’d even bring a bad detective book."

"Deal."

---

The hallway smells faintly like industrial cleaner. You’re on a metal folding chair, feet kicked up against the wall, paperback open in your lap, Sparky dozing at your feet.

The group-room door opens. Voices murmur, shoes shuffle. Bucky emerges last, eyes slightly wide, tension in his shoulders. He spots you immediately, relief clear.

You shut the book. "You survived."

"Barely."

"Anyone bite?"

"Only verbally." He nods at Sparky. "She allowed?"

"Emotional support dog," you deadpan. "Completely legit."

He crouches slowly, metal fingers gentle against Sparky’s fur. She yawns, entirely unconcerned. Bucky straightens, a genuine smile tugging at his mouth. "Thanks for waiting."

"Always."

You start walking toward the exit together, his pace matching yours easily. "Was it worth it?" you ask.

He exhales deeply. "Yeah. Sort of. I talked. Once. About nightmares."

"That’s huge."

"Didn’t feel huge."

"It will tomorrow."

He looks sideways at you, hesitant. "Can I… call tonight?"

Your heart thuds softly. "Every night if it helps."

"It does," he says quietly. "It helps a lot."

The sunlight fades gold over the city as you step outside. Bucky pauses, hands in his pockets.

"You know," he says carefully, "I started therapy because the government made me. I stayed because… I thought it was the right thing to do. But now—"

"Now?" you prompt softly.

"Now I'm staying because it led me to you."

You swallow, suddenly shy. "That’s… nice."

He chuckles gently, shaking his head. "Yeah. Nice."

You bump his shoulder. "Don't mock my vocabulary."

"Never." He smiles. "Call you later?"

"Better."

He watches you walk away, heart steadier than it’s been in months.

---

Your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter, vibrating against your toothbrush holder. You squint at the caller ID, toothbrush in your mouth.

Dad.

You spit toothpaste, rinse quickly, and swipe to answer. "Hey, Dad."

"Y/N," he starts, tone already tense. "Got a minute?"

You sigh quietly, gripping the sink. "I have therapy soon. Everything okay?"

He pauses. You hear him clear his throat—never a good sign. "Look, I just got your mail. Bill from the hospital came again."

"Yeah, they keep sending it even though I set up payments—"

"I read it," he interrupts, voice clipped. "You know how it feels to read 'psychiatric hold' on a bill addressed to my kid?"

You close your eyes, jaw tightening. "I didn't ask you to open it."

"You're my kid. Of course I opened it. Y/N, we never talked about it. You just went silent, moved on like nothing happened—"

"I didn't move on."

"Then explain it," he says sharply. "Explain why you'd do something like that. Was it us? Your mom? Me? You never gave us a chance—"

"Dad, please stop."

He doesn’t. "We raised you to be stronger than this, Y/N. What happened to you?"

Your chest aches. Tears sting your eyes, hot and furious. "I have to go."

"Y/N—"

You hang up, tossing the phone onto your bed. You sit down hard, head in your hands, breathing jaggedly until your lungs ache. "Fuck," you whisper, wiping at tears you don't want to fall. "Fuck."

Your phone buzzes again. You don't pick it up.

---

Bucky checks his phone again—fourth time in ten minutes. The receptionist taps at her keyboard, and the clock above ticks louder than usual. Still nothing.

He types out another quick message:

"You close? Saving you a seat."

Five minutes pass as his knee bounces. Another text:

"You okay?"

Raynor opens her office door. "Barnes?"

He stares at your empty chair, then back at her. "Can we reschedule?"

She frowns slightly. "Is something wrong?"

"I gotta check on something." He stands abruptly. "I'll call."

Raynor just nods slowly. "Alright. Call if you need anything."

He’s already out the door.

---

He knocks gently at your apartment door, listening closely. "Y/N?"

No answer.

Bucky knocks again. "Y/N, it's me. You missed therapy. Just checking in."

Silence. Anxiety creeps up his spine, icy and familiar. He tries the handle. Locked.

He pulls out his phone again, sends a text:

"Outside your door. Please open."

Nothing. He leans his forehead against the wood, closing his eyes briefly. "Please," he murmurs.

Then, faintly, your voice comes through: "It's unlocked now."

---

Your apartment’s dark, curtains drawn tight. Sparky is curled on the couch, lifting her head as Bucky steps inside. You’re sitting cross-legged in the corner of the couch, eyes swollen, a blanket draped over your shoulders.

"Hey," he says softly, approaching slowly. "Mind if I sit?"

You shake your head silently, eyes fixed on your hands.

Bucky sits carefully beside you, keeping a cautious distance. "You wanna talk about it?"

You don’t answer. He waits, watching your profile, noticing the tightness in your jaw, the subtle trembling in your hands.

"My dad called," you say finally, voice thick. "He got a bill from the hospital. From… a while ago."

Bucky nods slightly. "Didn’t go well?"

A shaky laugh escapes your throat. "He blamed me. Said… said they raised me stronger. Like I chose to be weak."

Your voice cracks on the last word. Tears spill over, quiet and unstoppable. "I didn’t choose this."

Bucky’s throat tightens. "I know."

"He asked what happened to me," you whisper, voice breaking. "I don't know how to answer that."

He moves closer, gentle and slow. "You don’t have to know right now."

You swallow hard. "I keep trying to be better. Therapy, homework, all the fucking talking—but it’s never enough." You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to—"

"Hey," he interrupts gently. "Stop apologizing."

You cry harder, trying to hold back sobs that spill through your fingers. He doesn't say anything more—just reaches out slowly, carefully pulling you against him. You tense at first, then melt against his chest. His arms circle you gently but firmly, his hand stroking your back as you tremble.

"You don't have to do this alone," he says softly, his voice steady in your ear. "I promise."

You nod, unable to speak. Sparky whines softly, shifting closer, pressing warmth into your side.

Bucky holds you until the tears slow, until your breathing evens slightly, his grip never loosening.

"You don't have to explain anything," he whispers finally. "Not to him, not to me—not until you're ready."

You sit up slowly, wiping your eyes, embarrassed. "Sorry," you whisper again.

He squeezes your shoulder gently, shaking his head. "No more apologies."

You sniff softly, leaning your head back against the couch. "I missed therapy."

"Cole'll forgive you. I skipped too."

You glance at him, eyes tired but softer. "They’ll kill us both."

"They’ll deal." He smiles gently, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. "You hungry?"

You shake your head slowly. "Not yet."

"Then we'll wait." He leans back beside you, Sparky settling between you both. "We have time."

You let out a breath, lighter now. The ache still lingers in your chest, but it’s quieter, bearable. "Thank you," you whisper.

He looks at you, steady and calm. "Anytime, Y/N."

sparky is actually the name of my one of my dogs, so you can tell i'm super creative, lol. to lighten things up, here's a picture of her:

we've had her since i was in elementary, so like 12-14 years? she's also around the same age. we think she's have golden retriever, half chihuahua. i know that sounds insane but google that and look at the pictures - a few of them look exactly like her. she's a rescue, so we aren't sure about age, etc. anyways, thank you for reading!

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[osarina]

my two og ducklings are so funny. i got to the conference room late today, and i went to sit in the back, and they immediately took the first chance to come move to sit next to me 💀 one of them was trying to be casual about it and he tripped over his feet and face planted

[midtalissa]

# ‘TESTING WATERS’ (part 2)

-> Other parts: one

-> Summary: Jason’s mood is shifting, and you’re the reason. After days of soft tension and awkward closeness, he finally makes the first move… in the most clumsy, Jason Todd way possible.

-> Pairing: AK!Jason Todd x F!Reader

-> WARNINGS: maybe ooc Jason? canon-typical mentions of trauma/PTSD; Jason being touch-starved and awkward; light make-out— dude i need to learn how to manage the warnings because i don’t know what to put here

-> A/N: i’m lowkey kinda getting obsessed with jason AND the arkham trilogy.. again; good thing i already have it purchased on my nintendo😼😼

You heard it first from one of the lieutenants outside the rec room. “Boss has been… different.”

You weren’t even eavesdropping on purpose. Just walking past with the world’s most boring sandwich in your hand when the words hit your ear like a thrown brick.

“How different?” someone else asked, like they didn’t believe it for a second.

“Like… he’s not biting people’s heads off every five minutes. Let Ramirez finish a full sentence yesterday. Didn’t even snap when Jace spilled coffee on the intel sheets.”

A third voice chimed in, low and full of disbelief. “You’re joking.”

“Swear on my paycheck, man. He’s still scary as shit but… it’s less homicidal lately. I’m telling you. It started after he went to his quarters one night earlier than usual, when he went to her.”

Her. You.

You nearly tripped over your own feet. Great. Just what you needed. Jason Todd, broody warlord of Gotham’s underground, getting talked about like a teen girl’s diary entry.

You made a beeline for your room, heart racing and face burning.

Later that day, on a video call with Tori, she cracked a joke about it. “You’re basically living in a shitty action movie. Just waiting for dramatic background music every time he enters a room.”

You snorted so hard she nearly dropped her phone. “If my life had a soundtrack it’d just be heavy breathing and gunshots.”

You were in the middle of laughing when you caught it. Jason. Walking past your door. And— blink and you’ll miss it— but you didn’t miss it.

A smile. Small. Crooked. There and gone in less than a second. You froze mid-laugh, still staring at the empty hallway long after he disappeared.

“Okay what just happened?” Tori asked, catching your expression shift. “Nothing,” you said quickly. But your grin said otherwise.

The shift didn’t stop there. Over the next few days, it got… softer. Like the air was changing around you.

He let you sit next to him again on the couch. When your shoulder bumped his, he didn’t move away. In fact… he leaned back. Barely. But it was there.

Another night, he passed you in the hall and actually said, ‘Hey.’ Like a normal human being. Not ‘Y/n.’ Not ‘Be quieter.’

Just… ‘Hey.’ And you chatted with him until his earpiece buzzed and he had to leave. You spent the next fifteen minutes staring at your ceiling trying not to scream into a pillow like a teenager.

That night though… that’s when it happened.

You caught him sitting on the edge of the bed, unlacing his boots, looking tired but less haunted than usual.

You were hovering in the doorway, heart doing somersaults, debating with yourself for five full minutes before finally— screw it. You went for it.

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. Instant tension.

You felt it instantly. The way his back stiffened like muscle memory was telling him to pull away. But this time… he didn’t. Not fully.

He exhaled hard, like the air left his lungs all at once. Then his hands moved— slow, hesitant— until they settled on your forearms, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

And when you loosened your hold just enough to pull back and check his face… That’s when you caught it. Jason biting his lip.

Like he was chewing on some thought he didn’t know how to say. Eyes dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes, then back again like he was short-circuiting.

Your heart nearly exploded. “Jason—” you whispered, but before you could even finish, his hands slid down, settling clumsily on your waist.

And then he kissed you.

No warning. No finesse. Just pure, awkward, inexperienced Jason Todd crashing into you like a human wrecking ball.

It was messy. A little too hard at first. Teeth bumped. Breath hitched weird between both of you.

But when your hands instinctively grabbed the front of his shirt and you pushed him back slightly— just enough to adjust the angle— he followed.

Like muscle memory kicked in. Like whatever fragile dam he’d been holding together finally cracked open.

And suddenly you were in his lap, straddling him without even realizing how it happened, one of his hands slipping up your back while the other stayed stubbornly locked on your hip like he was scared you’d disappear.

He kissed like a man who had no idea what the hell he was doing but wanted to do it anyway. You almost laughed into his mouth when it clicked—

This man… had 100% been listening to soldiers at base giving bad dating advice to each other. Trying to apply random tips he overheard.

Be confident. Grip her waist. Make the first move. Tilt your head more. You could practically hear their voices in your brain, like ghosts of locker room nonsense.

But none of it mattered. Not when his lips were on yours. Not when his breath stuttered every time you deepened the kiss.

And definitely not when you pulled back, resting your forehead against his, smiling through your own gasps for air.

“Jason…” you whispered, voice shaking. “I’ve already been swooned, you idiot.” He huffed out a shaky laugh. A real one. And for once… he didn’t look so broken.

[archangeldyke-all]

Papa me want more movie (paramedic sevika) 😞

okay baby here comes the airplane vrooom

men and minors dni

sevika is very protective of her ambulance.

unless you're her patient and she's in the back to treat you, sevika's usually the one driving the rig to the hospital.

it's her baby. when she's not working, silco's the other paramedic driving it. the two of them are precious about the truck, like it's a living creature. they text each other updates during their shifts; if they filled it with gas, when the last stock up was, if the brakes have been sounding squeaky, stuff like that. like it's their baby they're co-parenting, or something.

before she met you, her phone lock screen was just a picture of the ambulance under a sunset. she's such a dork.

so you know sevika's lost her mind when she shows up to pick you up from work in the ambulance.

"sevika. what the fuck." you laugh as she leads you to the giant red truck. she giggles and shrugs.

"gotta take the old gal in to get her oil changed, figured i'd treat my girl to a spin around the block."

"and i'm i the old gal or the girl, in this situation?" you ask. sevika grins and pops open the passenger's side door for you.

it's surprisingly boring in the front seat. granted you've only ever ridden in the back under the influence of pain and drugs but you expected something a little more high tech than this.

"not even a gps?" you ask as sevika jumps in beside you, starting the rig up with a loud sputter from the engine. she snorts.

"what do i need a gps for? i've got the city streets memorized up here." she taps her forehead. "seatbelt." she demands.

god, she's sexy. that big brain of hers-- memorizing every street. you dart out of the passenger seat, ignoring sevika's squawks of protest to press a kiss to her cheek.

that shuts her up pretty quick. she's smiling all shy when you sit back down in your seat and pull on your seatbelt. you giggle, and she shoots you a glare.

"no funny buisness." she grunts. you giggle.

"then why's there a bed in the back?" you tease. sevika glares at you again.

"it's called a gurney, and silco will kill me if i'm late gettin' the rig to the shop."

"doesn't the department send you a replacement rig while yours is getting fixed?" you ask. she nods.

"yeah, but it's hard to find a truck as driveable and reliable as vivian."

"vivian!?" you cackle. "she's got a name?!"

"it was the sexiest name me and silco could come up with." sevika chuckles. "ran wanted it to be 'ruby' but that was way too obvious."

"you think the truck's sexy!?" you cackle. sevika glares at you again.

"baby. you better watch your tone. this is my rig you're talking about. she's been in my life much longer than you."

"oh my god, i can't believe i'm jealous of a truck right now."

"you don't need to be jealous, i'm not fucking the truck."

"you called it sexy!"

"when a vehicle this big can go from twenty to ninety miles an hour in ten seconds, stop on a dime, and carry as much life saving medicine as vivian does-- that's sexy!"

"you hit ninety?!" you screech. sevika cringes, knowing she's in the dog house now. you absolutely despise hearing about how she drives in this truck.

"no-- just-- hypothetically." she mutters, her eyes suspiciously glued to the road. you chuckle and reach over the center console-- where your favorite iced beverage is waiting for you beside sevika's pina colada slushie-- and grab her hand.

"vivian's... beautiful." you try, not sure what a proper compliment for a truck is. "she's a great ambulance. she drove you into my life. she's given me several rides to the hospital. she's protected you every day you work. i'm glad you have her in your life."

sevika smiles sweetly and drags your knuckles to her lips, kissing your hand sweetly. the action makes you feel all fuzzy and warm.

it's quiet for several moments as sevika eases to a stop at a red light, but when she's still she finally turns to study you. "what're you thinking about?"

"i don't think i've ever gone ninety before." you admit.

something about the lack of judgement in your voice has sevika cocking a curious eyebrow at you.

"do you... wanna feel it?" she asks with a mischevious smile.

you gulp. if there's one person in your life you trust to drive a truck going that fucking fast you suppose it's sevika.

sevika's smile is only growing as she watches your nervous excitement.

"we are running late to the rig shop. had to stop for our drinks before hand... we could flick the sirens on... get there on time?" sevika offers, goading you.

you groan and shake your head in shame. "uuugh. okay, fine, but--"

you're cut off by sevika blaring on the horn and flicking on the loud sirens. in front of you, cars merge to make a path for her, and before you can even find something to hold onto sevika's slamming on the gas and taking off.

you squeal. sevika giggles. she's got a bit of a show off smile, but mostly she's focused. on the dashboard, on the road, on the oncoming traffic-- making sure everyone's stopped for her, swerving around assholes who aren't. you realize that if sevika hadn't become a paramedic she could've found a lucrative career in formula 1 racing.

"this is only fifty, drama queen." sevika laughs. you flip her off from the passenger's seat. she hits a turn and you squeal-- and then she's on the freeway, and the city is speeding past you.

"we're so fast!" you giggle. sevika grins.

"soak it up babe, next exit is ours." she laughs.

for just one moment you let go of your fear and let yourself feel exhilarated. sevika's a loon, and she's the love of your life, and you're giggling like a dizzy kid as she speeds down the exit ramp.

"oh, shit!" you gasp as sevika comes to a hard, fast stop at the bottom of the hill, the tires squealing as you somehow manage to stop for the red light.

sevika flicks the sirens off, turns on her turn signal, then turns to grin at you. you cackle.

"you're insane. you do that all the fucking time, don't you?" you ask. she giggles and shrugs.

"i get paid like shit to get shat on all day, i gotta find my perks somewhere. vivian's pretty fuckin' cool, huh?"

you cackle and nod. "she's fucking awesome." you say, admiring sevika's proud little smile. but you're not talking about the truck at all.

taglist!

@fyeahnix @lavendersgirl @half-of-a-gay @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner

@kissyslut @chuucanchuucan @badbye666 @femme-historian @lia-winther

@lavenderbabu @emiliabby @sevikasbeloved @hellorai @my-taintedheart

@glass-apothecary @macaroni676 @k3n-dyll @sevsdollette @ellieslob

@xayn-xd @keikuahh @maneskinwh0re @raphaellearp @iamastar

@sevikitty @butchchase @nhaaauyen @notlores @mirconreadzztuff22

@veoomvroom @lushh-s3vik4s @katyawooga @strawberrykidneystone @vkumi

@fict1onallyobsessed @dvrkhcld @sweetybuzz25 @sluttysierraaa @snake-in-a-flower-crown

@ruiwonderz @flowersandsuch111 @teethinamber @blackgaladriel @nightlyconfusion

@dancingqu33n17 @losernb @p1nkearth @leeidk87 @cinnamowor1d

taglist!!

@sevikas-baby @ghostscandys @runawaybaby3 @vikasfemme @lesbones

@chezze-its @lez-zuha @vikashoneybee @shanesevikasfuckdoll @imheadintothemountains

@ferxanda @helaenabugmom @spookymomfriendtm @mzkaylalol @fruitsnpebbless

[inseobts]

When the Sea Gives You Tangerines

shanks x fem!reader

after years spent loving each other you have many stories to tell to the strawhats.

words count: 2.2k

a/n: I got inspired by the kdrama When Life Gives You Tangerines, I just hope it didn't come out too cringy honestly...

tags: childhood friends, storytelling, bickering, comfort, fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The fire’s warm. The moon hangs heavy above the ship.

Luffy leans back, arms behind his head, grinning “So, how’d you two end up together anyway?”

You blink “Us?”

Shanks smirks, sitting beside you on a crate “You wanna tell it, or should I?”

“Like hell I’m letting you tell it.” you mutter.

Nami leans in, curious. Sanji pours wine for Robin. Zoro pretends he’s not listening. Even Usopp’s wide-eyed. They’ve heard of Shanks the Yonko, but they never thought they’d hear him laughing like this.

You sigh “It started when we were kids.”

“She hated me.” Shanks says.

You shoot him a look “I ignored you.”

“Same thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“She’d walk past me every day like I was just a chair.”

“You sat like one. On the dock. All day.”

“I was watching the sea! I was thoughtful.”

“You were stupid.”

Shanks grins at the crew “See? True love.”

They laugh. You roll your eyes.

You look down at your hands “We were kids in the same village. I liked books. He liked trouble.”

“She liked pretending she didn’t care.” he adds.

“I didn’t.”

“You still don’t.” he teases.

Your voice softens “He followed me everywhere.”

Shanks turns to the crew “Everywhere.”

You smack his arm “Stop making it weird.”

He grins “I’m just saying. If she climbed a tree, I climbed it. If she stole an apple, I stole two.”

“And got caught.”

“I let them catch me so that they wouldn't catch you.”

You scoff “You cried.”

“I was seven!”

Everyone laughs again, but this time it fades slower.

You rest your chin on your hand “We grew up. He left first. Said the sea was calling. I said ‘Good. Don’t come back’.”

“But I did.” he says. Quiet now.

“You always did.” you say.

There’s a pause. The kind that only happens when people are listening too hard.

Nami’s voice breaks the silence “But when did you fall in love?”

You look at Shanks. He’s already looking at you.

You shrug “I don’t know. Maybe when he stopped being an idiot.”

“So never.” Luffy says.

Shanks chuckles “I knew before she did. I was always waiting.”

You swallow. Your voice is barely a whisper “I was afraid.”

“Why?” Luffy asks.

“Because he was everything I didn’t want to need.”

Shanks leans back, watching the fire “And I was just waiting for her to look at me the way I looked at her.”

Zoro snorts “That’s depressing.”

Robin smiles “It’s real.”

You toss a tangerine at Shanks. He catches it, grinning.

“You’re still annoying.” you say.

“And you still love me.” he says.

You don’t answer but you don’t deny it, either.

You throw another tangerine at Luffy. He dodges it, laughing with his mouth wide open.

“Why are you asking so many questions, huh?” you say, pointing at him “You’ve heard this story a million times.”

Luffy shrugs, still grinning “Because I love it!”

You squint at him “You didn’t even listen the first hundred times.”

“Yeah, but I remember all of it now,” he says “When I was a kid, I used to look up at Shanks like he was the sun. Strong. Loud. Impossible.”

Shanks rubs the back of his neck “Don’t make me sound too cool.”

“But when he was with you,” Luffy continues, softer now, “or talking about you… he changed.”

You blink. The fire crackles again.

“It was like you were his captain.” Luffy says.

Everyone goes quiet. Zoro pauses mid-drink. Nami watches you closely. Robin’s smile grows just a little.

Shanks doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Luffy’s voice drops “And that always made me feel like… maybe the Shanks everyone fears... wasn’t that scary after all.”

Shanks finally glances at you. There’s no teasing in his eyes now.

You don’t know what to say to that.

Because it’s true. All those years he was off sailing, getting stronger, louder, more famous... he’d write to you like nothing had changed. Like he was still that barefoot boy chasing after you in the mud.

You hated those letters. You kept every single one.

“He never stops talking about you.” Luffy adds.

Shanks groans “Luffy—”

“No, really! He’d be telling us about a fight or a treasure, and then... bam ‘That reminds me of her’ or, ‘She would’ve laughed at that’ or—”

“Luffy!” Shanks throws a cork at his head.

You hide a smile behind your hand.

“So,” Sanji says, leaning forward, “who confessed first?”

You and Shanks speak at the same time:

“He did.”

“She did.”

The crew erupts.

“What?!”

“Liar!”

You point at him “You kissed me first. And you were obvious since you were 6.”

“Yeah, but you said it first.” he counters.

“Only because you were dying.”

“I wasn’t dying!”

“You had a spear in your shoulder!”

“A tiny spear.”

“You fainted.”

“I was tired!”

Nami shakes her head “You two are a mess.”

Robin sips her wine “A beautiful mess.”

Luffy lies back on the deck, hands behind his head again “I just knew you two would end up like this.”

“You weren't even there... But yeah,” you say quietly as you look at Shanks, and he’s already watching you “I think deep down… I always knew too.”

“So you didn’t join Shanks on the sea from the start?” Usopp asks, still wide-eyed like he’s listening to a bedtime story.

You snort “No. I didn’t want to.”

“She followed me anyway.” Shanks says, puffing his chest like a proud idiot.

You roll your eyes “I studied. For years. Maps. Languages. History. Ship mechanics. All of it. I worked harder than anyone.”

Robin tilts her head “So you could sail?”

You pause “So I could stand next to him without being a burden.”

Shanks turns to you, slower now, like he doesn’t want to ruin the moment “You never told me that.”

You pick at the edge of your sleeve “Yeah, well. You never shut up long enough to hear it.”

The crew laughs, but it’s gentler now.

“You know what’s funny?” you say, turning back to Luffy “The first time I met you, you looked at me like I was your mom and Shanks used to make fun of me.”

“What?” Luffy blinks.“No I didn’t!”

“Yes you did,” you say “You followed me around, asked if I had snacks, and called me ‘Miss Cool Pirate Lady’ for three days.”

Shanks throws his head back, laughing “I remember that!”

“You sat in the corner and drew me with a sword,” you add “And then said I was cooler than Shanks. And you called me mom by mistakes multiple times.”

“I WAS FIVE!” Luffy yells, red in the face now.

You smirk “Still true though.”

Shanks puts a hand over his heart “He used to blush like crazy everytime he realised he called you mom.”

There’s a quiet moment as the waves lap softly against the ship.

“Going back to that question... I didn’t plan to go to sea at first,” you admit “I wanted a small, quiet life.”

Shanks smiles, listening.

“But then he left,” you say, eyes on the stars “And I couldn’t stop wondering if he’d die without me.”

“That’s romantic,” Sanji says, dreamily.

“No,” you shake your head “That’s just the truth.”

“I didn’t ask you to come.” Shanks says softly.

“No,” you nod “You didn’t have to.”

You turn back to the Straw Hats “I joined the crew two years after he left. I showed up with a packed bag and told Benn, ‘Don’t make a big deal’.”

“And I immediately made a big deal.” Shanks grins.

“You tripped running down the dock.”

“I was moved, okay?”

“You fell into a crate of bananas.”

“It was an emotional day!”

Everyone’s laughing again. The air is full of warmth now, wine and fire and stories wrapped around the mast like wind.

Luffy lies on the floor of the Sunny, staring up at the sails “You two were the first people I ever saw who felt like family.”

You go still.

He says it so easily, like it’s always been true.

“I didn’t understand it then,” Luffy goes on, “but… when you were together, it felt safe. Not boring. Just… safe. Like home.”

You glance at Shanks. He’s not smiling now, not in the big, cocky way. This one’s smaller. Quieter. Like he can barely hold it.

“I guess I raised two idiots” you mutter, wiping your nose.

“You did,” Shanks says “And somehow, we both turned out okay.”

“Debatable.”

He bumps his shoulder against yours “Speak for yourself. I’m perfect.”

“You’re loud.”

“You love it.”

You don’t answer.

You just lean into him, just enough.

Luffy’s snoring now. Flat on his back, mouth open, arms spread like he owns the whole ship.

You nudge him with your toe. Nothing. Just louder snoring.

“I guess storytime’s over.” you say, standing and brushing off your pants.

Shanks stretches, groaning a little too dramatically “Guess that’s our cue to go.”

“Yeah,” you nod, already turning to leave “Let’s let the kids sleep.”

“Wait—WAIT.” Nami’s voice cuts through the quiet.

You freeze “What?”

“You’re not leaving yet,” she says, standing with her hands on her hips “You haven’t told us the best part.”

You sigh “Oh no.”

“How did he propose?” she grins.

“Oh no...” you repeat.

Usopp leans forward “Did he cry?”

Sanji fans himself “Was it romantic?”

Chopper is bouncing now “Did you say yes right away?!”

Franky still crying over your romantic stories.

Robin smiles “You must share. We’re invested now.”

You turn slowly toward Shanks.

He looks like a man standing in front of a cannon.

“We were supposed to not to tell anyone” you whisper.

He grins sheepishly “I didn’t!… Yet.”

You groan into your hands “You’re a menace.”

“But a charming menace.” he adds, winking.

“Don’t wink at me. I’m still mad.”

You face the crew with a deep sigh.

“Fine,” you say “But it wasn’t romantic.”

“Yes it was!” Shanks says.

“No. It wasn’t.”

“I tried to make it romantic.”

“You proposed during a storm.”

“It was dramatic!”

“We were sinking.”

“That’s memorable!”

Robin’s eyes sparkle “Please continue.”

You sit back down, crossing your arms “Okay. So. We’re in the middle of this horrible storm, waves taller than the ship. I’m tying down barrels, he’s yelling commands, the usual chaos.”

“And she looks amazing.” Shanks adds.

“Drenched.” You glare at him “Hair stuck to my face, one boot missing, and I’m yelling at the crew.”

“Very commanding... and sexy...” he says dreamily.

“And then,” you continue, ignoring him, “this idiot climbs the main mast with a ring in his mouth.”

Gasps around the fire.

“You didn’t...” Nami whispers.

“I did.” Shanks says proudly.

“And he screams... screams ‘WILL YOU MARRY ME?!’ while lightning is literally striking the ocean behind him.”

“You said yes.” he grins.

“I said, ‘GET DOWN BEFORE YOU DIE, YOU LUNATIC!’”

Robin is laughing quietly now. Chopper is wide-eyed. Usopp is trying not to cry while Franky is bawling.

Sanji puts a hand on his heart “That’s the most pirate thing I’ve ever heard.”

Zoro raises a brow “So when did you actually say yes?”

You sigh “Two days later. Calm seas. Clear skies. I was brushing my hair.”

“She just looks at me and goes, ‘I guess I’m stuck with you now’.”

“And then I threw the ring at him.” you say.

“You missed.”

“I aimed for your face.”

Everyone laughs again. The fire’s burning lower now, but no one wants to move.

Shanks wraps an arm around your shoulders, casual. Warm.

“And you still married me.” he says.

You glance up at him.

“You forgot the ring at the wedding.”

“It was in my other coat!”

“You don’t have another coat.”

“Exactly.”

You sigh, shaking your head, but you’re smiling now. Soft. Quiet. Real.

“He’s a disaster.” you say.

“She’s the reason I survive it.”

The fire’s nothing but glowing coals now.

Luffy’s curled up like a kid. Most of the Straw Hats are asleep, heads resting on arms, backs against barrels, dreams thick in the night air.

You and Shanks sit side by side, knees almost touching.

He’s quiet now. Not laughing. Just watching the waves.

You look out too.

Then he says, softly, “You never really wanted this life.”

You don’t look at him “I didn’t.”

“You wanted quiet.”

You nod “I wanted peace. Soft mornings.”

“And you got storms. Blood. Chaos.”

You smile, just a little “And you.”

He swallows “Sorry.”

You shake your head “Don’t be. I said yes.”

Shanks looks at you “Even after everything?”

You finally meet his eyes “Especially after everything.”

The ship rocks gently.

“You know,” you whisper, “when we were young, I thought you were the kind of boy who would burn the world just to see what was under it.”

“I was.” he says.

“And I thought I’d spend my life trying to stop you.”

He smiles faintly “Did you?”

“No,” you say “I ended up helping you light the match.”

You both laugh, soft and low.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a candy.

Shanks raises an eyebrow “You still carry those?”

“I always do, they're my favourite.” you say. You hand it to him.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything. He just leans into you, warm and steady.

And in the quiet, in the dark, with the sea all around you and stars blinking like old friends overhead, you think:

No, I didn’t get the life I planned. But I got the one I chose.

And more importantly, I got him.

[wynnyfryd]

push me, sugar

written for @switcheddieweek day 5: 'non-verbal negotiation' + 'dancing' | 4.7k | M | modern college AU, musician eddie, swing dancer steve | ao3

---------------------

“GodDAMMIT!!!!” Frankie smacks the outside of his fist against the exposed brick wall leading to the green room, chest heaving.

Eddie catches him by the shoulders; scans his furious red face. “Whoa, whoa, hey. Hey! What happened?”

Frankie growls. Gareth and Jeff appear in the hallway behind him—Gareth close to pissed-off tears, Jeff translating their collective anger into English with a sigh like a buzz saw. “The scout hated us, man.”

What the fuck?

How??

“Is he fucking deaf?!” Eddie screeches. Gareth makes a strangled noise. Frankie knocks his forehead against the wall with a dull, metronomic thud. Son of a bitch. These kinds of hallways are meant for eyeing up the potential groupies at the end of a killer set, not for fucking…group lamentations for the dead, or whatever the hell’s happening here.

Beside him, Jeff leans against the brick, rubbing a knot in his neck. “He said we sounded great, but apparently we look like shit. ‘Zero fuckin’ stage presence’—his words; not mine.”

Gareth’s little sniffles promote themselves to an outright sob, and Frankie shoulders past them and slams the dressing room door behind him, the hollow-core panel doing nothing to muffle his scream.

---------------------

“Brutal,” Steve sucks his teeth in sympathy as Eddie shares the highlight reel during his shift the next morning. ‘Bruuuuutal,’ Robin mouths behind his back.

Eddie hides a smile in a sip of latte foam. “Delicious as always, my good man.”

Steve glows under the praise and steps out from behind the espresso machine to rest his elbows on the bar, the tanned, olive skin of his forearms in stark contrast with the white counters. Eddie’s not sure if he wants to pin those arms down or be pinned…

Jesus.

Best not to board either of those thought trains when it’s 9 A.M. and he’s wearing his tightest jeans in public.

He sends them both off from the station with an imagined choo chooooo!, retreating to the safety of his sulking. “Just sucks,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand. “Like—I mean, shit, man, I just want to play music!” He throws his other hand up and lets it land with a dull smack. “You know music? The reason people go to shows? To listen to music??”

Robin snorts at him in passing as she goes to grab a broom.

Unhelpfully, Steve says, “Sure, I guess, but. They do also go to watch it.”

Betrayal. Complete and utter betrayer-ing. Betrayance!!!

Eddie glares.

Steve laughs, “Sorry.”

“Whatever. I just don’t want to have to worry about my goddamn hips or whatever when I’m communing with my Sweetheart.”

Robin’s on his side of the bar now, sweeping around the self-serve station, and her eyes are twinkling with—well, Eddie doesn’t know what, exactly, but it feels like it’s about to be some seriously impish bullshit at his expense. “Steve,” she says meaningfully, and Steve answers, “Robin,” and there’s a whole ping pong match of microexpressions that Eddie tries and fails to interpret before he swivels toward Robin and goes, “Okay, turn the fucking subtitles on.”

Robin horse-laughs. “Steve can help you!”

Eddie turns back toward him. His cheekbones are starting to turn a real pretty shade of pink, like an oil canvas sunset, and Eddie can’t help but want to add a dot of red into the paint mix. “You some kinda hula hoop champ or somethin’?” he teases.

Steve’s blush deepens.

Success.

Beside him, Robin pipsqueaks, “Even better!!” She’s dancing some kind of goofy waltz with her broomstick, walking forwards and backwards in long strides, twirling it around and swinging her hips in an exaggerated awkward swivel.

Steve’s forehead hits the counter with a thud. “Rob-innnnnn,” he groans, straightening up and frowning flatly at her. He yanks the dish towel from his shoulder and whips it at her in disapproval.

Robin giggles.

Steve sighs so hard Eddie can smell the morning mocha on his breath. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh,” she counters with a long, snorting pfffft—lips clamped, face puffed like she’s about to shoot milk out of her nose. “I hate to tell you this, but it actually so totally is.”

“I’ll laser off my Scoops tat,” he threatens with a finger wag and a hand on his hip.

Robin gasps, “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would.”

Eddie can’t even focus on the revelation that Steve has a tattoo somewhere(???!) because he’s too busy having a really, just—goddamn horrific moment of self-discovery over Steve’s pissed off gym coach vibes. Is he about to blow a whistle and start barking orders over here? Jesus Christ.

Behind him, Robin concedes, “Okay, I’m sorry! You know I love you, please don’t hurt my boy Butterscotch with lasers.”

“Be nice to me,” Steve squints in warning before he holsters the pointer finger.

Eddie reaches for his drink; mutters over the lip of his cup, “What the fuck is happening?”

The shop’s dead right now, so Robin swings up onto the bar chair beside Eddie and leans in all conspiratorially to inform him that Steve—yes, that Steve, Steve Harrington, the hot guy barista who’s maybe sort of Eddie’s friend in a regular customer kind of way, the dude currently blushing his ass off across the counter—is a regional champion fucking West Coast swing dancer.

---------------------

Half an hour later, leaning against the brick side of the building and sharing a post-shift cigarette with Steve, Eddie says, “I mean, it is kind of funny.”

“Oh, cool, so all my friends are assholes. Love that.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. Tries really hard to tune out the voice in his brain going friendsfriendsfriendsohmygod. “Only because I didn’t expect it. Not that it’s surprising, though. I mean, it goes with your whole…” He waves the hand holding the cigarette in Steve’s direction.

“My what?” He looks vaguely concerned.

Eddie shakes his head with a soft grin. “Just suits you, is all.”

---------------------

Steve’s fucking… so good at this. Holy shit. The way he glides across the dance floor, the way he perfectly directs his partner exactly where he wants her, makes her look weightless under his big hands, it’s uh—

It’s got Eddie’s internal narrator all glitched out, splicing Ye Olde English with braindead horndog internet shit until he actually hears himself think the words ‘prithee, good sir, what them hips do?’ and has to sit on both hands to keep from slapping himself in public.

He kind of can’t even believe what’s happening right now to be honest—he’s sitting on a thin vinyl cushion of a folding black plastic chair in what he thinks is a conference center but could be a non-denominational church? Maybe? Whatever, he wasn’t really paying attention when he drove in. He was a little preoccupied thinking about goddamn Steve Harrington, yeah, that Steve, Swing Dance Champion; didn’t even notice his favorite song playing over the van’s speakers until the riff at the six minute twenty-eight second mark.

And now somehow he’s watching the guy he’d been—Jesus, he’d basically been mentally doodling the guy’s name in hearts in the margins of his notebook with a pink feather pen and stars in his eyes—and now that guy is wrapping his huge hands around his dance partner’s slim waist and throwing her down between his open legs, feet planted firmly on either side of her as she goes down and around his thigh like a firepole. Her french-manicured hand trails over his inseam, and Eddie can see the direction Steve’s dick hangs, holy shit. Somebody set up a single tripod of DJ party booth lights at the dance floor’s edge, and it should be tacky as hell, but it’s painting Steve in all these gorgeous pinks and purples, the light shifting like a stormy sunset reflecting off a wave, Steve’s so handsome, and he’s rolling his hips like he’s—and Eddie can see his dickprint through his skin-tight jeans, and—

“Excuse me,” Eddie blurts to the three people seated to his left as he lurches from his seat and crouch-walks down the tightly packed row to the aisle as quick as he can.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face. Juts his chin at his scarlet-flushed reflection. He’s not gonna jizz his pants in public.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

*

Eddie splashes—

“Ah, shit.”

His shirt’s getting wet.

“Shit.”

His bangs are soaked now, clumping into heavy spirals that splash fat drops all down his neckline. He reaches over and yanks a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser, squishing at his bangs and hoping he doesn’t dry out looking like a poodle. (Never fucking remembers to bring more hair product, never mind the fact that he’s apparently doing this so often that ‘never’ is applicable.)

There’s a hand dryer mounted on the wall, but it’s one of the older models; doesn’t have the little metal flippy thing to point the air up at your face—which has gotta be, uh. Unhygienic, right? Shit. Goddamn convenient at a highway rest stop, though, especially when you just finished a show at some middle-of-nowhere hick venue and you’re sweating your balls off and you don’t even care that you’re blowing hot air directly into your face because you’re too in shock from, like, getting away from that gig without getting hate-crimed and getting paid for it. So yeah. One of those would be awesome.

He doesn’t have one of those. What he does have is weird blotches of hair gel water drying all over his shirt, so he crouches down into a half-squat that feels like he’s making fun of a flamingo and holds his shirt under the downward-pointing hot air stream.

And of course that’s how Steve finds him.

Of course this convention-center-slash-maybe-church doesn’t have a separate bathroom backstage for the performers.

And of course Steve looks…

Goddamn.

He’s all sweaty, but in a glistening magazine cover sort of way—sort of aspirational, you know? Like, you could have this too if you were athletic and hot and tan. His hair is ever so slightly damp at the roots and temples, but not enough to make it limp, if anything it’s just enhancing the sheen, and—

And Eddie’s just staring up at his breathless, sweaty, sort-of-friend-in-a-regular-customer-way like he’s—

“Did you spill something?”

Steve’s got a confused but kind almost-smile on his face as he gestures across his own shirt collar, a scoop from right to left like he’s fingerpainting on a necklace. At least Eddie can blame the hot air from the dryer for how flaming red his cheeks feel.

“Yeah, uh,” he stutters as he straightens up; underhands the wad of damp paper towels into the narrow hoop of the trash can. Half the napkins botch the landing and go sliding over the beveled hump down to the floor. “Shit.”

Steve laughs a little, but he bends down and grabs the small stack before Eddie can get there, rising gracefully and tipping them into the trash can without even looking. “You good?”

“Huh? Uh- yeah.” Jesus. “Yeah, man, I’m, uh. I’m,” he gives up and just starts nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, hoping Steve will get the message.

Steve grins wide, excitement taking over. He’s biting his lower lip, buzzing around the edges. “Sooooo? What’d you think?”

“You’re amazing.” It’s automatic, basically under his breath; maybe Steve didn’t even hear it. “I mean, uh-”

Well, hell.

There’s just nothing else to call it, is there?

“Yeah,” he laughs, owning it. “No, yeah, you were amazing. Holy shit, dude!”

Steve’s face does something incredible. Like, movie-magic compelling. Eddie doesn’t even know how to describe the shift; it’s just soft, and pleased, and endearing, and for a second he gets why so many poets describe their lovers like the sun.

“Really?” Steve asks. His voice… “Thank you. I’m really glad you liked it.”

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

---------------------

Five days after Eddie made a goddamn fool of himself at Steve’s dance night, they agreed to meet up for Eddie’s first official swing dance lesson, because Steve’s chem lab lets out early on Fridays and Eddie’s math class is over on that side of campus and Steve’s dorm building has a ground floor gym that “basically no one ever goes into, dude, don’t even worry about.”

“Are you sure about that?” “Yeah. Seriously, if anyone says anything, just say we’re doing shit for musical theater class or whatever.” “Musical th— are you in a musical theater class?” “No. I mean, I was in freshman year for my fine art credit, but—” “WHAT?” “What?” “Is there footage of this anywhere?” “Yeah, but everyone who watches it dies in seven days. It’s like The Grudge.” “I thought that was The Ring?” “....Okay, I was, like, pretty sure I knew the right answer before you just said that.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re good. Want to watch one of those after our lesson?”

That phone conversation’s been playing on repeat like a Sabbath record in his head for the last three days. He has no idea what he even learned today in math class. (Not that he necessarily has any idea on any other day. Fuck. He should probably take that Barb girl up on her weekly study group.) And now Steve’s building is coming into view across the quad, and anticipation moves like ants under Eddie’s skin, and he really just wants to run away screaming or at least hide around a corner and hit his vape until he calms down, but he refuses to be all loopy and uncoordinated in front the smoothest fucking dancer he’s ever seen, so—

So—

He squares up to the building like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Ever the wordsmith, his mind supplies: UGH!!!!!

---------------------

The lessons are going horribly.

The first time Eddie stepped on Steve’s feet, he was cool about it (relatively, anyway), because Steve had just served him a gracious ‘that’s okay’ on the silver platter of his soft grin and encouraged him to keep going, and it was fine; it was only the first night; Eddie would get there with more practice.

But now he’s had practice. Now he’s been doing stupid little six-count steps in his living room for weeks, and tonight marks the sixth time that Steve has agreed to meet up with him for private lessons—and sure, Steve’s been kind of throwing him for a loop tonight by having him switch between dancing lead and following, but he thought he was starting to get it! At least a little bit! So when he somehow screws it up again and steps down right on Steve’s toes, he can’t stop the frustrated string of curse words that falls out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he huffs, stepping back from Steve, rubbing his fists against his stinging eyes. Oh, god. Please don’t start anger-crying right now.

“Hey, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he snaps; instantly feels bad about his tone and the way Steve winces and flinches back the slightest bit. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, just… Jesus. I fucking suck at this. Is your foot okay?”

“Mmhm.” He lifts his stomped foot off the ground, makes a show of flexing his toes inside his soft-top sneakers, rolling his ankle in a circle. As he steps back in to continue the lesson, his hands find Eddie’s waist, his elbows, gliding down his forearms to his wrists, holding both hands between their bodies.

Horrifically, Eddie sniffles. “Christ,” he laughs under his breath, keeping his head bowed, hiding behind his hair. Steve smells like cedar and citrus, and he’s probably making an unbearably kind expression right now, something tender and guiding and ‘you’re safe with me,’ and Eddie can’t bring himself to look.

“Hey.” Steve’s fingers find the underside of his jaw and press up until Eddie’s head lifts—gentle but insistent, just like all his moves when he’s in the lead. Jesus. Eddie was right about the face he pictured Steve making. “It really is fine, I promise. You think I’ve never thrown a temper tantrum in a dance class before?”

“Can’t really picture that.”

“Yeah, well. That’s because you never saw me in the god-awful costume I had to wear for my 7th grade tap dance recital.”

“Oh, my god.”

“There were coattails involved.”

Eddie snorts, and it’s a gross sound because his nose is still half-full of the tears he didn’t let fall, but whatever. He lifts his hands to Steve’s shoulders with a sigh.

“You want to go again?” Steve asks. “We can start that section from the top.”

“Honestly?” His thumb taps nervously at the shoulder seam of Steve’s t-shirt. “Look, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me here, man, I don’t want— shit, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dickhead, I just— I guess I’m, uh, feeling a little defeated here, Steve. And I’m also not sure what all of this has to do with the type of stuff I play on stage, anyway, you know? Like how does knowing how to do a sugar hop help me?”

“Sugar push.”

“Right, yeah, sugar push. But still, how is this—” He steps out wide from Steve, doing a sarcastic one-armed jazz hand before he reels himself back in. “ —applicable to doom metal? Do you even know what our stuff sounds like?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but his cheeks tint pink.

Eddie looks away; scrubs at the back of his neck. Goddamn, Steve’s one patient saint of a man. He can see their reflection in the full-length mirror spanning the wall to his left, and Eddie looks like a total asshole, his mouth twisted in a weird defensive grimace-smirk, his posture all slumped like a sulking teen goth who just heard they’re going on a family beach trip for spring break. And Steve’s just smiling away! Just as unbothered as can be, a radiant little cherub with his olive skin and blushing cheeks and chestnut waves, a Roman demigod of the harvest or some shit, the sunshiney little—

“Okay,” Steve laughs, snapping his fingers in Eddie’s face. “I have a new plan.”

---------------------

Steve slots in close to Eddie as the song starts—one thigh between his, belt loops almost catching. He plucks Eddie’s right hand up and starts to rock them gently, just getting a feel for it. “Oh, yeah,” Steve says when the first real riff kicks in, like he’s talking to himself, except his breath is hot in Eddie’s hair. “Yeah, this is a good tempo. Jesus.”

Eddie swallows. The hand at his hip pushes with more pressure until he takes a step back, and then another, and usually this is the part where they’d swing away from each other, but Steve stays pressed close, chasing Eddie’s thighs with his own, and he’s practically grinding against him to the music he wrote; that’s Eddie’s voice and Eddie’s guitar making Steve roll his hips like that, all slow and controlled, his breath speeding up a little.

“Switch me,” Steve says.

Eddie’s ears ring. “Huh?”

“Yeah.” It’s raspy. Out of breath. He does something with his hips that sends a tremor from Eddie’s shoulder to the pulsing vein in his groin. “Yeah, switch me.” He guides Eddie’s hand down to his hip. “Take the lead.”

“Steve, c’mon.”

“You come on,” he teases, drawing back to meet his eye. “It’s your song, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He’s already nodding along to the drone of the bass; metronomic compulsion; goddamn, they crushed it on this part.

Steve must be feeling it, too—eyes closed, head bowed, a little smile at the edge of his lips. Their bodies roll in tandem still. “Okay, so perform it then,” Steve dares him, looking from under his lashes. “Pretend I’m the mic stand.”

Fuck.

Over the speaker, Eddie’s voice growls about wanting everything, and Eddie does; wants it so badly, whatever Steve’s offering. His hand drags from Steve’s hip bone to the trim dip of his waist, taking the thin t-shirt with him, exposing a slice of tan skin. Eddie doesn’t think he can get away with pantomiming licking the mic stand, but maybe…

“You chose every word,” Eddie sings along quietly, pushing his weight into Steve, leading him back across the floor, “that I’ve said…”

Steve shivers against him, and Eddie wants more of that; wants to make Steve take what he gives him, watch him go starry-eyed and moldable like clay—Christ, the art Eddie could sculpt at the altar of Steve’s body; the music he could make from all his soft, pretty sounds. Harsh, fluttering breath, the hitch of a syllable caught in his throat, the tacky click of a dry swallow when Eddie’s hand skims his rib cage to tease the outer swell of his chest. Eddie could brush a thumb over his nipple. Make it so casual it could be called an accident.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Steve pants, still coaching. “Flirt with me a little.” He works his hips against Eddie’s in a slow, filthy circle, one foot lifting to climb the curve of Eddie’s calf as he twists his fingers in Eddie’s belt loops, then arches his back and dips himself toward the floor with a gorgeous tumble of brown hair, damp at the hairline, the veins in his neck all exposed, swollen blue and bulging with the rush of his thudding heartbeat; his cheeks flushed cherry red.

Eddie bows over him. Holds him like he’s tipping the mic stand toward a crowd, one hand cupping Steve’s neck while the other wraps around his back to steady him, palm splayed wide over warm muscle. He drags his lips from the base of Steve’s collarbones to the bony jut of his throat, and the answering moan rattles his teeth. Jesus. He’s half-hard against Steve’s thigh, uncomfortably bent in his tight jeans, and his mouth is just— just open against Steve’s slightly sweaty skin, tongue tasting the salt there when he mumbles along with his own lyrics. “I’ll fuck up again.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t know who moves first—couldn’t tell you much other than Steve’s moan was probably a G flat and was definitely going to haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his goddamn life. One moment his tongue’s catching on the stubble beneath Steve’s jaw; the next it’s tangled with Steve’s, squirming past wet, wide open lips to get behind his teeth, their faces tilted for a deeper angle, Steve’s sharp breaths hot against his cheek and upper lip. Steve tastes so fucking good, sweat and spit and citrus, and Eddie wants to swallow him whole.

When they break away, they’re both shaking, anticipatory tremor of a good, hard fuck that Eddie can feel all the way down to the arches of his feet. His ears are buzzing. He straightens up and brings Steve with him, and Steve laughs softly in the humid space between them, his forehead pressed to Eddie’s, their mouths still wet with spit.

“Damn,” Eddie smiles.

Steve’s lashes flutter. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” He tucks a strand of hair back into place behind Steve’s ear. “My regular mic stand’s really gonna have to up her game.”

Steve’s pleased, preening chuckles carry them all the way back to Steve’s dorm.

---------------------

So they fucked.

Sort of.

Mutual mouth stuff that kind of drove him crazy, made him hump his pillow like a wild animal just thinking about it later—the way Steve so easily flip-flopped between control and submission, seemed to like both just as much as Eddie does, kept throwing him the lead and then taking it back like it was just another dance lesson, smiley and flushed and so, so handsome…

But so what, right?

It doesn’t mean Steve owes him anything.

And yeah, he was really… Actually, he was almost disturbingly sweet about the direct aftermath. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever blown a guy in broad daylight without immediately being shame-shoved out the door as soon as they got the money shot, but Steve had asked him to stick around. Steve had made eye contact, had lazily cleaned them both up and taken his time getting redressed, his chest hair all puffed up, the dark brown curls turning gold in the shafts of sunlight through the blinds when he asked Eddie to text him details for his next show and promised he’d be there.

Whatever.

Everyone says shit they don’t really mean in the afterglow.

He fidgets with the loose threads at the hem of his shirt, shoulders bunched up to his ears, sweat beading in his peach-fuzz mustache. God, his hands are freezing. And also clammy. This was a mistake, right? He should just— fuck that scout, anyway! Eddie doesn’t have to do some literal song and dance to get peoples’ attention, he’s a goddamn musician, he could just—

“Hey!”

Steve comes jogging around the corner to the end of the grimy hallway, years of overlapped flyers pinned to the walls fluttering in his wake. The can lights overhead make him look like a runway model, and it’s kind of fucking unreal that Eddie got to put this guy’s dick in his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late, parking was a whole—whatever.” There’s definitely a weird story behind that pause that Eddie’s got to ask about later. “You ready? Feeling good?”

“Feeling like I might upchuck Cheetos on the stage carpet.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Steve jokes back, easy. His hands land on Eddie’s shoulders and gently push them down, fingers curling around the knots in the tense muscle, and Eddie deflates with a long groan; leans his weight into Steve; rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Forget the show,” he mumbles, nuzzling the crook of Steve’s neck. “Let’s just stay here and do this for an hour.”

Steve’s laugh sounds even prettier when it’s right in Eddie’s ear. “Nah, I paid a cover fee to be here. I want to get my money’s worth.”

Flat palms slide from Eddie’s shoulders down his chest then swing out to cup his waist, his hips. Steve tugs him in more firmly, lets Eddie feel the heat of him through his jeans. He’s wearing a great pair tonight—light wash, faded, tight at the hips and thighs; Eddie bets his ass looks incredible. “Ready to show me what you learned?”

His voice sounds like sin. Eddie doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s making fuck me eyes. He plants a wet kiss below Steve’s ear; slides both hands into Steve’s back pockets. “Sure am, big boy.”

The shuddering, drawn out fuuuck Steve whispers makes his head spin. God, he wants to fuck him. Or be fucked? No, definitely the first option—he wants to spin Steve around and shove him against the wall of flyers, make his breath hitch and his hair catch on the plastic ends of stray thumb tacks, make him moan so loud even the rustle of papers behind his back won’t cover the sound. He wants to suck hickeys over all his pretty moles and ruck his shirt up so anyone who walks past to get to the bathrooms will see him shaking under Eddie’s hands, the heaving quake of muscle under soft, thick body hair, flattening with sweat as he rocks helplessly on Eddie’s thigh. Fuck. Fuck. Eddie squeezes Steve’s ass through his back pocket, his other hand moving up to press into the small of Steve’s back, trapping him in place, grinding his hips just like Steve taught him.

“You’re perfect,” Steve praises.

“I had a great tutor.”

“Hey, asshole!!” They both jump at the noise; whip their heads toward it like spooked prey animals. Gareth’s stomping down the hallway looking like a pissed off kitten in his green flannel and leather cuffs. “Quit screwing around! Everyone’s waiting on you for sound check.”

Eddie steps back with a laugh, color flooding his face, but Steve looks so smitten that Eddie can’t bring himself to care; would happily make a fool of himself every day to see that expression.

The crowd’s loud now—rising sounds of a room filling up, the air getting humid with the buzz of shared anticipation. Eddie’s got this. Never mind the scouts, or the labels, or the world; he’s gonna put on the most metal concert in the history of Steve’s life.

He sneaks in one more kiss and dances them backwards down the hall, Steve’s laugh as he twirls like sugar crystals in a snow globe, falling around them forever, a magic spell for perfect luck.

---------------------

ty for reading <3

[mrs-delaney]

Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

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

📝 Author’s Note:

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

i hope you feel it.

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

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

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

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Before loving him nearly killed you.

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

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

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

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

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

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

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

"Your turn," he says.

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

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ouch."

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

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

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

"John?"

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

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

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

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

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

"Thanks," he says quietly.

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

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

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

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

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

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Which is?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And do you?"

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

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

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

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

"Shoot."

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

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

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

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

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

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

Something that felt a lot like falling.

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

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

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

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

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

Something that feels like forever.

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

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

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

* * *

December 16th, 2017

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

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

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

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

"Yeah?"

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

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

"Like a date?"

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

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

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

"Friday works."

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

"Sounds good."

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

* * *

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

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

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

"Thanks. You too."

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

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

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

"Solid criteria."

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

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

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

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

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

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

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

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

"Clearly."

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

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

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

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

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

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

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

"Ouch."

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

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

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

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

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

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

"How long is a while?"

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

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

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

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

"I'm counting on it."

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

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

"Probably?"

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

"Tell Allie I said hi."

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

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

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

"Everything?"

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

"Great."

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

"Yeah. I will."

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

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

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

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

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

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

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

* * *

April 14th, 2018

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

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

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

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

"Did he just—" you start.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

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

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

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You were amazing."

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

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

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

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

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

"Joe?"

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

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

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

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

"But?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about us?"

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

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

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

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And if the distance is too hard?"

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

"When did I teach you that?"

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

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

"You really think I should go?"

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

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

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're really doing this."

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

"You're going to LSU."

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

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

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

"What if I miss you too much?"

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

"Promise?"

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

May 19, 2019

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love you too."

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

"The NFL?"

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

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

"I want that too," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

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

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

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

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

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

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You excited about that?"

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

"No more sitting on the bench."

"No more sitting on the bench."

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes."

"Yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hey!"

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

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

"What, moved in together?"

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

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

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

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

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

"What's scary about it?"

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

"We've been adults, babe."

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

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

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

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

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

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

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

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

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

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

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

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

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

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

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

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

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

"I have my moments."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Definitely banned."

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

"Yeah?"

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

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

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

"What?"

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

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?"

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

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

"You ready?" you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

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

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

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

"Special visitors?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

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

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

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

"It's my job."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

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

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

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

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

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

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

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

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend 

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

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then you see him.

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

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

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

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

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

"I know, baby. I know."

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

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

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

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

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

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

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

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

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

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

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

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

"Not really."

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

"Promise?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Forever yours, Y/N

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

* * *

March 15th, 2023

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

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

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

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

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do you want to talk about it?"

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

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

"Promise."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can we talk?"

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

"Can you put that down? Please?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Y/N—"

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

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

"Doesn't it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

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

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

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

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

"My problem?"

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

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

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

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

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

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

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

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

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

"Try again."

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

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

"So?"

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

"People need to mind their own business."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

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

"Joe—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March 15, 2023

Joe,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N

[sillyuin]

Mission: Love letter

Genre: fluff and pinch of humor.

Pairing: Jeonghan x female!reader.

Warnings: Firts person P.O.V, some cursing, Stayc's Sumin appears briefly just because.

- Yuin’s note: Let me get this straight. I wrote this long ago but didn't posted it bc I'm really insecure about it. However, here it is after all. I am cringe and I am free. Lowkey is a experimental fic, so let me know what you guys think.

🎵 Now playing: Blush - Wooah

“Just tell him how you feel, it’s not that complicated.” 

Yes, it sounded simple, but only when he said it.

After all, it wasn’t about Joshua or his complicated feelings; it was about me, being unable to express my feelings and breathing at the same time. No wonder why. 

Even though he was just a human like me, he was Yoon Jeonghan, a.k.a. the crush of basically half the campus, a.k.a everyone’s favorite, including me. Handsome, smart, cool and with a smile that could melt even the coldest hearts.

My elbows were propped on the table as my chin was resting in my hands, maybe that would somehow help me think (spoiler: it didn’t). I had already finished my slice of carrot cake and the huge red tea I had ordered, maybe out of anxiety or because it was almost dinner time and I skipped lunch. Joshua, on the other hand, was taking his time to savor his snack.

“I wish it were that easy,” I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “I tried once and we know what happened.”

“Ah, yes,” Joshua covered his mouth as he laughed, even though he knew how mad I get about that story, “I’m sorry, but honestly… It was hilarious.”

“Josh!”

“Just try not to trip on your way to the bathroom... Again.”

“You’re a jerk, and you know it,” I said, still pointing an accusing finger at him, but he kept stifling his laughter. “Bro be serious!”

“Alright,” Joshua cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat, giving a more serious appearance with his serene face. “How long have we been friends?”

“Since…Middle school?”

“Very good! Middle school. Tell me, in these… Ten-like years of friendship, have I ever lied to you?”

I snorted. We both knew the answer to that question.

“In serious situations,” Joshua added.

“…Never.”

“Then,” he leaned forward a bit over the table to get closer to me, his eyes fixed on mine in a way that it was almost scary, “Why don’t you believe me when I tell you it’s not that complicated?”

I swallowed hard. How could I argue? He sounded very convincing, still, I refused to agree with him.

“It’s not that easy,” I stammered, “I already messed up once, and now it could be twice... Or three...”

“This time it won’t be at a party, full of people… And definitely no alcohol.”

“I thought it would help me be more extroverted!”

“To be an alcoholic, maybe.”

Talking to Joshua didn’t seem to be helping as much as I thought, and I was starting to lose my patience. Maybe it was a bad idea to ask for his advice, even if he and Jeonghan were roommates.

Joshua took a breath and gently wiped away the tears forming in his eyes. “Thanks, I haven’t laughed that much in a long time,” he said. With that, he cleared his throat and adopted his serious posture again. “Listen, Y/N, if you’re so worried about that, why don’t you write it down?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Like a love letter?”

“Yeah. If your problem is speaking, then write it.”

“Josh, I’m not in high school” I was disgusted with the idea and it showed. “What would Hannie think if I gave him a letter to confess?”

“You know what I think?” Joshua raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “You think it is indeed a good idea, but you don't wanna do it because you’re scared”.

I was ready to fight him when my phone started ringing. My roommate’s name showed on the screen. She told me how she had left her keys inside the room and was locked out; I could barely understand due to her nervous explanation. I had to leave Joshua to go help her, however, at this point I guess it was a relief.

As I hung up the phone, I noticed he was looking at his phone screen with a wide, satisfied smile on his face, and it was somehow chilling.

“Done!~” he put his phone aside and took a sip of his drink.

“…What’s done?” I asked, fearing his answer.

“Tomorrow you’ll have breakfast with Jeonghan,” Joshua clapped softly, which seemed more like blatant mockery than a celebration, then emphasized his next sentence with the sasiest voice he ever made: “He’ll be waiting for you at nine, at our usual spot. So I recommend you start thinking about your outfit; on your date.”

“Joshua Hong, what the hell did you do?!”

He took another sip of his drink, unmoved; it was his song of victory. I had no more excuses. No words could express how upset I felt, but at that point I couldn't back down without feeling guilty. I was cornered.

Joshua looked at his wristwatch and made a fake expression of astonishment, “You’re late and Sumin is waiting for you.”

I gave him one last blank stare and quickly grabbed my backpack, before leaving I left some bills on the table.

“Next time I’ll let you starve.”

He laughed mockingly. “Oh, don’t forget to wear a cute blush too!”

“Dear Jeonghan, I hope this letter finds you well…” No, it sounded too formal.

“Hey Hannie, how are you? I hope I’m not being inopportune…” No, it sounded too fake; I don’t talk like that.

I didn’t even know how to start. Just thinking about Jeonghan reading this letter made my mind a complete mess; I felt like my chest was going to explode. I didn’t know a confession could be so problematic. Even worse, it was already past ten at night: I was running out of time and hadn’t even written the first line.

What could I do?

Then, my roommate’s voice burst into my room, pulling me (for the better) out of the hole it was in my head.

“I’m buying some snacks, do you want me to bring you anything?” she asked.

“Yes, please, and…” I paused and shrugged a little in my chair, “Sumin, can I ask you for help with something?”

She nodded several times, expectating.

“I need to write… a love letter” I took a deep breath, “And I don’t know how…”

“Ah! Finally!” she interrupted, way too happy. “You’re finally going to confess to Jeonghan!”

I remained silent and expressionless, but the blush on my cheeks could be seen from across the city.

“Yeah… I need help writing the letter.”

“I’ve never written a letter, not that type,” Sumin crossed her arms, her thoughtful gaze wandering around the room. “Shouldn’t you just write what you feel?”

Damn it, Joshua said the same thing. I felt that it wasn’t enough. Maybe she understood from my devastated expression that it wasn’t helping.

“Oh!” She looked at me, smiling. “Tell me, what do you like most about Jeonghan?”

Where to even begin? It wasn’t just his pleasant voice, or the elegance he radiated with his mere presence. Jeonghan was much more than a flawless hair and an enviable sense of style. 

It was about the way he always found me, even in a room full of people, and made me feel part of something. In how his bright smile can comfort me after a tough day. In the comfortable moments of silence that could last minutes or hours. And I could go on talking about him for hours without stopping…

“That’s so sweet!” Sumin exclaimed. “You must write it!”

Were those just my thoughts, or did I actually say it? Damn it. 

I sighed, distrustfully. “Don’t you think it’s a bit… cheesy?”

“But, you are cheesy!” Sumin laughed as I wondered if she really thinks before speaking. “And we all love you like that. Everything will be fine.”

Sumin’s words gave me a little encouragement, so I took a deep breath and resolved to write no matter what. I thanked her and went back to my computer; I’d have time later to transfer it to a more presentable physical sheet.

“I’m getting your snack now,” and before leaving, Sumin turned around to add: “Oh, and don’t forget to put on some nice blush tomorrow.”

“You’re the second person who tells me that today… Don’t you have anything else you want to share?”

Sumin smiled awkwardly and that said a lot, but I had no time to argue about her involvement in the mission: love letter. For now, there was a lot of work to do. I was resolved to confess to Jeonghan, and now no one could stop me.

It was almost nine in the morning and I had been waiting for ten minutes at our spot, a small fountain on the boulevard two blocks from my building. A thousand scenarios were running through my head all night long. I felt a tension I had never experienced, and my restless hands playing with a lock of hair was perhaps the smallest of my problems.

However, all of them vanished for a moment when I saw him approaching in the distance. Jeonghan was coming towards me, and I could only stare, admiring him: his angelic face, his gorgeous hair, the beautiful outfit he had chosen… Could somebody like me meet his standards?

His voice brought me back to reality, and I was aware again of my numb body. I tried to disguise the nerves attacking me, but I was never good at pretending, not in front of him.

“Y/N! Good morning,” he said, trying to catch his breath, “I’m late, I’m sorry.”

“D-don’t worry,” I stammered, “it was my fault, I arrived too early.”

“Is something wrong? You sound a little down,” he stepped closer, looking straight into my eyes. “Are you feeling well?”

I took a step back and cleared my throat.

“Of course! Couldn’t be better,” of course not, but he didn't have to know. “Should we go?”

We walked for a few minutes in complete silence. I thought of many ways to start a conversation, and all of them were discarded before they left my mouth; no idea seemed good enough. 

On the other hand he was too quiet, more than he usually is, and a terrifying thought struck me. Maybe he didn’t want to be there? Could Jeonghan be doing this just because Joshua asked him? I sighed and immediately felt his hand resting on my shoulder, making me jump slightly.

“Did you hear what I said?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, of course…” I tried not to sound distracted. “…What you said.” But I was convinced I sounded like an idiot.

“So, where do you wanna go?” he smiled, and I could tell he was a bit confused.

I quickly looked to the side and there was an empty bus stop, so I asked him if we could go talk for a moment. We sat down and I took a breath before speaking, clutching the small bag that was resting on my lap with both hands.

“Jeonghan,” I paused briefly before continuing, his eyes locked on me were somehow intimidating, “…there’s something I want to give you.”

And as I reached into my bag to pull out the letter, he placed his hand on top of mine.

“Wait,” he said firmly, “I want to tell you something first.” I felt almost as if my entire body had paralyzed.

He sat up straight in his chair and cleared his throat, a soft smile on his lips.

“We’ve been friends for a while, and we made a lot of happy memories,” he suddenly stopped speaking and swallowed. “You’re a valuable person to me and… I would like you to continue being… that special person for a long time.”

“Of course,” I said without hesitating.

“Really?”.

“Of course! After all, we’re friends.”

He fell silent, but then he covered his mouth to stifle his laughter. At that point, I wasn’t understanding a thing, and I think my face completely gave me away.

“Y/N, I’m trying to tell you… that I like you.”

“…Excuse me?”

“I’ve liked you for a while and…”

“That was my line!” I interrupted. Apparently, I spoke too loudly because he froze in his spot.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “—Excuse me?”

I pulled the letter from my bag and placed it in front of him. Jeonghan looked at it, blinking at me several times and his mouth fell. I just couldn’t look him in the eyes anymore, my cheeks were burning so much that I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me.

And as if everything I was feeling in my stomach wasn’t enough, Jeonghan began to laugh in such a charming way …For a moment, I was convinced I wouldn't live to tell.

“Are you serious?” he asked, taking the letter and looking it over. Was he nervous? Was he uncomfortable enough and couldn’t speak? I don’t know.

I kept my gaze down, as if I were guilty of something, and after breathing slowly a couple of times, I gathered the courage to speak.

“I didn’t know how to express it… So I wrote you a letter.”

“This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever given me!” he exclaimed. I felt my heart skip a beat. “You put so much effort into it, and I just said it like that, now I feel bad.”

“No, it’s okay!” I nodded several times; he just smiled. “But… Is it true?”

“What thing?”

“That I… You like me that way?” I looked away. It felt really silly to ask, but I still couldn't believe what was happening.

I felt his hand cupping my jaw with a gentle touch, forcing me to look at him. His gaze was so kind it felt unreal.

“And why not?” his fingers played with a lock of my hair. “You’re beautiful. Who wouldn’t fall for that adorable flushed face?”

Joshua’s words echoed in my head. Have these two talked about me in the past? And how much?

“Also,” he added, tucking my bangs behind my ear, “you’re attentive and with the purest heart I’ve ever seen. Just look at this cute letter!”

“You… You really think that about me?” I whispered, still incredulous.

“Since we met. So, tell me,” he cleared his throat. “Would you like to have a date with me?”

Jeonghan extended his hand to me, and I accepted it, nodding at his invitation. My hand rested against his, and he took it, as if it were made of glass, leaning in to place a small kiss on my knuckles. Then he made a movement with his head to tell me that we could leave, and so we continued on our way, fingers intertwined and taking our first step into this new chapter of our lives.

“By the way,” I said halfway, “please read the letter when you’re alone.”

“Why?” he asked playfully, “Too cheesy to handle?”

“That sounds very familiar,” I narrowed my eyes, suspicious. He looked at me like a culprit and smiled, trying to hide it. “Tell me, does anyone else know about this?”

“well, maybe I talked about one, or two things, with someone…” His wandering gaze spoke for itself.

“Hannie…”

“I didn’t say names… Or anything about a plan…”

“So there was a plan involved!” Embarrassing wasn’t enough. I felt like a complete idiot.

“I’ll be honest, nobody mentioned a letter, you really surprised me… And,” Jeonghan shrugged, “You’re a… little obvious.”

“... What do you mean by “a little”?!”

Jeonghan let out a poorly disguised chuckle and put his arm over my shoulders, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

“We can discuss it later, it’s our first date, I’m starving, and I can’t wait for you to tell me all about theis letter…” 

“You can read it later!”

“No, tell me! Tell me now!”

[camficdiner]

hi queen!! i love your fics so much!! could i pls get 1.1, 2.4, 3.6, 4.3??

Cam’s Fic Diner - order 036

🍒 thank you

To the angel who sent in “fake dating at a wedding” — you had no idea what kind of chaos you were about to unleash. This request started as a fun trope and turned into a full-blown summer saga with soft launches, PR contracts, and a very real Jack Hughes confession under silk sheets 😮‍💨

You lit the match — I just followed the fire.

Thank you for trusting Cam’s Fic Diner with your brilliant prompt. You’re always welcome back for another round 💌

💬 “The Golden Hour Contract”

✨ Description and prompts:

Character: Jack Hughes

Prompt: fake dating for PR, athlete!reader 

Word count: ~2.1k

Type: Mixed smut/fluff 

🛼🍒✨🧁

You were used to headlines. But never the good kind.

Tennis’s “dark darling.” The “racket-throwing riot.” Uncoachable. Cold. Impossible to brand. Your last post-match conference ended with a water bottle launched into a camera lens. Your agent nearly quit. Again.

So when you got the call — We’ve got a meeting in Jersey. Pack for two nights. Big opportunity — you assumed it was a last-ditch sponsorship fix. A new racquet deal. Maybe some lifestyle brand willing to gamble on your bite.

You did not expect to be sitting in a conference room at the Prudential Center, staring across the table at Jack Hughes.

He looked… exactly like he did in the media.

Lean, clean-shaven, collared shirt rolled up at the forearms. One chain. One dimple. Arms crossed, smile faint. Like this wasn’t the weirdest meeting of his life.

Your manager cleared his throat.

“So here’s the pitch.”

You blinked. “Pitch?”

“You and Jack,” he said, gesturing vaguely, “are going to date.”

You turned to Jack. His expression didn’t change.

“For… PR,” your manager added.

A beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” you said.

The Devils’ team rep slid a folder toward you. “Public sentiment’s down across both sides. You’re polarizing. Jack’s too clean. This is mutually beneficial. It’s… strategic.”

Jack’s voice was dry. “We take a few pictures. Couple events. Look cozy. Maybe smile at each other once or twice.”

You glared. “You want this?”

“I want the media to get off my ass about not being interesting,” he said. “And apparently, you’re chaos incarnate.”

You stood up. “Absolutely not.”

But your manager didn’t flinch. “You’ve got three fines and zero endorsements this quarter.”

“And you,” the Devils’ rep added, turning to Jack, “keep getting accused of being too soft. Too vanilla.”

Jack raised a brow. “So now I’m supposed to date a girl who threw a racquet at a ref?”

You snorted. “He deserved it.”

Jack’s lips twitched.

“And,” the rep added with venomous calm, “you’ll both be attending a wedding together next month. In Capri.”

You froze.

Jack blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“A destination wedding,” your agent said, chipper now. “Very photogenic. We’ve already RSVPed.”

You sat back down slowly.

Your fingers tapped the table. You looked at Jack.

He met your eyes.

Smug. Calm. Challenging.

“You game, Hughes?” you asked.

His grin spread. “Always.”

—

The press release dropped two weeks later.

BREAKING: Hockey’s Golden Boy Jack Hughes Spotted Courtside With Tennis’s Baddest Bitch

Jack Hughes’ New Flame? Fans Lose It Over PR Power Couple

Your post? A cryptic Instagram story: a pasta dish, expensive sunglasses on the table.

Caption: you wish you were invited to this dinner.

Jack reposted it.

With a heart emoji.

That’s when Quinn called.

“You’re dating her?”

Jack held the phone away from his ear. “Good to hear from you too, Quinn.”

“Jack. Be serious. You’ve seen what they write about her. She threw a racquet at a judge—”

“She’s not that bad.”

“Jack.”

“I’ve met worse.”

“Jack.”

“She makes it interesting, okay?”

A pause. Then: “This is about Lily, isn’t it?”

Jack’s jaw ticked.

“Jesus,” Quinn muttered. “You’re soft-launching a PR girlfriend to recover from a real breakup?”

Jack hung up.

Luke was worse.

He just sent a screenshot of the article with a voice note: bro… bro. Her? Seriously?

Jack deleted it without opening.

Because here’s the thing — he hadn’t been able to shake the way you looked at him that day in the conference room. Like you didn’t care who he was. Like you were two seconds away from biting his head off.

And maybe… maybe that was the whole point.

Because the media had spent months dissecting his last breakup — saying he wasn’t passionate enough, wasn’t bold, wasn’t interesting.

He was tired of being branded the sweet one. The safe one. The boring one.

So he posted the pasta story. Reposted your story. Let the storm roll in.

Let them all talk.

Let them wonder why Jack Hughes, Mr. Perfect, had suddenly gone rogue.

—

The villa was drenched in sunlight.

Capri looked fake — like someone had turned the saturation too high. Every terrace dripped bougainvillea. Every window was open, catching sea breeze and whispering silk curtains.

You stood on the marble balcony in a lemon-colored dress, sipping something bubbly, sunglasses low on your nose. You didn’t turn when Jack stepped beside you.

“You clean up,” he said slowly, “terrifyingly well.”

You let him look.

Low back. Tiny straps. Bronze skin. Tattoos catching golden hour light.

“You look like you should come with a warning,” he muttered.

“I do,” you said, sipping. “Your brothers read it out loud to you.”

Jack laughed under his breath. “They’re not over it, by the way.”

“Shocker.”

He pulled out his phone. “Quinn sent me: ‘please remind your fake girlfriend not to curse out the flower girl.’”

You grinned. “Did you?”

“I told him to worry about his own plus one.”

You turned. “He didn’t bring one.”

He met your eyes. “Exactly.”

Your heart stuttered.

It’s fake, you reminded yourself.

But then he leaned in and fixed your strap, fingers grazing your skin like he meant it — and everything fake felt far too real.

—

You made it exactly nineteen minutes into the rehearsal dinner before Jack’s hand slid to your thigh under the table.

You nearly choked on your wine.

“What are you doing?” you hissed, smile still plastered for the couple across from you.

He murmured, “Just playing the part.”

His fingers stayed there.

Warm. Heavy. Possessive.

You didn’t move.

Not even when his thumb slowly traced a circle.

Later, when you stood for pictures, he rested his chin on your shoulder like it was nothing. Like his breath wasn’t brushing your skin. Like your body hadn’t just betrayed you entirely.

Your smile for the camera was dangerous.

His? Infuriatingly perfect.

—

The suite was stunning.

Which almost made up for the single bed.

Jack raised a brow. “Seriously?”

The host had given you the honeymoon room. As a gesture.

He turned to you. “You want the right or the left side?”

You kicked off your heels. “I want sleep and zero conversation.”

“You got it, princess.”

You brushed your teeth.

He undressed.

And when you emerged from the bathroom, hair damp, skin clean, you found him shirtless, reading a book on the bed like he didn’t just ruin your night with a bare torso and low-slung sweatpants.

He looked up.

And his eyes… didn’t leave your legs.

Or your oversized tee that didn’t quite hide the shape beneath.

“Problem?” you asked.

His jaw twitched.

“Nope.”

He turned off the light.

But the heat between you stayed on full flame.

—

It’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake.

That’s what you told yourself the next day — while you danced in the sun, smiled in designer heels, and let Jack rest a hand on your back in every photo.

That’s what you reminded yourself when people whispered “they’re kind of perfect together” and your cheeks flushed hot.

And that’s what you screamed inside your head when you saw him talking to the bride’s cousin — some blonde with a backless dress and a fake giggle — and felt your stomach burn.

You didn’t even realize you were staring until Jack looked across the garden, eyes narrowing.

He excused himself from the girl mid-sentence.

Stormed toward you.

Grabbed your hand.

Pulled you around the corner, into a hallway off the terrace, near the powder room.

The music faded.

His back hit the wall.

He pulled you with him.

“Are you jealous?” he asked, voice low.

“No,” you lied, furious.

He grinned.

You grabbed his collar.

His mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t slow.

It wasn’t careful.

It was everything the contract said you couldn’t do.

And it was the only real thing you’d felt in weeks.

His hands found your waist. Yours tangled in his curls. He kissed like he wanted it — like he needed it — like he’d been holding it in since New Jersey.

You moaned into his mouth.

He cursed into yours.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, dizzy, ruined—

He said, “Tell me it’s fake now.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because your hand was already unbuckling his belt.

And he was already backing you into the guest bathroom.

And the wedding music kept playing, far away — like you weren’t breaking every rule you’d signed.

—

The next morning was quiet.

You ate breakfast on the terrace.

He sat across from you.

Sunglasses. Bed hair. Barefoot.

He didn’t speak until you looked at him.

Then, calmly, softly, he said, “Stay with me. Even after the wedding.”

You blinked.

“I mean it,” he said. “Come with me to Quinn’s birthday party”

Your breath caught.

And maybe for the first time in your life — you didn’t feel like the scandal.

You felt like the story.

You land in Vancouver two days before Quinn’s birthday.

Jack insists on flying you in himself. First class. Quiet flight. Shared headphones. Champagne you barely touch.

You rest your head on his shoulder.

He doesn’t move for the entire six-hour flight.

—

The party is small.

Just family, close friends, a few Devils and Canucks teammates in vacation mode. The restaurant is candlelit, tucked in a private upstairs floor, music soft and jazzed.

You wear silk. Emerald green.

He wears black. No tie. Hair messy like he never even tried.

He can’t stop looking at you.

Everyone else tries not to stare.

Quinn gives a speech. So does Luke.

Someone clinks a glass. The cake comes out.

Jack stands suddenly. “Wait—one second.”

The whole room quiets.

He clears his throat. Nervous.

You blink.

“I just—uh. Wanted to say thanks to Quinn for being the best older brother a guy could ask for. And also—” he turns, finds your hand on the table, links your fingers like it’s instinct “—also for not strangling me when I brought her to the wedding.”

Laughter. Lighthearted groans. Quinn raises his glass with a smirk.

You squeeze Jack’s fingers under the table.

He doesn’t let go.

—

You leave early.

Too many cameras. Too much press.

Jack says he’s tired.

You say nothing.

But when he pushes you into the wall of the hotel suite, mouth already crashing into yours, you understand why he really left.

You taste champagne and heat and everything you’ve been holding in for weeks.

He pulls your dress up, hands rough. “Been thinking about this all night.”

“You mean all month,” you pant.

His laugh is low, wrecked. “Touché.”

You reach for his belt.

He catches your wrist.

“No.”

You look up, startled.

“I want to see you first.”

You blink. “You see me now.”

“No.” His voice softens, deepens. “Not like that. I want the lights on. I want to remember all of it.”

Your heart trips.

He unzips your dress slowly.

Lets it fall.

He peels it off like it’s a promise — not a distraction.

And when you’re left in nothing but your heels and breathless silence, he just stands there, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“You’re unreal,” he says. “Like… how are you real?”

You laugh. “Jack—”

He cuts you off with a kiss. Long. Deep. Hungry.

When you reach for him again, this time he lets you.

Clothes come off in silence.

Except for the moan he lets out when you drop to your knees and taste him — slow, teasing, cruel.

He doesn’t last long.

You don’t want him to.

He tugs you up, pulls you into his lap on the edge of the bed.

“No games this time,” he whispers. “I want to be inside you. Real. No pretending.”

You nod, lips parted.

He pushes in — slow, inch by inch, until you’re full.

You both breathe hard.

He holds your face.

“This isn’t PR anymore.”

You nod again.

“I don’t want the contract. I want you.”

And then he moves.

Slow at first — maddeningly slow — like he’s memorizing every sound you make, every twitch of your hips.

His mouth finds your neck, your chest, your collarbone.

His fingers dig into your waist.

Your nails scratch his back.

“Tell me it’s real,” he begs.

“It’s real,” you say.

He moves faster.

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He thrusts harder.

You fall apart in his arms, shaking, breathless, overwhelmed.

He follows seconds later, forehead pressed to yours, hand still tangled in your hair.

After, he wraps you in the sheets, chest to chest, heart to heart.

You lie there, tangled.

Breathing.

You think it’s over.

It’s not.

He leans up on one elbow.

Looks down at you.

And says softly, “Come to New Jersey.”

You blink.

“Stay with me. Let them talk. Let them say whatever. I don’t care if it started fake. I want you. At my games. In my house. In my bed.”

You swallow.

“Make it real,” he whispers. “Let’s do this for real.”

You say nothing.

Just pull him down and kiss him like a yes.

—

[writingoddess1125]

Honeymoon Phase (Bonus)

Kofi Request

If you'd like to make request like this one NSFW (5$) or SFW (2$) . Press Here!

Little Bonus off of the Honeymoon Demon series

Will not be doing another of this series- I am out of ideas ;-;

Kurt Wagner x Female Reader

Warnings: SMUT and also Jealous sex so- Strap In darlings

Masterlist <<

<< Honeymoon Demon Series

For the last two months life could only be described as magical.

You and Kurt having been only surrounded by the soft damn near candy sweet affection of each others.

Even in the school the two of you would always be near by. Soft kisses exchanged, a gentle hug or even just locking eyes for brief moments.

Either way- It was just a reflection of your love for your husband and his love for you.

But it seems being so openly affectionate would of course cause others to notice..

"Dude every time I see them I swear they are always all over each other" Bobby snorted a laugh as he took a sip of his soda.

The small group was all seated in the staff lounge watching you and Kurt down the hall leaning against each other while talking about whatever. Rouge giving Bobby a annoyed look as Remy who only snorted a laugh.

"Leav' em alone. They are just happy"

"The honeymoon phase is just strong- Don't be jealous" Kitty chimed, However inside also was a bit sick of the constant lovey dovey stuff.

"No not jealous, Just a mixture of mildly nauseating and in awe at how they can be joined at the hip. Besides this just means they will be easier to mess with-" Morph mumbled, making Bobby glance to him.

"You think so?"

"Wanna bet?" Morph chimed back just as quick, Making Bobby smirk and sit up a bit more. Remy now sitting up as well with a grin.

"How much we talking?-"

"Mmm Why dont we do a pool? Ill start with a 20" Bobby said quickly going for his wallet.

"I don't know guys- they are just happy no harm in it" Kitty whined with a sigh, however glanced at you and Kurt again seeing the soft kiss the two of you exchanged and grimacing slightly.

"Come on it'll be fun"

"I'm not getting involved in yalls shit-" Rouge said quickly, Standing up from the table to not put herself in a guilty by association situation.

The rest of them however looked to each other- like a silent contract was being written.. Each taking out what cash they had on them like some sort of poker table.. before Kitty nodded and added a few bills in herself.

"First one to break him wins the pot"

"Deal"

It only really took till Noon for Kurt to start to break.

Kurt's tail swishing behind himself annoyed, a tick that his fell deeper then he expected as he watched Morph get close.. and Even Kitty giggling at every word you said..

He of course wouldn't say it out loud-

But it was really starting to piss him off...

He could tell you were confused by it all also, Brushing off the weird flirting by your friends-

The way you raised your eyebrow and dismissed them playfully, Even blatantly asking about what weird prank was it this time.

It wasn't your fault- He knew that, Nor did he blame you. However it did scratch this odd part of his brain in a very uncomfortable way at seeing you in this situation-

By the end of the day however, It seemed that more people were starting to join in. Ororo pitching on a 50$ when she hugged you happily in a flirty way, Remy throwing in an additional 80$ wrapping an arm around you which earned him a swift hit from Rouge...

But it seemed to be the final person who put in a 20$ bill that tipped the scale.

You shuffled through some of the papers that McCoy had given you, Humming to yourself a bit- Happy that the day was almost over and you could go home to your lovely husband.

"Oi- (Y/N)"

Logan had his arms crossed as he stared at you.

"Hey Logan? Uh what's up?"

"I got a question"

He rolled up from the wall and walked towards you. Red flags now shooting up as you got the very same feeling from earlier in the day from the others-

"Kurt- He's been treating you good right?"

"Of course I mean it's Kurt-"

"Well just tell me what he's lacking in bed and I'll show him how to improve. I also do offer lessons to you as well"

...

Your jaw absolutely dropped- a mix of confusion, being very weirded out and honestly not knowing where to even go from that!?

"W-What?-"

Annnnddd that's all it took for Logan to quite literally feel it-

It was like a rubber band snapping on his skin of Kurt's resolve breaking.

"Quite a few things in there that was incredibly wrong- However think I'll sum it No Thanks, I'm good"

You say quickly, already having a feeling there was a very targeted reason for this stunt. Which confirmed itself when you felt the familiar heavy hand land on your hip and a tail tighten around your middle like a tight belt.

"There you are Liebling. Ready to return home?"

Kurt says with a almost painfully wide smile that made your skin crawl slightly. Sort of reminding you of someone working in customer service..

"Oh, Hey baby.? Yeah has just getting ready to head out.. Logan just-"

"-Was Leaving"

Kurt filled in fast and sharp.

Which clearly surprised both Logan and yourself. The ladder of which smirking as he turned on his heel saying nothing else as he marched off. You however fixed on watching as Kurt's eyes followed Logan, similar to a cat watching another to make sure they didnt try anything.

Kurt glanced down at you calmly his lips pressed tightly together still before he turned it to you with a slightly forced smile.

It was uncomfortable in a odd way, since you knew that Kurt was clearly upset however wanted to avoid showing it to you- It was silent after that, Kurt taking the two of you home fast without a uttered word.

While uncomfortable at this point you where just happy to be home-

You toss down your bag on the couch, Still a bit confused by the chaos of the day- Already thinking of ways to mess with your friends back for this all, This had been annoying and honestly insulting. Rubbing your face in frustration.

"Hm.. Hey do you wanna cook tonight or pick something up? I don't think we pulled anything out the freezer"

You finally say with a heavy sigh. Turning to see Kurt is just standing here?

One hand pressed to the door as his tail was tapping the ground, Reminding you of someone tapping their nails on a surface annoyed.

Kurt hand slides to the lock of the door as he quickly locked the door which echoed through your home and made you jump slightly.

"Kurt?.."

He looked up to you as that same imp like smile you saw the first night of your honeymoon which made your face flush and body warm up instantly like he had already prepped you.

Or that you'd been trained..

He moved in close, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as he pulled you close your back pressed against his chest as he began to pepper in kisses around your neck.

Soft whimpers leaving you as you felt this, He was almost surgical when he did this. Knowing how to hold you close, making sure you could feel his erection pressed against your ass.

You jump as you feel his tail dip past the hem of your clothes as you blush deeply.

"K-Kurt we are in the Livingroom an-"

Flushed at the realization of what was happening- The curtains half open and you needing to shower after such a long day. Thoughts going a mile a minute however it was swiftly cut off when he growled against your neck.

"It doesn't matter Schatz-"

He grumbled against your skin, Making your heart leap in surprise at the tone he used- It was new? Far darker and almost irritated? His lips still working over the sweet spots over your neck, going as far as to run his teeth over your pulse and even nipping at it.

Kurt begins to pull the both of you down, making you stumble as you landed on your hands and knees on the carpeted floor. Giving Kurt the perfect angle to pull your pants down to your knees with your underwear with them with his chest still flushed against your back to keep you trapped.

"All day.. They were on you-"

His tone clipped as you felt one hand wrap under your body, Ripping the front of your nice shirt open with ease and grasp at your breast- squeezing the soft flesh making you mewl pathetically.

"Touching..Hugging and saying dirty things to mein pretty wife"

His tail wrapped tightly around your waist as if to anchor you. His now remaining free hand dipping down between your legs circles over your clit. Soft moans breaking through you as you couldn't help to fall under his whim- Caged again him and floor.

"All to make me jealous~"

He hissed against your ear, Drawing his fingers away from between your legs- The sharp sound of his zipper seemed to be the soft warning before you felt him slowly push into you.

The stretch of him making your eyes roll and a airy moan leave you undone and pliable under his will, each inch that slowly moved within you breaking any form of sense from your head.

"And Gott did they-"

He snaps into you then, driving those last few inches into you as you gave a sharp moan in surprised pleasure.

"Scheiße"

He hissed as he rolled his hips back slowly like the tides drifting far back before a tsunami. The pull of his cock making you whine your fingers digging into the carpet below you as if it would ground you. Before feeling him so swiftly thrust into you making your head spin and jaw slack against the ground.

The carpeted floor rubbed against your knees and forearms with each thrust, the soft sting in a odd way driving you further into the abyss he was tossing you into-

Sur it hurt but.. you liked it?

Oh?

Ohh...

Surprising yourself at the new discovery as your husband was quick to snap his hips against yours making you moan loudly and have those thoughts tucked away to be delt with at a different time.

A silent scream seems to rip through you at the breaking feeling of both pleasure and pain- The burn of his fangs against the meat of your shoulder and the ungodly deep thrust into you.

"K-Kurt!~"

His thrusts were brutal, making is that you barely had time to understand everything that was happening. Just barely able to comprehend Kurt growling against your skin as his hips slammed into you harder, no doubt bruising the skin on the back of your thighs.

The way he could so effortlessly render you useless, how full he made you feel each time he thrusted into you. How your toes curled and fire shot through your system, Utterly broken by him as he hit that sweet spot inside of you each and every time-

A reminder that only HE could do this to you.

And you believed him too

Not a thought of shame on your face as you drooled against the carpet, A hiccupped moan break from you- eyes rolled as you felt that all too familiar crash of pleasure as you cum around his cock with a loud moan.

Now left gasping for air as Kurt did not let up, fucking you through your orgasm as his grip on you tightened- Savoring the sound that left you every time he thrusted into you.

It was only when you started feeling his hips start to falter against your own as you came out of your too blissed out state- a surprised squeak left you as he pulled back suddenly seemingly stopping himself from cumming inside of you completely?

But you barely had time to even register what he had just done before you where flipped on your back with a huff when you landed on your back a bit uncomfortably.

Dizzy from the speed of it all you only caught a flash of yellow eyes as they dipped between your legs in record time. Your back arching painfully at the sensation of him devouring you.

All you can really do is sob at this point, fingers gripping his hair desperately to pull him away from your over sensitive clit- Having barely a minute to settle from him pounding into you.

No moment to rest it seemed-

"K-Kurt Please!~"

You tried to scream but it was desperate and watery at best as several whimpering please fumbled from your lips- tears welling in your eyes as you tried to squirm your hips away by pure instinct from the painful pleasure, but his strong hands kept you in place.

"Too Much Too Much!!~"

Kurt only hummed as he fucked his tongue deeper into you, Driving for your cries even more as it took only for his lips to suck against your clit to make you cum once more a broken sob breaking through you.

It felt like you couldn't breath- Spots filling your vision as he sat up from between your legs. His hands still planted firmly on your hips as he stared you down.

Your mind fuzzy as you watch him lick a mixture of your cum and tinge of blood from the bite that still throbbed on your shoulder from his lips. It was involuntary but your whole body trembling at the sight alone.

Kurt clearly having caught this as in a moment the smell of sulfur hit your senses and you felt the plush bounce of the bed under you. Looking around quickly before landing back on your husband.

Meeting the gaze of Kurt as he stared down at you with a almost angry hunger towards you- one that was no doubt fueled by pure burning jealousy.

Before and all the times you'd felt his desire for you as nothing more then praise, A man in love with every part of you and wanted to experience you to the upmost degree to bring the both of you to bliss under loving hands.

This was different-

You felt more like prey about to be eaten alive...

No playing between his palms or grace to slowly tip you over the edge with love and praise.

This was to eat you alive and make sure there were no scraps to be left for anyone to dare even snip at. Nothing more then bleached bones left before him that he would also hoard-

Kurt is quick to grab your ankle and yank you towards him breaking a surprised noise from you- He was quick however to lean down, Capturing your lips against his own. Soft moans leaving you which he greedily swallowed.

You still too sensitive- already so close to your breaking point but knew this was just the start by the why he was pressed the tip of his cock in and out of you slowly before pressing painfully against your clit and repeating the process.

It was maddening

Pulling back softly with a broken moan as you squirmed from under him- On the edge of breaking and yet still wanting more.

"You know the rules.."

Kurt mumbled against your mouth, His eyes locking with your own tear filled ones. Truthfully you'd almost forgotten- you also suspected he had too till now.. The pencil thin chain that still anchored him in moments like this.

"P-Please more Kurt.. Please~"

You whimper, Unsure why you'd even said it with how much your cunt ached- But you knew you where just to greedy..

Always wanted everything he had to offer and give you.

His hands sliding down your body and landing on the back of your thighs, as he began to push them up closer to your chest.

"I-Im not as flexible Ku-"

He moved faster then your lips as he thrusted deeply into you, your legs being folded up as far as they could which made your legs burn- holding your imprisoned by his body in a mating press.

Sobs of bliss ripping through you as you grasp onto his shoulders desperately for some form of grounding as you could only feel the waves of pleasure being forced from you.

Kurt face twisted up in pure emotion- his eyes almost seemed to be glowing in the incredibly dark room. Rendering him all you could feel, smell and truthfully barely see.

You almost sound helpless from under him, a series of broken whines and moans that belonged more in a porn then your marital bed.

The sounds alone would have made you a blushing mess if you weren't distracted by the way his cock bullied its way into you which made you see stars-

It felt like a snap inside of you as you feel yourself cum as violently as he had fucked you. A scream breaking through you as you felt yourself shake from around his hold. Feeling him still thrusting into you as he neared his own high, a shuddered groan ripping through him as he pressed himself into the deepest part of you and came.

Kurt movements come to a standstill as he panted against your neck. Seemingly just reveling in the feeling of you wrapped around him and shaking from trying to come down of the high of your orgasm.

He peppered a few kisses on your cheeks and lips before slowly pulling out of you. A whimper leaving you as you felt your legs slide down his hips, The gentle tap of his tail sliding across your leg and calf as if to comfort you.

"Mein Liebling, you okay?"

His voice was soft, a bit breathy clearly having come back to whatever dimension he got thrown into you. But you managed a soft nod in acknowledgment, as he slid off the he'd leaving you there.

Laying there you felt like your limbs were nothing more then jelly, Not even strong enough to support yourself as you laid on your back, a small shiver leaving you as the cold air in the room seemed to finally settle on you.

Hearing shuffling around for a moment you feel a warm rag touch your skin as you feel the more familiar hands of your husband carefully start to clean you up. Soft mumbles of apologies coming from him as you felt the rag clean up what no doubt will be a sticky mess down the line.

You could only hum at the nice feeling, taking a few moments to even figure out the English language.

"Jealous much?"

Looking down to see Kurt face turn a bright purple as he continued his task. A airy chuckle leaving you at the sight.

"Ein wenig-" (A little)

--

Everyone was shocked to see Kurt walking in by himself the next morning. A cheerful smile on his lips as he whistled and sorted through the papers for his class as if everything was as right as rain-

A silent question going over the friend group as they all tried to gauge why you weren't there- However that seemed to be a mistake as the resident teleporter glanced at the..

"Aw hell-" Rouge mumbled as she shook her head. Seeing Kurt look right at them all and walk over with a almost pep in his step.

"Shit shit shit..." Bobby mumbles as Kurt stood right in front of them all, Ororo glancing away trying not to laugh into her juice as they all felt the stare down from their blue friend.

Kitty coughed a bit as she looked up at Kurt with a clear 'I'm trying not to laugh bit also mildly worried' smile.

"Morning Kurt. How are you this morning?"

"Sehr gut- And I imagine all of you are good after being so funny yesterday?"

He said a bit curly despite the smile on his lips. But a simmer of irritation still in them, especially when looking at each person individually.

"Um where is (Y/N)?" Bobby finally coughed out, Still trying to look everywhere but his friends eye.

"Resting, Wanting the day to relax-"

He said all to cheerfully, however his eyes looked over everyone with a fanged grin and a gleam in his eye. Even of there seemed to be a slight twitch when Logan walked around the corner with a smirk on his lips as he walked through the group.

"No more pranks- (Y/N) can't afford to miss any more day for being sore-"

...

Kitty face blushed red and Morph looked down quick even Bobby jaw dropping in shock, as the whole group in shell shock by their usually innocent friend blunt remark-

"We all agree, Ja?"

Everyone now red faced and couldn't look Kurt in the eyes.

However Kurt's gaze lingered on Logan for a good second, Despite his grin for the older man he could read it very well in Kurt's eyes and body language 'Do that shit again and we will fight-'

Logan nodded his head with a low chuckle and gave a slow clap-

"Got some balls Elf- Well done.."

Kurt huffed a bit through a gritted smile and turned away quick to head to his classroom. Bobby slowly holding up the wad of cash to Logan who took it silently.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[justarkive]

Chemtrails Over The Country Club | JJK - teaser

teaser warnings : dumb jk, party boy loser behavior, milf moms, punishment, emotional damage, impending yeehaw, no one knows where the hell he’s getting weed from, jungkook doesn’t own socks

general taglist : @cristinamajadera @oumy221 @roseda @crisle19 @jjkkkk15 @hoonsbrow @jjkluver7 @angie-x3 @lovingkoalaface @elinaki92 @wettbaby @fiddlebiddls (check pinned tba!)

a/n: back from my lil break guys im sorry once again but heres a new lil fic im starting ! hope u guys likeee :)

song : chemtrails over the country club, lana del ray

masterlist <

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The bass is still thumping through the floorboards when Jeon Jungkook gets exiled from his own party.

His cheeks are a little flushed. not from embarrassment. from the weed, probably. or the fact that he just deepthroated three shots of something vaguely blue and poisonous. he’s slumped shirtless on his couch like a frat house prince. legs open, one hand in his hair, the other cradling a warm sprite zero.

And then his mom walks in. like. actually walks in. not calls him. not texts him. physically. steps over someone passed out on the carpet, knocks a vape out of a freshman’s hand, and enters the lion’s den like an avenging angel in orthopedic sandals.

“Get OUT!” she bellows. “all of you! OUT!” and just like that, the room clears.

Jungkook doesn’t even blink. just lifts his cup to his lips with the slowest, most dramatic sip of his life. like a man on death row drinking communion.

“You know what this means, right?” his dad mutters, standing behind her in a full suit like he just left a board meeting and now wants to die.

“You’re gonna yell,” jungkook says. shrugs. “then you’re gonna ground me. then i’ll sneak out anyway. rinse, repeat.”

“Wrong.”

“You’re leaving.”

“…What?”

“You’re not staying here this summer,” his mom says, arms crossed like a general. “you’ve proven you can’t be trusted. so we’ve made arrangements.”

He snorts. “what, like rehab?”

“Worse.”

“Like prison?”

“Worse.”

He finally sits up. “you’re scaring me.”

“Youll be volunteering,” his dad says slowly. “in the countryside.”

Silence... then “…the what now.”

“Sun-up to sundown. chores. animal care. farm labor. manual labor. and no WiFi. you leave tomorrow.”

He stares at them.

No. no this isn’t happening. Not this close to summer. not when he just perfected his glow-in-the-dark jello shot recipe. not when he was gonna dye his hair silver and bleach his brows and do Molly in a strip club bathroom for the third time this month. NO.

“That’s so dramatic,” he says finally, blinking slow like a confused cat. “you guys are being so dramatic.”

His mom throws a wet towel at him. it hits him in the face. “pack your things.”

“You can’t make me.”

“You don’t even pay rent.”

“…okay.”

——

In his defense, it’s not like he told everyone to put a slip n slide in the hallway. or run a fake tattoo station in the kitchen. or let that one guy with a snake bring the snake again. he’s just a fun guy. a city guy. not a farm guy. he doesn’t even know what farms are.

But now he’s staring out the window of his dad’s car as the skyline fades behind him and the air gets suspiciously cleaner and there are actual birds that aren’t pigeons and his phone has one bar of service and he’s like: what the fuck.

[ashthesalamipiece]

Hi! I love all your writings, they're amazing!!

Can I ask for a continuation of that kiribaku x reader one where they came home to the reader after she gave birth on their house?

Like I would love more kiribaku dads, and all of them trying to figure out what to do with this VERY unexpected miracle.

Welcome Home, Baby Boom

Pt 1

Pt 2

The apartment felt different.

Same furniture. Same walls. Same dumb key rack Bakugou insisted on mounting himself (crookedly, which Kirishima pretended not to notice). But now, everything felt… softer.

Quieter.

Until the baby started screaming.

“OH MY GOD, WHAT DID I DO?” Kirishima practically shouted, holding the newborn like she was made of glass and guilt. “I JUST PICKED HER UP, I SWEAR!”

“She’s probably hungry,” you said, barely keeping your eyes open as you shuffled toward the couch in fuzzy socks and a nursing tank. “Or bored. Or tired. Or existentially aware that life is meaningless and taxes exist.”

Bakugou stared at you. “The hell is wrong with you?”

You flopped onto the couch. “No sleep. No filter.”

The baby kept wailing. Kirishima looked ready to cry too.

Bakugou sighed, rolled his shoulders like he was heading into battle, and reached out. “Give her here, shitty hair.”

“She doesn’t like me—”

“She screams at everyone. That’s her thing.”

Carefully, Bakugou took her from Kirishima, cradling her with surprising gentleness. You watched him, the way his brows furrowed in focus, the way his fingers tapped softly against the little swaddle.

He looked terrified.

And also like he’d set the world on fire to keep her safe.

“…She stopped crying,” Kirishima whispered.

“I know,” Bakugou whispered back, staring down at her like she was both a miracle and a bomb with a very cute face.

You reached out, curling a hand around Bakugou’s thigh, grounding him. “You’re doing great.”

“She’s not… screaming. So that’s a win.”

“You’re a natural,” Kirishima said, brushing his thumb across the baby’s little fist. “Even if you did suggest naming her Explosion Murder Princess.”

“She’ll earn that name,” Bakugou muttered.

You leaned your head against Kirishima’s shoulder. “We still don’t have a name.”

Bakugou’s mouth opened. Kirishima immediately raised a finger. “No. No. We are not naming her anything that sounds like a pro wrestling move.”

“Fine,” Bakugou snapped. “Then what? You wanna call her Fluffy Rainbow Kitten-chan or something?”

“…Katsuki.”

“…I’m just saying we need balance.”

“I’ve got a list,” you said, pulling your phone out with one hand, the other still resting against Bakugou’s leg.

They both leaned in.

“Okay, how about… Sora?”

Kirishima smiled. “Cute.”

Bakugou tilted his head. “Sky. Not bad.”

“Or Ren?”

Bakugou shrugged. “Better than Ashblaze.”

Kirishima smiled. “Definitely better than Ashblaze.”

You smirked. “Oh, here’s one you won’t like.”

“Try me.”

“Yui.”

Silence.

“…Okay, that one’s actually nice,” Bakugou admitted. “Short. Cool. No one’s gonna mess with a Yui.”

“She’s gonna be surrounded by pro heroes. Who’s gonna mess with her anyway?”

“I just like being prepared,” he grumbled, adjusting her swaddle like he was already planning her battle strategy.

Eventually, you all settled onto the couch. You curled between them, legs draped over Kirishima’s lap, baby asleep on Bakugou’s chest. It was quiet again—except for the soft breaths of the newest member of your chaotic little family.

Kirishima spoke softly. “This is really happening, huh?”

You nodded. “Yeah. We’re parents.”

Bakugou snorted. “We’re screwed.”

You smiled. “Totally.”

Then the baby hiccuped.

Bakugou froze. “What does that mean?! Is that a warning sign? Is she gonna throw up on me?”

Kirishima grabbed a burp rag. “Emergency protocols activated!”

You laughed until you cried.

And maybe it was the exhaustion. Or the hormones. Or the way both your boys were now dads and trying so hard not to mess up…

But in that moment—sitting in your slightly-too-small apartment, holding a baby none of you had seen coming—it felt like the start of something big.

Messy. Loud. Terrifying.

But big.

And beautiful.

[demie90s]

Natisha x Courtney x fem reader and like it’s them playing in her face making stupid jokes abiut her on stream while she’s at an away game but when she comes back she puts belt to ass and makes them apologize on stream!!!!

Stream This Whuppin’

MASTERLIST | MORE

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: While your away for an out-of-town game, Natisha and Courtney decide to go live—bad idea.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 0.9k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Comedy, chaotic domestic partnership, light discipline

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Language, light joking threats (belt involved but all playful)

We was just on FaceTime.

No, like literally five minutes before they went live, we were being cute. T in her bonnet, talking about how she missed me. Court lying on her stomach, swinging her feet, asking what color set I had on like she wasn’t the one who packed it in my bag.

I was sitting cross-legged in the hotel bed, doing my little post-game skincare, grinning like an idiot, blowing them both kisses through the screen.

“You gon’ rub on us like that when you get back?”

“Who said I’m not already?” I purred. They both groaned. Whole lotta love in the air.

Or so I thought.

Fast forward a few minutes, I’m minding my business—watching their Instagram Live pop up while I pour some coconut water into my pink tumbler. I click in just to hear my name.

“She be actin’ brand new outta town,” T says, licking her lips and smirking. “Like, don’t text back, don’t FaceTime unless we call first. Like she got hoes on rotation or somethin’.”

Courtney’s already giggling like a menace, her grill shining in the camera. “Nah ‘cause soon as she land she gon’ be in the groupchat like, ‘Y’all up?’ Girl, we BEEN up. Bein’ loyal.”

T snorts. “Couldn’t be me. I’m blocking her ass.”

I pause mid-sip.

Oh. That’s what we doing? I tilt my head, watching the hearts fly up the screen. Comments rolling fast.

not them dragging her 😭😭

damn she prolly in here watching

she be gaslighting them huh

YALL GON BE SINGLE

And worst of all:

she prolly mid-hoe right now lol

Oh okay. Bet.

The Live keeps going, full of them clowning like I’m not the one who folds them like laundry on a regular basis. Talking about how I “act spoiled” but “don’t respond to memes,” how I “say goodnight just to go outside.”

They really got jokes. And I’m really finna fix the mouths.

Next Day – I Land.

I walk in our shared apartment and it’s real cute in here. Smells like vanilla, Court in on her computer, T in her little muscle tee, both on the couch. Live paused on the screen—probably trying to go again soon.

They look up at me all innocent.

“Baby!”

“Look at you. You miss us?”

“Mm.” I set my bag down gently. “Y’all had fun on Live last night?”

They freeze. I smile. Slow. Sweet.

“Don’t act shy now. Keep that same energy.”

Courtney starts to laugh—nervous. “Aww, you saw that?”

“Oh, I watched it,” I say, walking over and sitting right between them, thigh-to-thigh contact. “With my hand over my mouth like… these bitches can’t be serious.”

Natisha opens her mouth. I hold up one finger.

“Nah, don’t interrupt me while I’m in my villain arc.” She shuts right up.

“You know what’s wild? I was just tellin’ y’all how soft I been feelin’. How I missed y’all. How I was stressin’ out the second I got in that hotel bed without y’all breathin’ all over me. And you get on Live talkin’ about I’m actin’ brand new? Hm?”

They’re looking at each other now like damn, we in trouble.

“And then—AND THEN—talkin’ about some ‘she got hoes’? Baby, I don’t even respond to group chats unless it got y’all in it. The hell I look like entertainin’ people when y’all the ones I wanna ruin my life over?”

Courtney tries to reach for my hand. I move it. “Nah.”

I stand up and grab the ring light remote off the table. “Y’all wanted to go Live and make a joke outta me? Cool. Let’s go Live again.”

T: “Wait—”

Me: “Press the button, T.”

The Live comes back on and I make sure I’m in the center this time. Comments start flying again, fast as hell.

ohhhh

not her BACK

yall she look mad

is this a redemption arc??

Courtney blink if u scared

I lean forward a little, voice low and calm. “Hey y’all. I’m just here to say… it’s crazy when the people you love the most play in your face for clout. Isn’t it?”

Courtney whispers, “Oh my Goddd…”

“Shh,” I say, placing my hand over her mouth dramatically. “Anyway, I’m back. And I think these two got something to say, right?”

T clears her throat. “We was jokin’. We didn’t mean—”

“Louder.”

“We were wrong.”

“We sorry, baby,” Court adds, all pouty. “We was just bein’ goofy. You know how we get.”

I turn to the camera, tilting my head.

“You hear that? They sorry. But sorry ain’t enough, is it?”

yall finna get handled

she scary 😭

apologize AGAINNNN

she deserve roses and head rn respectfully

“Run it back,” I say, still sweet. “Do it better.”

They both speak in unison this time. “We sorry, baby. We’ll never play you like that again.”

I sit back, finally satisfied. Then I kiss both their cheeks. “Good girls.”

NOT HER DOMINATING THEM LIVE

yall they smiling now

she own them fr

court looking like she need a hug 😭

T acting like she bout to cook a sorry dinner

I close the live with a smile. “Anyway… y’all have a good night. And if you ever see my name in they mouths again? Check they ass before I do. Mwah.”

LIVE ENDED

As soon as the phone locks, I turn to both of them.

“Now… what was that y’all were saying about me bein’ spoiled?”

T bites her lip. “We was lying.”

Court kisses my shoulder. “You’re just… high maintenance in a sexy way.”

“Oh, I know.” I grin. “Now go run me a bath. Together. And don’t forget the candle I like.”

They both stand up instantly.

“Y’all can clown me all you want,” I call after them, stretching like a cat. “Just make sure you never forget who run this.”

And baby, they don’t. Not after that.

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

[iandarling]

Summer Heat

Bartender Mickey and Pool Exercise Host Ian all inclusive hotel au

Mickey made yet another piña colada and handed it over to the middle aged divorcee, who once again, tried to hand him a copy of her room key.

He resisted rolling his eyes at her when he accepted her three dollar tip. He shot her a quick smile as he pocketed the cash. Keep her coming back he thought to himself, he needed the cash.

As she fluttered her lashes and sipped her drink, Mickey pretended to be interested. The bleach-blonde woman wiggled her hips as she walked away, hoping the gruff bartender would watch.

Mickey didn’t. His eyes were glued on the hot redheaded man doing jumping jacks by the pool.

Washboard abs with a healthy gut, covered in both sweat, sunscreen, and chlorine water. The man looked like a greek statue. Mickey stood admiring the movements of his long sturdy thighs, and those broad fucking shoulders.

He had a slight sunburn on his nose. Mickey wanted to kiss it.

His arms were covered in freckles and red hair. Mickey wanted to lick them.

His hair fucking glowed in the sunlight; fiery hot-red hair curling softly at the nape of his neck, with matching chest-hair scattered prettily across his pecs…and then there was his smile.

That goddamn smile. His smile was almost as bright as his goddam hair.

Mickey had become obsessed with the man the moment he first smiled to him saying, “Hey, you must be new here, I’m Ian.”

It was nearing noon, and all the pensioners were doing pool yoga and stretching, something Mickey had never heard of before he started this job three months ago.

The job was easy, the pay was good, and the view even better.

Gallagher, “call me Ian,” did three sets of workout routines a day, and Mickey made sure he was stationed by the pool bar every time. Because after every routine, he would wander over to the bar to grab a bottle of water and a cup of freshly cut fruit.

A cup of fruit for a fruit, Mickey thought to himself. There’s no way that man was straight. Mickey had his fair share of admirers, but his small cohort of divorcees were nothing in comparison to the gaggle of women surrounding Gallagher each day.

But he always refused them, and would without fail saunter off to Mickeys bar every time.

Just like every other day, Ian Gallagher smiled, and laughed, and talked to the ladies, before leaving them standing alone as he walked over to Mickey.

He placed one strong, freckled arm on his bar-top and leaned over to him. “Hi Mickey! Fucking hot today, I’m boiling. Could you add some ice to my fruit? Thank you.”

Mickey didn’t answer, he was too distracted by those fuck ugly orange swim trunks Gallagher always wore.

They looked great on him, Mickey hated it. He hated how it made his thighs stand even stronger, how the colour matched his hair, and he especially hated how he could see the outline of his dick.

Mickey wanted more than anything to get his mouth on it. Or his ass. Preferably both, and in that order. Gallagher looked strong enough to pin him down, pick him up, or throw him around a little, exactly what Mickey wanted. What he needed.

“Sure man, but it’ll be on your tab.” Mickey responded instead, as he jammed a few ice cubes into the cup of prepared fruit. Pineapple and mango today. Mickey added a small cocktail stick for Ian to eat with.

He heard Ian snort out a laugh like he had said something absolutely hilarious. “And here I thought employees ate for free,” He winked at Mickey as his grabbed the stick in his big fucking hands, and took a big bite of his mango.

“See you for the dinner set?” Ian asked with a mouthful of pineapple. His lips were juicy and red. Mickey ignored his desire to bite them.

“Fuck for?” Mickey mumbled as he wiped down the already dry counter nonchalantly. He kept his gaze down, not wanting to risk drowning in Ian’s green eyes again. Instead he was met with his dripping wet chest. Fuck.

“C’mon Milkovich, I know you’re always watching me.” Ian winked at him and shot him a seductive grin. After a few seconds of intense eye contact, Ian got up and left.

Mickey watched the swaying hips as Ian walked away. He had never been an ass man, but damn if those thighs didn’t promise intense strength and stamina. He groaned silently at the thought of it.

Once Mickey pulled his eyes away, he began mentally prepping for the inevitable influx of divorced women wanting fruity cocktails before noon.

When he placed his hand down on the counter, he felt his finger touch something plasticky. He looked down at it.

Right there, on his bar-top, was Ian’s room key.

- - - - - -

Read it on ao3;

https://archiveofourown.org/works/66890269

[romanczukowsky]

Magic Meets Muggle

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (Y/N)

Summary: A summer day at a Muggle park turns unexpectedly magical when Fred Weasley meets a curious and fearless Muggle girl. What starts as playful banter evolves into a night filled with discovery, desire, and promises that bridge two very different worlds.

Content Warning: Contains mature themes, sensual content, and explicit scenes of intimacy.

Author’s Note: Thank you for joining me on this magical journey blending the wizarding world with the thrilling unfamiliarity of the Muggle life. Fred’s charm and Y/N’s fearless openness made this story an exciting exploration of connection and desire. ✨💫

The hot summer was in full swing, and we, the Weasleys, were stuck on a trip invented by Dad to a Muggle park. Dad, with great enthusiasm, said to me, “Fred, this is going to be educational!” — and in my mind, I was just thinking: educational, yeah right...

We were sitting under a big oak tree, spreading out a blanket under the burning sun, while kids with balloons fluttered around and the smell of freshly cut grass filled the air. Dad was fascinated, showing us a pocketknife that Muggles use to carve initials into trees. Everyone seemed excited, but George and I exchanged looks full of disbelief.

Then I saw her. She was sitting a few meters away on a blanket, absorbed in a book, smiling with an elusive charm.

“Hey, George, look at her,” I whispered, unable to take my eyes off her.

“Yeah, quite nice, huh?” he replied in a hushed voice, like we were talking about some forbidden fruit.

I didn’t know her, I didn’t know who she was, but I felt this day was already going to be anything but ordinary.

The sun was blazing, and I could feel my shirt sticking to my back. Even the shade under the massive oak wasn’t helping. George was lying on his back beside me, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the sky like he was counting clouds just to avoid listening to Dad — who was still going on about the muggle pocketknife like he’d just discovered a new magical creature.

But I wasn’t listening. I was watching her.

She was sitting a few meters away, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched out lazily toward the sun. That white summer dress she wore clung just enough to make my brain short-circuit, and the warm breeze played with her hair like it had a personal vendetta against my self-control. Every time she tucked a strand behind her ear, I wanted to get up and do it for her.

"Think she’s a Muggle?" I muttered, still staring.

George shrugged without looking away from the sky. “Definitely. One of those with no clue about our world. Pure ignorance. Kinda hot, isn’t it?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I stood and stretched like I was just shaking off the heat — but my legs knew better. They carried me straight toward her. I could hear George snorting behind me, but I ignored him.

As I got closer, I realized I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say. Hi, I’m a wizard and I’ve been staring at you for twenty minutes like a complete creep? Brilliant, Fred.

She looked up from her book, and her gaze caught mine. Her eyes were something else — slightly squinting from the sun, but sharp and focused. And that smile… not wide, but knowing. Like she’d been aware of me watching her this whole time.

“Hey,” I said, with my best attempt at casual charm. “Is this spot taken?”

Her smile deepened.

“Only if you’ve got something better to offer than pocketknife conversations.”

I laughed. Okay. Muggle with a personality. I liked that.

“I’m afraid my father already ruined my entire family’s image by showing off a glorified tree-scratcher.”

“That was your dad?” she asked, clearly amused.

“Yeah. Please don’t judge me by his obsession with sharp objects.”

She laughed, and it was the kind of sound that made my chest tighten. I had a feeling this was going to be more than a passing moment.

We had spent the whole afternoon together, talking. Mostly about small things — books, music, how ridiculous sunburns were, and how lukewarm lemonade should be illegal. But the conversation had been easy. Real. I didn’t even notice when we’d shifted so close that our knees were nearly touching.

“Wanna take a walk?” I asked softly. Maybe too softly.

She looked at me from beneath long lashes and smiled slightly. “Sure. But only if you promise not to impress me again with tree facts.”

I grinned sideways. “No promises.”

We walked slowly along the winding path that led out of the park. The sky was deepening into a muted violet. The lamps hadn’t turned on yet. It was just us and that brief moment between day and night. Her shoulder brushed mine once… then again. I didn’t move away.

My fingers itched to take her hand. But something held me back. Nerves? That wasn’t like me.

“You’ve gone quiet,” she said softly. “Regretting the walk?”

“Not even a little,” I said, glancing at her. “I’m just… wondering if I should tell you something.”

She raised an eyebrow, curious. “Sounds serious.”

I stopped. Gravel crunched under my shoes. She turned to face me.

“Okay, this might sound strange,” I started, rubbing the back of my neck. “But I’m not… exactly normal.”

She tilted her head a little, intrigued — not scared. “I figured that much. You’re definitely not boring.”

“No, I mean… I’m…” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wand. Her eyes widened, but she didn’t step back.

“That’s… what I think it is?”

“Depends. Are you thinking I’m about to pull a rabbit out of a hat?”

“More like… you’re about to make something fly,” she said with a small smile, though her voice was soft with wonder.

With a flick of my wand, a few dry leaves lifted into the air, spinning slowly around us like golden birds in flight. She gasped softly, eyes wide. There was no fear in them. No suspicion. Just pure awe.

“This is… real?”

“As real as I am.”

She stepped closer, face tilted up toward the floating leaves… then looked directly at me. “You’re… a wizard?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “And I’ve never shown this to anyone outside our world before. Never.”

“I feel kind of honored,” she whispered. “And… strangely turned on.”

I laughed — short, nervous. “You’re not afraid?”

She looked at me, her eyes glowing in the twilight. “Should I be?”

“No,” I said, stepping closer, voice low and steady. “But maybe a little.”

She didn’t move away. Her gaze dropped to my lips. That was all it took.

I leaned in slowly — giving her time to pull back if she wanted. She didn’t. Her breath hitched, her fingers curled into the front of my shirt, and then… we kissed.

Gently at first. Curious. Then deeper.

Her lips parted under mine, tasting like summer and something that made my knees feel dangerously weak. Her hands slid to my hips, tugging me closer. Mine moved to her waist — warm, real, soft — and I let myself sink into her.

When we finally broke apart, she rested her forehead against mine, both of us breathless.

“I’ve never kissed a wizard before,” she whispered.

I smiled. “And you’re making it very hard to keep any sort of magical composure.”

She giggled softly. “Show me more.”

“Oh,” I whispered into her ear, “you have no idea how much I want to show you… everything.”

____________________— Y/N's POV —____________________________

I don’t know what I expected when he said that. But the way he looked at me… everything changed.

His breath on my neck sent a shiver down my spine — but not from fear. It was something else. Something deeper. Warmer.

I’d never been this close to someone and wanted more. Not just more touch — but more of him. The way his voice dipped low when he whispered, the way his fingers hovered near my waist like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch me. Like I was something fragile. Sacred.

But I didn’t feel fragile.

I felt like I was burning.

He pulled back just enough to look into my eyes — those impossibly warm brown eyes that sparkled even in the dimming light — and I swear the air between us crackled.

“I want to see more,” I breathed, before I could stop myself.

He searched my face like he was making sure. And then, slowly, his hand slipped to the small of my back and pulled me gently toward him again. Our mouths met — this time with less hesitation. With more intent.

My fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, needing him to know I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t unsure. I was just… consumed.

Every kiss deepened, his lips demanding, tasting, teasing mine open. I gasped softly against his mouth when his hands explored the curve of my waist, settling there like he belonged.

“I don’t want to stop,” he murmured against my skin.

“You don’t have to,” I whispered back, not recognizing my own voice — breathy, raw.

He kissed down my jaw, slow and reverent, and I tilted my head, giving him more access, craving every warm trail his lips left behind.

The magic wasn’t in his wand anymore. It was in the way he touched me — like every brush of skin was a spell, every breath a charm.

And Merlin, I never wanted him to stop casting them.

“Oh,” he whispered, “you have no idea how much I want to show you… everything.”

I pulled back just slightly, trying not to let my excitement show too much. “Then… come with me. Let’s go to my place.”

He blinked, looking surprised. “Your place? But my family…It’s getting late, and—”

I smiled, biting my lip a little. “They’ll manage without you for a bit. Besides…” I leaned closer, feeling my breath warm against his neck, “I’ve got a feeling you don’t really want to go back just yet.”

He froze, and I saw that mix of surprise and something else in his eyes—like he suddenly realized he had me right there, and wasn’t letting go.

“Well…” he said, swallowing hard, “I guess they’ll forgive me.”

I grinned, took his hand, and led him away from the emptying park toward the quiet streets and my waiting door. His heart was pounding, and honestly, so was mine—not just from the kiss, but from knowing this night was just beginning.

We stepped into my house.

“Are you hungry?” I asked. Fred leaned casually against the kitchen counter, looking at me with that mischievous smile that eased the tension between us a bit. I sat down on the counter and grabbed a bowl of strawberries from the table.

Fred nodded, not taking his eyes off me.

I handed him the first strawberry, slowly bringing it to his lips. His fingers lightly brushed mine, sending a pleasant shiver through me.

He smiled, and I picked up another strawberry. “Have you ever seen the movie 9½ Weeks?” I asked, raising one eyebrow, sensing he might not know what I meant. “There’s this scene with whipped cream… pretty funny...”

Fred furrowed his brow slightly, trying to understand, but his eyes sparkled with curiosity.

Without waiting any longer, our lips met in a kiss — soft and hesitant at first, then growing more confident and passionate. The taste of strawberry and cream mixed with the warmth of our mouths, and for a moment, the whole world disappeared.

Fred’s hands found my waist, steady and confident, pulling me a little closer. His lips left mine for a moment, trailing soft kisses down my jawline, making my skin tingle.

Slowly, he reached to the hem of my dress, his fingers curling gently as he lifted the fabric just enough to reveal the curve of my thigh. I held my breath, the warmth of his touch sending shivers through me.

He looked up at me, eyes dark and full of desire. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, voice low and husky.

The room seemed to shrink around us, every sound fading away except for the rapid beating of our hearts. I let my hands rest on his shoulders, feeling the strength there as he leaned in again, capturing my lips with renewed passion.

Our kisses deepened, slow and hungry, as if we were both trying to memorize every inch of the other. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer while his hands explored more boldly.

The dress slipped a little more as he traced his fingers higher, and I didn’t stop him. The moment was ours — electric, fragile, and intoxicating.

Fred’s lips left a trail of fire as they moved down my neck, tracing slow, deliberate kisses to the hollow between my collarbones. His hands gripped my hips firmly but gently, pulling me closer as his mouth traveled lower, warm breath brushing my skin.

Then, with a confidence that made my pulse race, his lips slipped beneath the hem of my dress. The fabric was soft and thin, offering little barrier. His mouth settled between my thighs, sending a shiver through me that tangled desire and nervous excitement.

His eyes lifted to meet mine—dark, questioning, searching for permission. I swallowed hard, heart hammering in my chest, and gave the smallest nod.

Fred’s lips pressed softly against my skin, his tongue tracing tender, teasing patterns. His hands slid up my thighs, holding me steady but gentle, his touch igniting sparks that spread like wildfire.

Every flicker of his tongue, every careful stroke made the heat inside me rise, leaving me breathless, caught between wanting more and fearing how fast this moment was flying.

Fred’s mouth worked its magic, each kiss, each flick of his tongue sending waves through my entire body. I felt the tension building inside me, my knees going weak, and my breath growing heavier. As my body reached the peak of pleasure, Fred didn’t slow down—in fact, his kisses became even more passionate, more direct.

At one point, he gently turned me on the countertop so that I was lying face down on him. His hands caressed my back, his gaze full of care and desire. His lips traced down my neck, then he began to move subtly inside me, making me struggle to hold back a soft moan.

It was something new, electrifying—tender yet intense. Fred was confident, and I surrendered completely, allowing myself what I craved, even though my heart was pounding wildly.

His movements were slow and deliberate, each one sending ripples of pleasure that spread through me like wildfire. I felt every inch of him, the warmth, the closeness—it was intoxicating. My hands dug lightly into the countertop, grounding me as waves of sensation rolled over my skin.

Fred’s lips never left my neck, his breath hot against my skin. I could hear the quiet rhythm of his breathing, steady and sure, matching the pace he set. It was a dance, a perfect balance between tenderness and urgency.

“Are you okay?” he whispered against my ear.

I nodded, barely able to speak, my voice lost in the rising storm inside me. The connection between us felt raw, real—like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us, caught in this fragile, breathtaking moment.

Fred’s movements grew more urgent, yet never rushed, as if savoring every second. His breath was warm against my skin, mingling with mine in a rhythm that matched the pounding of my heart.

Then, with a low, guttural sound, he pressed deeper into me, his body taut with need. I gasped, the sensation overwhelming yet achingly beautiful. We moved together, slowly, deliberately, until finally—he shuddered, his grip tightening as he reached his peak. I felt him trembling beneath me, a whispered plea and a release that left us both breathless.

For a moment, we simply held each other, the quiet hum of the night wrapping us in a tender embrace. I rested my head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, feeling a connection deeper than words could express.

I slowly turned my head to meet his gaze, the soft kitchen light catching the warmth in his eyes. For a moment, the world felt impossibly quiet, like time itself had paused just for us.

Fred’s fingers gently brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch feather-light yet grounding. “You’re amazing,” he murmured, his voice low and sincere.

A shy smile tugged at my lips. “I didn’t expect any of this today,” I admitted, still feeling the lingering tremors inside me.

He chuckled softly. “Neither did I,” he said, then leaned in to kiss me again—this time slower, deeper, as if trying to memorize every sensation.

The quiet was comforting, broken only by the faint sounds of the city beyond my windows. Outside, the night stretched endlessly, but here, wrapped in Fred’s arms, it felt like the only place I belonged.

After a while, I pulled back just enough to whisper, “Stay with me a little longer?”

But then, suddenly, his expression shifted. His brows furrowed, and a shadow of reality crept back over him.

“I have to go,” he said quietly, voice tight with regret. “My family... they’re probably wondering where I disappeared to.”

I nodded, feeling the bittersweet sting of goodbye already curling in my chest.

He cupped my face gently, his thumb tracing slow circles over my cheek. “But I promise,” he murmured, “I’ll come back as soon as I can. You have my word.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a small, worn charm — a simple, silver lightning bolt. He pressed it into my hand.

“Keep this,” he said softly. “So you’ll remember me. Until next time.”

I closed my fingers over the charm, the cool metal grounding me even as my heart ached.

He leaned in one last time, brushing his lips lightly against mine. Then, with a final lingering look, Fred slipped out the door, leaving behind a silence that hummed with all the things left unsaid.

Part.II