#wanted to play around a little with this one and i had fun with it :^]

[em1i2a3]

Glide

Pairing: College AU! Frat Boy!Bob Floyd x Fem!Reader!

Summary: When your friends drag you to a frat house party during spring break you weren’t expecting much, but when you go to seek out a moment of silence and end up accidentally stepping into someone’s room, you end up forming an odd connection with one of the fraternity members.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Some Angst, Mentions of Alcohol and Drug Use, Reader gets a little anxious in the crowd and mentions agoraphobia, Swearing, Reader has beef with one of the fraternity members, Reader is a Chemistry Major, Bobs in Aerospace Engineering

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (Female and Male Receiving), Handjob, Bob is Inexperienced (but he’s enthusiastic to try everything), Bob talks a lot during sexual acts, Dirty Talk, Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, Making Out and Dry Humping, Bob is super sensitive.

Author’s Note: Frat Boy Bob y’all. This was technically a request, but I dashed away with it and truly came to enjoy this so so much. Also just as a side note lol, Frats aren’t really a huge thing where I am, they’re so subdued it’s not even funny, though if you go to party schools you’re definitely going to get an experience and a half (I did not go to a party school so I’m going off of my friends experiences at this point 😂)

Word Count: 17,352

”Tell me again why the hell we’re going to this party?” Your voice cut through the late evening air, low and flat, edged with irritation as you pulled your windbreaker tighter across your chest. The nylon rasped beneath your fingers, a poor excuse for protection against the sharp spring breeze. The smell of your dorm clung to it–laundry detergent, stale coffee, and whatever perfume your roommate had sprayed on in the vicinity of it.

The sidewalk beneath your sneakers was still damp from a passing rain shower. Faint streaks of moisture glimmered on the concerte, catching the fractured yellow light from the street lamps above. You stepped around a crushed beer can and kept your head down, following the clacking of heels and bare legs that were moving a few paces ahead of you.

Jess, Monica, and Sue, your friends by proximity. You had met them during welcome week and never managed to shake them–even though you didn’t really want to. They existed in a different orbit entirely, but they took you in with open arms and tried to crack the shell that you had built around yourself. They were the people that convinced you that college didn’t have to be all about studying and going to class and that it could also be fun too, despite the hefty tuition bill.

The girls had built a three person wall along the sidewalk, pushing against each other as they chatted and laughed about something you hadn’t heard, keeping balance on their heels, skipping cracks in the pavement. They were dressed like the party was going to be a runway show instead of an absolute chaotic mess. Jess wore a short leather skirt and a cropped corset top under a trench coat she wasn’t planning to keep on. Her hair was up, slick and sharp, gold hoops brushing her jaw. Monica had on a silver halter top that sparkled under every porch light you passed, paired with high-waisted jeans and glossy lipstick that matched the cherry polish on her nails. Sue, as always, looked like she’d stepped out of an editorial spread–draped in a backless silk dress and strappy heels that should’ve been impractical, but somehow weren’t.

You, on the other hand, were the outlier–and it was obvious.

Black low-rise jeans hugged your hips, the waistband dipping just enough to expose a sliver of your stomach where your t-shirt stopped. The top was fitted and a plain navy blue, not short enough to be bold, and not long enough to be considered modest–though it was enough to remind you of the cold every time the wind shifted. Your black sneakers were scuffed at the toes, laces uneven, but they were practical for the walk home.

Technically, you were dressed for the weather, but standing next to your friends made you feel underdressed in a different way. Not because you didn’t look good, but because you just didn’t meet the same standard they had set for the group.

Your question had interrupted whatever conversation they were tangled in. Jess glanced over her shoulder first, her earrings catching the light at the turn.

”Well, Jake personally invited us,” She explained, like that was a valid reason, “And you’ve been holed up in your room almost all of spring break studying. You needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, get social contact apart from us…Maybe drink something that hits a little better than three iced coffees a day.” You groaned immediately at the name Jake, ignoring the rest of the comments she had made about what you had been doing during the break.

”Not that meathead…If I knew that moron invited you guys, I would’ve locked my door and turned off my phone.” Monica sighed.

”C’mon, Y/N, he’s not that bad.” You let out a short laugh–dry and humorless.

”He’s a douchebag. And he thinks I’m a cockblock because I don’t let him get handsy with you guys when you’re half a drink in. I think he’s exactly that bad.” Jess gave a low laugh.

”He’s just a flirt.” You hummed.

”Right, and I’m just a buzzkill.” You muttered. Sue looked over at you now.

”We appreciate the defense. Really. But tonight…We’ve got a bit of a bet going.” You raised an eyebrow.

“What, like who’s gonna bed him first?” There was a pause, and the silence was telling. It caused you to stop walking.

”Oh god.” You rubbed your fingers into the corners of your eyes like you could physically wipe the idea out of your brain. Monica didn’t even flinch.

”He’s hot! How can you not be curious?! I’ve heard a lot of good things…” You dropped your head, staring at her.

”You better make that guy bathe in hand sanitizer before he touches you. God only knows where he’s been.” That got a laugh–sharp, unapologetic. Jess bit back a grin. Sue let out a quiet, breathy chuckle behind her hand, and even Monica smiled.

They didn’t deny it. They didn’t defend him, either.

The four of you continued to walk, your pace catching up to them so you could get involved in their conversation a little more, as your ears caught a hint of bass echoing through the streets.

Campus was surprisingly crowded for a week that should’ve been quiet. Most students hadn’t gone home–not for lack of desire, but practicality. A three-day visit to your hometown wasn’t worth the bus ticket, the packing, and the return. The majority of people who didn’t travel long distances had quietly agreed to stay put, which caused a social pressure cooker of chaos. Parties bled from one house to the next, yards were flooded with empty kegs and pool floats, and of course people were out till all hours of the night taking in the extracurriculars.

You were one of the people who chose to stay, but it was for different reasons.

You had a chemistry midterm that was going to hit you on the Monday right after break, and you needed peace and quiet to get the thirty five page study guide your professor had emailed. You had been hunched over your laptop, dragging a pen across every other line and downing iced coffee like it counted as fuel. Your residence hall had been silent–peaceful in the way only empty buildings could be. No thumping floors. No bathroom chatter. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the occasional door shutting down the hall.

And honestly, you liked it that way.

Which was why walking up this street, with the scent of cheap body spray and beer already creeping into the air, made your skin itch.

Jess, Monica, and Sue weren’t wrong–you had wasted half your break studying. But a frat party was a far cry from the kind of break you would’ve chosen. You would’ve taken a quiet bookstore, a blackout curtained room, maybe a hot bath. Instead, you were heading straight into the epicenter of campus chaos.

The house came into view like a rising tide–inevitable and loud.

Theta Rho Alpha Sigma Heta.

TRASH, for short.

It was a reputation as much as a name. It was burned into every party story, every Camus warning, and every early morning regret that started with “so we went to TRASH last night.” Ten fraternity brothers lived inside, and every square foot off the place bore evidence of that fact. It was a massive, century-old house–once regal, now abused. Three floors, five bedrooms, two makeshift attic spaces, a finished basement that doubled as a moldy second living room. The paint on the siding had faded into a blotchy, sun-peeled gray, warped by years of weather and neglect. The porch sagged under the weight of too many bodies. One of the support beams had been duct-taped after someone fell through it last fall.

The front steps were uneven, patched with mismatched bricks and sagging plywood. Two of the railing posts were zip-tied together in a last-ditch effort to pass housing inspection. The fraternity’s letters were bolted crookedly above the door, one hanging loose on a single screw. Half-lit from a porch light that flickered like a dying candle.

Light poured from every window–yellow, blown out, too warm. It cast strange shadows across the lawn, catching in the curls of smoke that drifted from blunts and vapes and burning firewood in the backyard pit. The music pulsed through the siding—more vibration than melody. Heavy bass that flattened everything it touched, beating into your chest like an arrhythmic second heartbeat.

The lawn was packed–shoulder to shoulder, people overflowing onto the sidewalk, the flowerbeds, the hood of someone’s car parked at a bad angle. Plastic cups were everywhere, crushed or half-full or abandoned in the grass. The scent of spilled beer hung in the air, warm and sharp, mixing with sweat, weed, fast food, gasoline from a knocked-over jerry can, and the stale breath of a thousand unwashed Red Solo cups.

Someone was blasting a megaphone from the porch steps–a guy in a backwards cap, red-faced and laughing, trying to shout over the music. You caught pieces of it: something about jello shots, something about the beer pong table being “winner stays,” and something that sounded suspiciously like “naked mile.”

Two guys were wrestling in the grass by the mailbox, one of them missing a shirt, the other holding a can of whipped cream like a weapon. A girl stumbled past them in glitter boots and a bikini top, waving a phone and yelling at someone you couldn’t see. Another was throwing up behind a bush while her friend held her hair and nodded along to the music like it was a shared ritual.

From the second-floor balcony, a makeshift banner drooped crookedly on a frayed bedsheet:

TRASH FEST 2NITE - NO RULES. NO EXCUSES. NO SLEEP.

“Jesus,” Jess muttered under her breath, pausing at the edge of the lawn. “It’s already booming and it’s not even 9:30. We are so late.”

You followed a few paces behind her, stepping carefully around a puddle of cheap beer that had soaked into the grass. “Didn’t know we could be late for a frat party,” You mumbled, eyeing the porch like it might collapse under the weight of the crowd.

But the girls were already in motion, rushing toward the chaos like it was gravity pulling them in. You hung back just slightly, weaving your way around the worst of the lawn–dodging a guy hurling glow sticks into the crowd and stepping over a discarded takeout container that looked like it hadn’t survived the walk from the sidewalk. Your shoes slipped slightly on the wet grass as you moved toward the porch steps, where cigarette butts and crushed cups had collected like driftwood on the edge of a rising tide.

You stepped up, sneakers hitting the warped planets, hand grazing the rickety railing as the music began to rattle your teeth at full force. The door was open, the entryway wide and glowing with overexposed yellow light. You could smell it all before you even crossed the threshold–booze, sweat, pot, deodorant masking body odor, and something burnt that might’ve been food or someone’s hair.

The second your foot crossed the threshold, it hit you all at once–the heat, the crowd, the crush of music and smoke and too many bodies packed into too little space. The entryway smelled like spilled tequila and cheap cologne. Someone’s hoodie brushed your shoulder, sticky with sweat, and you recoiled instinctively, scanning for your friends. Jess’s trench coat disappeared into the living room. Monica’s glitter top flashed once, then vanished into the blur. Sue was already at the bar cart in the corner, snagging plastic cups.

You were still deciding whether to follow–or leave–when he stepped in front of you.

Jake Seresin.

Leaning casually against the wall near the stairs, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

He looked the same as always–clean cut and cocky, like a walking recruitment poster that never had to try too hard. His hair was neatly styled, strawberry blonde in colour, and slightly dampened from either sweat or a shower. You didn’t know and quite frankly you didn’t care.

He wore a snug black t-shirt that clung to the curve of his biceps, jeans slung low on his hips, worn-in boots planted like he owned the floorboards. A silver chain peeked from under his collar, catching the glow from the overhead bulb. The smirk on his face arrived before he spoke.

“Y/N…I see you’ve decided to come out of your cave.” Jake’s voice cut through the heat and noise like he owned the damn place–which, unfortunately, he sort of did, especially because he was the head of the house. His smirk was smug enough to slap off his face, and the way he looked at you–lazy, head tilted just slightly–made your blood itch.

“Didn’t realize you were doing doorman duty tonight. What’s the matter–couldn’t con a freshman into kissing your boots on the way in?”

Jake laughed, low and amused. He shifted his weight, arms crossing, biceps flexing like it was involuntary. “Cute. But if you really wanted to see me, you could’ve just said so. No need to pretend you’re here for the punch.”

“If I wanted to see you, I’d schedule a lobotomy first,” You said, eyes scanning past him to where the party stretched out like a sweaty nightmare, “You’re like athlete’s foot. Persistent. Itchy. Impossible to get rid of.”

That earned you a flash of teeth, the smirk sharpening. “Damn. Must’ve missed that sparkling charm of yours. Thought maybe you’d chilled out since fall semester.”

“Nah,” You replied, smiling without warmth, “You don’t know me well enough to assume something like that.” He hummed.

”You always this feisty, or do you just save it all for me?”

“I save it for pests,” You shot back, “Like you.” And with that, you pushed past him–your shoulder clipping his lightly–just enough to make it clear you were done. You didn’t wait for a comeback. You didn’t care what his smug ass had to said next. The music hit harder in the next room, and the humidity had already begun to creep under your clothes like steam.

Sue caught up to you almost instantly, already grinning like she’d watched the whole exchange from the sidelines.

“Thanks for buttering him up,” she said, patting your arm. Her tone was teasing, but not mocking. “I’m going in for the first interaction of the night.”

You raised your cup-less hand and gave her a small salute.

“Good luck,” You shouted back over the bass, smirking. She gave you a wink before disappearing into the crowd, swaying through the bodies with ease. You peeled off toward the kitchen, dodging a couple making out near the coat rack and stepping over a few abandoned beer cans. The kitchen was a warzone of overturned shot glasses, and a group of architecture students stacking some of the spare red solo cups in a tower. To your left, a half-empty bowl of lime wedges was slowly withering beside an array of crumpled napkins, and then your eyes found the coolers.

There were three of them, stacked neatly along the wall beneath the fogged kitchen window–white Igloo coolers with duct-tape labels stuck to their lids like someone had planned this out. You paused for a second, brow lifting slightly. It was the first thing you’d seen in this entire house that resembled forethought.

POP / ENERGY / SPORTS DRINKS

It was handwritten in black Sharpie, a little smudged from condensation, but legible. Organized.

You flipped the lid, expecting warm cans swimming in brown ice water and maybe the scent of something that had once been fruit punch. Instead, it was ice cold. There were cans lined up in half-hearted rows–soda, sports drinks, a few scattered energy drinks, and even a rogue seltzer tucked in the corner.

You spotted the ginger ale immediately and grabbed it, the can blessedly cold against your hand. You popped the tab with a low crack, the fizz whispering up as you turned around and leaned back against the counter. The metal felt cool through your jeans, a shock of comfort against your overheated skin.

You brought the can to your lips and took a sip–dry, sweet, clean. The carbonation hit your throat gently, but the cold grounded you.

The nausea that had been curling in your gut since you stepped into the house–maybe even since you left the dorm–began to quiet under the fizzy bite. Not completely. But enough.

Your eyes scanned the room as you sipped. People buzzed in and out like bees. Music bled through the drywall. There were beer pong shouts from the living room, someone screaming off-key to a pop remix from the basement, and a girl in the corner of the kitchen trying to convince her friend that no, taking another shot wouldn’t fix the situation.

You took another sip of your ginger ale, but this time it caught in your throat.

You coughed into your arm, quietly at first—then once more, harder, sharp enough to make your eyes water. The fizz didn’t settle your stomach like before. It turned sour, bubbling too fast. Heat rose under your skin, too much of it. The air felt wrong—like it wasn’t going in properly, like the room had subtly tilted without warning and your lungs were working against it.

Maybe it was the noise. The press of people. The humidity clinging to every surface like a second skin. Or maybe it was you.

You blinked slowly, dragging in another breath through your nose, but it didn’t go deep enough. Your chest tightened instead. Like a pressure band had cinched beneath your ribs, subtle at first, then steady, then sharp.

Shit.

You glanced around again, searching for something—a signal, maybe. A reason to leave. A place to bolt to. But everything looked the same: sticky floors, laughing strangers, red cups tipping on every flat surface. Too much noise. Too much movement. You couldn’t catch your footing in it. Couldn’t ground yourself.

You didn’t know if you were going to throw up or have a panic attack, and honestly, it didn’t matter—because either way, you needed out.

You pushed off the counter. The cold had left your jeans, and your hand trembled slightly as you set your can down, half-full and already forgotten. The kitchen was a blur behind you, the music thudding harder now, bass lines vibrating in your teeth.

You moved fast, weaving through the main floor with quick, shallow breaths. Eyes down. Shoulders tight. The living room passed in a smear of sweat and cheap cologne, someone’s laughter bouncing too loud off the crown molding. You didn’t stop to said anything. Didn’t look for your friends. You didn’t want to worry them–not yet. Not until you figured out what the hell was happening.

Going outside wasn’t an option. Not with the yard full of people. If one of your friends saw you slipping out, they’d follow. Or worse–they’d worry. You didn’t want that either.

So you made for the stairs.

The banister was sticky and warm under your palm as you took the steps two at a time. Your breath hitched halfway up, chest clenching like your ribs were welded shut. You swallowed hard and forced yourself to keep going.

The second floor was marginally quieter, but the walls were still too thin. Bass leaked through every inch. Laughter echoed from behind doors, and the smell of weed hung low like a fog.

You moved fast–hand grazing doorknobs, cracking one open only to find two people already tangled on a futon, backlit by LED strips. You didn’t pause. You just kept going.

Next room: a circle of guys smoking out of a gravity bong made from an Arizona bottle. One lifted his hand in greeting, eyes bloodshot and lazy. You shut the door.

Another: a girl crying on the floor while two of her friends huddled around her with shot glasses. You closed that one a little more gently.

The hallway seemed endless. Your chest was still too tight. Like there wasn’t enough air on this floor either.

Then finally the last door on the left creaked open to a well lit, completely empty room. You stepped in, fast, and shoved it shut behind you, the slam loud in the sudden quiet. Your back hit the wood, hard enough to jolt your spine, and you didn’t care. The silence was immediate, muffled and warm and blessedly still.

Your eyes adjusted to the sight in front of you and almost immediately you were absorbing all the details.

The room was bright in contrast to the rest of the house–lit by a desk lamp angled toward a bulletin board cluttered with index cards and printouts. The overhead light was on too, not dim or tinted like the others downstairs, but clean and soft and yellow, illuminating the space in a way that made everything feel more grounded. Less warped. Less unreal.

Your eyes scanned the details, cataloguing without meaning to.

A twin XL bed sat tucked in the corner, sharply made with a green-and-navy plaid duvet pulled taut at every corner. The sheet edges were squared, the pillows firm and aligned. Not a wrinkle in sight. There was a subtle indent on the right side of the mattress—someone had been sitting there recently. Maybe even within the hour. But whoever it was, they weren’t here now.

You stared at the bed like it might steady you. Like if you focused hard enough, the room would stop spinning entirely.

Beside the bed, a heavy oak bookcase ran nearly the full height of the wall. It was packed with titles, every shelf brimming. Not decorative either–thoroughly read. Dog-eared paperbacks leaned into thick hardcover editions, grouped not by color or aesthetic, but by subject. Biographies. Math. Novels. Non-Fiction. Chemistry and Science. A few textbooks on differential equations, stacked beside a worn copy of Dune and a boxed set of The Lord of the Rings. Your fingers twitched, instinctively wanting to trace the spines.

You blinked slowly. Breathed in through your nose. The room smelled faintly like pine and laundry detergent–clean and muted. No sweat, no beer, no weed. Just detergent, and the faint dry scent of paperback pages.

A corkboard hung above the desk, pinned with exam timetables, lab schedules, a few biology notes, and what looked like a printed-out list of citations in 12-point Times New Roman. The chair tucked neatly beneath was ergonomic, not cheap. Beside it sat a large, dented water bottle and a stack of neatly bound notebooks.

Posters lined the wall–nerdy ones. Retro Star Wars prints. A 2001: A Space Odyssey poster framed in black. There was a NASA diagram of the solar system pinned above the desk, annotated in ballpoint pen like whoever lived here used it to actually study, not just decorate.

You took a step forward, the floor creaking under your weight.

“…Geeky,” You muttered to yourself, voice hoarse, quiet. The sound came out more like a breath than a statement. Your knees nearly gave out when you reached the side of the bed. You sat down slowly, hands braced on the plaid comforter, fingers splayed across the dense fabric.

It gave a little under your palms. Still faintly warm.

You let out another breath–long, uneven, but better than before.

Your heart was still pounding, but it was loosening its grip. Slowly. The walls weren’t closing in anymore. Your lungs weren’t seizing.

You tapped your fingers against the mattress and started listing what you could see.

“Desk lamp. Physics textbooks. Star Wars poster. Clean sheets. Plaid pattern.”

Another breath.

“Water bottle. Books on aerospace…Math. Scent’s clean. No body spray. No beer.”

Another breath.

It wasn’t magic. But it helped. saiding it all aloud gave your mind something to anchor to.

You swallowed, eyes fixed on the corner of the room. “Big bookshelf. Index cards on the corkboard. Neatly folded blanket on the chair.” You paused, blinking. “Shit,” you whispered softly, dragging your hand down your face.

It wasn’t that you were weak. You knew what this was. You’d never been diagnosed, but the signs were hard to ignore. The panic. The way crowds made your body feel like it was misfiring from the inside out. How your throat closed up in packed rooms. How every party ended with your head spinning and your jaw locked in quiet dread.

Agoraphobia. You’d read about it. Dismissed it. Then quietly reconsidered it. And then dismissed it again.

But tonight? Tonight your body had decided to remind you it was real.

You leaned forward, elbows to knees, head in your hands. Not crying. Just breathing. For a long moment, you stayed like that–drinking in the quiet, letting the static in your limbs slowly begin to fade.

The sound of the door handle turning ripped through the quiet like a thunderclap.

You jolted upright–spine snapping straight, fingers braced against the mattress, breath catching mid-inhale.

The door creaked open slowly, a rectangle of warm hallway light spilling across the floor, cutting a golden line through the carpet and up your jeans. And then he stepped inside.

You blinked hard.

He froze halfway through the threshold. One foot in, one out, like he hadn’t meant to walk in on anyone–and certainly hadn’t expected to find a stranger perched on his bed.

He looked about your age, maybe slightly older. Tall but not imposing, lean in the kind of way that came from long hours of running or lifting–not bulking. His face was unmistakable even in the soft light: gentle features, tousled light brown hair that curled slightly at the ends from where it had dried naturally, no product. A strong jaw softened by the faintest dusting of stubble. He had a pair of glasses perched on his nose–simple, silver rimmed, they looked similar to aviator glasses, just a little more rounded off in the lenses. They were crooked but he didn’t reach up to fix them.

And those eyes…Wide, bright, and startlingly blue.

Like the ocean under a cold sky. The colour made your stomach turn, and the way they reflected in the light made your head spin.

He wore a navy crew neck sweater with the university crest stitched over the chest, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, revealing ink stains and a faint red pressure mark on his wrist where a watch probably used to be. Grey sweatpants hung low on his hips, worn at the knees, soft enough that they must’ve been his go-to. A can of sprite was in his hand, dripping from the ice that had melted over it.

“Oh. Oh god–I’m sorry.” The words rushed out of your mouth quickly, breathless, “I didn’t mean to–I wasn’t…” His brows lifted slightly, but there was no alarm on his face. Just surprise. His voice was low, quiet, and careful.

“It’s okay…I–uh–it’s alright.” He hesitated, eyes flicking across the room, landing briefly on your curled posture, your flushed face, the slight tremble in your hand as you pushed back from the bed. “Are you…Okay?” You blinked. Your heart was still hammering. Not from fear anymore–but embarrassment. Humiliation. He didn’t look like he thought you were stealing. He didn’t even glance toward the desk or the bookshelf. He was looking at you. Really looking. Reading the panic that hadn’t quite drained from your body yet.

You felt your shoulders curl in instinctively, defensive. But there was no judgment in his expression–just a quiet, earnest concern that felt way too soft for someone who’d just found a stranger in his room.

“I–” You swallowed, hand hovering mid-air like you weren’t sure whether to stand or bolt. “I didn’t know anyone was here. I just–I needed out. I was–I had to get out of the kitchen.” He nodded once, like he understood completely. He stepped the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him–not all the way, but enough to soften the noise from the hallway. It was strange how quickly the room felt like a bubble again. A barrier. A pause from everything that came before it.

“I figured…” He said quietly, “The parties here get pretty loud and overcrowded, so I don’t blame you for wanting to get some peace for a minute.” You swallowed thickly, your throat still tight with leftover nerves, and exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah,” you murmured, voice quieter now, “I can’t imagine living here, to be honest.” He smiled—not cocky like Jake, not smug or practiced. Just a small, self-deprecating curl of his lips, as if he agreed with you more than he was willing to admit.

“Noise-cancelling headphones really come in handy.” That earned a low breath of amusement from you.

“I guess you’re right with that one…”

He took a sip of his Sprite, the faint crackle of carbonation filling the small silence that followed. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–just heavy with all the things neither of you were sure how to said yet. He stayed near the door, not wanting to hover or crowd you in any way. You watched him for a second, and then another, noting the way his shoulders shifted under the weight of the conversation–or maybe just the attention.

Then, softly, like he was testing the waters:

“I’ve seen you around before…In the science building. You’re in Chem 241, right?”

Your brows lifted slightly, caught between surprise and guarded curiosity. “Yeah… it’s my major.” You tilted your head. “How do you know what class I’m in?” He gave a sheepish, quiet laugh, the kind that curled at the corners of his mouth without ever really reaching full confidence. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion making it stick up slightly in the front.

“You’re in the class before mine. You’ve got kind of a familiar face.”

You paused, eyes still on him, your heart starting to settle into something else–less fight-or-flight, more puzzled curiosity. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly, but there was a warmth in his cheeks now, visible even in the soft lighting. A flicker of nervous energy vibrated at the tips of his fingers as he shifted his Sprite to the other hand.

Then, like the thought had only just occurred to him:

“Oh–Jesus, sorry. I’m Bob, by the way. Bob Floyd.” He grimaced slightly at the awkwardness of it, wiping his damp palm against the thigh of his sweatpants before offering it out to you, fingers curled slightly.

You hesitated for only half a second before reaching out and slipping your hand into his. His palm was warm, slightly chilled from the condensation of the can but dry now. The grip was gentle, just enough to be firm without overcompensating.

“Y/N,” You said quietly. Your name sounded softer in this room than it had downstairs-like the sound itself respected the quiet.

He smiled again. “Y/N,” He repeated, a little slower this time, like he was filing it away in some meticulous corner of his brain. “Nice name,” Bob said, quiet and genuine. The words weren’t perfunctory–they landed with a softness that didn’t feel like filler. More like a real compliment, shaped by how he said it. You blinked once, caught off guard by how sincere it sounded.

Before either of you could speak again, a sudden crash reverberated through the floorboards beneath you–so loud and forceful that your feet actually lifted a half inch from the mattress. Something heavy had toppled on the first floor. Maybe furniture. Maybe a person. Followed by a cascade of laughter that barely muffled the groaning bass still pounding through the walls.

You flinched, eyes widening, then looked toward Bob with a raised brow.

“What’s a guy like you doing in a frat house, by the way?” You asked, your voice dry but curious, brushing your palms down the front of your jeans. “You seem too…Sane.” Bob took another slow sip of his Sprite, his glasses catching the overhead light as he tilted his head slightly.

“It’s pretty good to have on a résumé,” He said mildly. “Minus the parties, of course.”

You hummed, the sound low in your throat as your eyes flicked toward the ceiling like you were scanning for divine confirmation. “Yeah…I think if any future employer found out the type of parties TRASH throws, I’m pretty sure you’d be hired immediately. Just for surviving them.” That earned an actual laugh from him–low and warm, the kind that started in his chest and curled up into his mouth like it surprised even him. It settled something inside you. Not the panic entirely, but the vulnerability that had followed it. His laugh made the room feel a little more human. Less clinical. More like a moment you weren’t intruding on, but sharing.

“I don’t participate in them, evidently,” He claimed, gesturing lightly toward his desk. “So I’d be lying.”

You followed the motion with your eyes–the papers, the water bottle, a perfectly aligned mechanical pencil, and what looked like a cracked-open packet filled with printed slides and diagrams.

“Evidently,” you echoed softly, tilting your head a little as you looked around again. “What were you doing?” Bob exhaled–half sigh, half breath of frustration–and stepped toward the desk. He reached for the study packet, flipping the top corner up between his fingers to show you the first page. It was already heavily marked–some in black pen, some in red. Diagrams had been annotated, circled, dissected line by line. Across the top margin, written in neat, even letters, was the course title: Space Systems Design – Midterm Review Packet.

“Studying,” He said. “I have the test on Monday, and I’m nowhere near done with this thing.” His tone was tired but not bitter, just resigned in the way that only students deeply familiar with academic despair could be.

You gave a quiet, knowing laugh–one that felt more like release than amusement. “Of course. I guess every professor gets off on torturing science and engineering students,” You muttered, stretching your arms briefly. “Because I’ve got a very similar packet sitting on my desk right now for my Chem Midterm.” He placed the packet back on the desk with a soft tap.

”Misery loves company, I guess.” He offered.

“More like intellectual suffering,” You replied dryly, crossing one ankle over the other where you sat at the edge of his bed. There was a beat of silence, the kind that settled into the warmth between two people who hadn’t yet decided if they were strangers or acquaintances.

Bob leaned slightly against his desk, fingers still resting on the edge of the study packet. He tilted his head just enough for his glasses to slip down his nose for a moment, then asked softly, “So…Who dragged you out of your studying and brought you here?”

You huffed out a breath, half a laugh. “My friends got personally invited by your frat brother Jake,” you said, tone flat and unamused. “I’m assuming you know him well.”

That pulled a low, genuine laugh from Bob–his shoulders lifted slightly, the sound soft and disbelieving. “Well… I guess he’s trying to expand his roster again.”

You smirked, leaning back just a little on your palms. “Guess one of my friends is getting lucky tonight then, if he’s looking to score.”

Bob let out a hum, lips twitching toward a grin. “As long as they have a pulse, they’re fair game.”

You groaned. “Figured that…”

Another crash exploded beneath your feet–some combination of broken glass and furniture legs giving out–followed by a howling cheer from the crowd downstairs. You both winced slightly, shoulders tensing at the same time.

Bob exhaled a sharp breath, then straightened. He looked at you carefully–not with pity, but consideration–and then asked, quiet and steady:

“You wanna maybe…Get out of here?”

You blinked.

He shrugged one shoulder, casual but sincere. “Denny’s is 24 hours. We could sit there for a bit, get something to eat. And I’m sure if we stay long enough, the party’ll start to die down. Then you can get your friends when they’re all done here…” It was such a simple offer. No pressure. No weird edge. Just a safe, open hand held out toward the exit sign.

And god, it was tempting.

“Yeah…” you said almost immediately, your fingers already moving to unlock your phone. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually. I’ll just text them and let them know I’m going.”

Bob smiled–wide this time, soft and relieved. “Great.”

You glanced back up at him, still a little breathless from the past hour, still not sure if this was all a fever dream or the best part of your spring break. But you smiled back.

And maybe, just maybe, your night was finally starting to turn around.

———————————

The walk to Denny’s wasn’t long, but it was everything you needed.

The fresh air hit your lungs like a blessing–not sharp, not cold, just crisp enough to wash the smoke and sweat from your senses. Each breath cleared your head a little more. The bass from TRASH still thudded faintly in the distance, but the further you got from the house, the more it faded into the background noise of a quiet college town on a restless spring break night.

The streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional burst of laughter echoing down from a distant porch or a cluster of bikes propped against a lamppost. The rain from earlier had left the sidewalks glistening, catching the glow from streetlights and shop signs like scattered glass. Bob walked beside you, not too close, not too far–just an easy, steady presence. Every now and then, his shoulder would sway slightly toward yours, like gravity had its own opinion on the distance.

Denny’s sat at the edge of campus like a low-lit promise. The sign flickered faintly overhead, buzzing with the tired hum of fluorescent tubes, casting a pale glow on the nearly empty parking lot. It was a local staple–open all night, slightly grimy, and universally understood to be the unofficial overflow space for students who couldn’t sleep, didn’t want to go home, or just needed somewhere to exist without judgment. You’d studied here before. So had everyone. It smelled like syrup and fry oil and burnt coffee, and for some reason, it always felt safe.

Inside, the place was quieter than usual. A couple of booths were filled–one with a pair of students whispering over open textbooks, another with two guys splitting a plate of mozzarella sticks and arguing over a March Madness bracket. But the energy was muted. Dimmed. Like the whole place had taken a collective breath and decided to chill.

You and Bob slid into a booth by the window, vinyl seats squeaking under your weight. The table was slightly sticky with syrup residue–standard–but the lighting overhead was warm and soft. You could actually hear yourselves talk. You could actually think.

The waitress–a woman with tired eyes and a pen stuck behind her ear–dropped off two mugs and a full pot of coffee without asking. She must’ve pegged you both as regulars, or at least as students. Bob gave her a soft “thank you,” and you echoed it before she disappeared behind the counter.

Bob poured the coffee first, filling your mug before his. The gesture was small, automatic, but it made you pause for just a second.

“I think breakfast is one of the only meals I actually enjoy at any time of day,” he said as he handed you the sugar packet holder.

You hummed softly, stirring a little cream into your cup. “Pancakes, waffles, French toast–all sweet things,” You replied, voice a little lighter now, “But I do agree…Breakfast foods are definitely better than most.”

Bob nodded, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he reached for a menu. “Haven’t eaten much today, so I’m probably going to order a lot,” He said, deadpan but with a flicker of a smile. “Just warning you now.”

You laughed, slouching into your seat as you wrapped your hands around the warmth of the mug. “I won’t judge. As long as you don’t judge me for ordering an extra order of bacon. And possibly ham…And maybe another round of home fries.”

He looked up at that, a glint in his eyes beneath the lens glare. “Definitely won’t.”

Then, leaning forward just a little, voice conspiratorial and soft, he added, “But I will probably steal some of those home fries though, so…By all means, order away.”

You grinned, lifting your coffee to your lips. “Fair trade.”

And just like that, the tension that had wrapped itself around your ribs for hours began to unravel–for real this time.

It took a few minutes for both of you to confirm your orders–too many good, greasy options, too little brainpower left to commit. You squinted at the menu through the soft overhead glow, half your focus still caught in the feeling of warm coffee and the unexpected calm of the moment. Bob, meanwhile, flipped his menu once, then again, lips twitching like every option looked equally dangerous.

The waitress returned, pad in hand, looking only marginally more awake than when you walked in.

“I’ll have the fruit-topped pancakes,” You said, “With a side of bacon, ham…And an extra order of home fries…For the table of course…” You offered a small smile, like you were trying to excuse your own hunger, but she didn’t blink.

Bob, on the other hand, cleared his throat like he was preparing to read an oath. “Ultimate omelette, please. A side of pancakes, just the normal ones…And…A side of French toast, with bacon.”

She paused. Just slightly.

Her gaze slid over him like she was doing mental math on how someone built like a straight-laced study boy could possibly demolish what would equate to three breakfasts at once. Her brow lifted–just for a second–but she didn’t say anything. Just jotted it all down with a faint scribble of pen on paper, nodded, and disappeared with both menus in hand.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Bob let out a short, quiet laugh, leaning back in his seat. “I think I freaked her out a bit with all the food.”

You stifled your own laugh behind the rim of your mug. “Yeah, maybe a little. She’s probably wondering how you’re going to eat all of it.”

He shrugged, lifting his coffee. “We’ve got a bit of time. I think I can manage.”

That earned a proper laugh from you, low and genuine. You settled back against the booth as the hum of Denny’s buzzed softly in the background—silverware clinking, someone flipping a page from the next table over, a soft beep from the kitchen.

Bob took another sip of his coffee and set the mug down, fingers tracing the rim absently. “So…” He began, voice still gentle, “what’re you doing on campus during spring break?”

You exhaled slowly, watching the light catch the small glint of moisture still clinging to the window beside you. “My parents’ house is… A little chaotic,” You admitted. “And I really wouldn’t be able to study if I went back. So I just figured I’d stay in my dorm. Easier to focus. Cheaper, too.”

Bob nodded, listening like he really meant to. “Do you work?”

You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I work at Beans To You. Part-time barista. It gives me some extra spending money–enough to keep me caffeinated through exam season, anyway.”

That pulled another smile from him. “Do you like it?”

You lifted your hand and made a so-so motion in the air. “It’s fine. Tips are decent. My manager’s a nightmare, but I like the regulars.”

He nodded like he got it, then said, “I don’t really work…Not officially, anyway. Sometimes I write essays for a few of the frat guys and they pay me.” He gave a small shrug. “So I don’t know if you’d count that as a job or just…An Academic crime.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your chest like you’d just been personally betrayed. “You? Violating academic integrity? I’m shocked.”

Bob laughed, tipping his head down in mock shame. “Yeah, well…I can’t really keep a normal job while studying. Too much going on up here.” He tapped the side of his temple with a finger. “But I commend you for being able to juggle it.” You can feel your face heat up slightly.

“Thanks…” The silence between you and Bob stretches for a few seconds–comfortable, not strained. Outside the Denny’s window, a streetlight flickers, casting faint gold shadows across the table. The warmth of your coffee mug seeps into your palms, grounding you even as your thoughts turn over the night like a loose coin.

You glance over at him, chin tilted slightly, voice soft. “So why are you still on campus during spring break? Since you asked me…”

Bob’s hand curls around the coffee pot again. The ceramic glugs quietly as he refills his mug, steam rising faintly into the warm air between you. He doesn’t speak right away–just watches the dark liquid settle.

“Same as you, pretty much,” He replied after a beat, setting the pot back down. “But… I also don’t have a lock on my door, and the guys go into my room pretty often to steal things, so…” He shrugs one shoulder, faintly sheepish. “I figured it was better to be there. Y’know–stand guard.”

You smirk and lean forward slightly, grabbing a little plastic creamer cup from the holder and rolling it between your fingers. It clicks softly as it spins. “Interesting that you have a bunch of thieves in your presence.”

That earns a laugh from him–low and rough with amusement. “Well… they’ll always give the stuff back, of course. But only if I remind them.” He lifts his mug, lips quirking slightly as he takes a sip.

You hum, raising a brow. “Still sounds like thievery to me.”

His cheeks tint pink as he glances down into his cup, swirling it once before replying under his breath, “Touché I guess…” The silence slips in again—brief, like a shared breath—and you let your gaze settle on his hands for a moment. They’re long-fingered, a little ink-stained around the knuckles. Gentle, despite the size. His nails are clean but bitten at the edges. Tired hands. Capable ones.

Your voice cuts through the quiet again, this time softer, almost curious: “Your girlfriend must not like the guys coming in and out of your room, though.”

Bob pauses mid-sip. His lips part like he’s going to reply quickly, then he stops. A flicker of surprise crosses his face. He sets the mug down gently.

“No girlfriend,” He confirmed finally. His voice is steady, but there’s a faint guardedness behind it. “Kinda stopped trying with the whole dating thing. It was a bit… much.”

You blink at that. “Too much of a line-up?”

That draws a real laugh from him–quiet, exasperated, a hand lifting to rub at the back of his neck. His glasses slide slightly down his nose again.

“Oh, please…” He chuckles. “No. No line-up for me. I mean—look at me.”

You do, pointedly. “I am.”

He goes redder. You smirk.

“It’s just…” He exhales, shoulders relaxing as his fingers stir the coffee absentmindedly. “It’s complicated, y’know? I’m not very good at the whole–putting yourself out there thing. And I think people expect something when you show up to a date all prepared and polished. It gets weird. You have this whole pressure to perform. To be ‘on.’”

You tilt your head slightly. “Well, you seem to be outgoing. You’re doing pretty good with this conversation. I don’t know how it could be complicated.”

Bob stirs the sugar in his mug, the spoon clinking gently. He looks down at it, not quite meeting your eyes, but not avoiding them either.

“Maybe it’s because you’re pretty easy to talk to,” He explained. “It’s different when there’s no pressure. No expectations. You didn’t show up tonight wanting something from me. We just…Met. You don’t have a picture in your head of who I’m supposed to be.”

That strikes something in you–a truth you hadn’t quite realized was sitting at the edge of your own thoughts. You nod slowly, leaning a little further into the table.

“That makes sense,” You said softly. Your hand brushes the edge of the sugar packet holder again, fingertips tapping faintly. “I also think you walking in on me having a bit of an anxiety attack probably helped. With you staying calm, I mean.”

Bob’s head lifts slightly. His blue eyes catch yours again–bright, steady, warm. “That too,” he said, with a small smile. “It kind of cut through the usual noise. I knew what it was the second I saw you.”

You raise a brow gently. “Do you have experience with that kind of thing?”

He nods once. “I’ve had my moments. I’m…Pretty familiar with what it looks like. What it feels like.”

You feel your chest loosen–just slightly. There’s something in the quiet way he said it that wraps around you like a thread. Honest. Matter-of-fact. Not dramatic. Just shared.

You sip your coffee again, letting the silence settle in a way that feels companionable now, like you’ve both earned it.

Then Bob lifts his head a little more, his glasses catching the light as he looks at you across the table. His voice is lower now. “You’re okay now though, right?” You could feel your heart catch–not in that suffocating, chaotic way from earlier, but in a softer, almost stunned kind of ache. Because here he was: Bob, a stranger only hours ago, asking with quiet sincerity if you were okay. Not out of obligation. Not to get something from you. Just… because he cared. And somehow, that mattered more than you were prepared to admit.

“Yeah,” You replied, your voice light, but genuine. “I’m definitely feeling much better. I think it was just…How cramped the house was, to be honest.” You gave a soft, sheepish smile, pushing your hair behind your ear. “Wasn’t really a fan, I guess.”

Bob nodded, the corners of his mouth curling faintly. “That makes sense,” He murmured. “I think TRASH is like… the physical embodiment of a migraine.”

You snorted, and it broke the last of the lingering tension between you.

Before either of you could respond, the clatter of ceramic and the faint shuffle of sneakers announced the return of your waitress. She placed your food down with the weary grace of someone who’d balanced plates through hundreds of midnight shifts.

“Alright,” She said, eyeing the table, “Round one.”

She set down your fruit-topped pancakes–stacked high, glistening with syrup and dotted with blueberries and strawberries. The bacon was curled and crispy, the ham thick-cut and slightly charred at the edges. A steaming mountain of home fries followed, golden and peppered with bits of caramelized onion.

Bob’s first plate came next: a monstrous omelette, folded tight and stuffed with peppers, ham, cheese, and something else that looked like it might have once been alive and screaming. French toast followed, dusted with powdered sugar and still steaming, then the final plate of classic pancakes–plain, but perfectly browned and stacked like they belonged in a diner commercial.

“Damn,” You muttered as she walked away to grab another pot of coffee. “You weren’t kidding.”

Bob gave a faux-serious nod. “I take breakfast very seriously.”

Conversation flowed easily now, spilling over between bites and swipes of syrup, the low hum of the diner cocooning you in soft sounds: the hiss of the kitchen, the occasional ding of a timer, and the quiet scrape of forks over ceramic.

You talked about everything and nothing. Favorite professors. Weirdest drink orders you’d ever made at work. Other times, he said things you hadn’t expected: like how he wanted to work in aerospace design someday, or how he didn’t sleep well unless there was white noise playing somewhere nearby.

Somewhere between your second helping of home fries and Bob’s last piece of French toast, your phone buzzed. You picked it up mid-chew and glanced at the screen.

Jess: we’re heading back. dorms are too far but jake’s breath is worse. I’m tapping out.

Monica: don’t wait up <3

Sue: text when you’re home safe pls 🫶

You thumbed a quick reply, a warm smile tugging at your lips.

You: i’ll be good. i’ll text when i get back to the residence so you know i got home safe <3

When you set the phone down again, Bob was watching you–not in a weird way, just casually, curiously, like he could tell something in your expression had shifted.

“Friends bailing on you?” He asked, reaching for the last bite of his pancakes.

You nodded. “Yeah. Party must’ve worn them out.”

“Probably for the best,” He started, “It starts getting rowdy at around this time.” You snorted.

”What’s new? It’s like y’all don’t sleep, I’ve heard enough stories that it literally feels like when I don’t go to one of your parties I still attended.”

Bob laughed so hard he almost choked on his coffee.

By the time your plates were mostly empty and the coffee pot had been drained down to lukewarm remnants, you realized just how late it had gotten. The booths had began to thin out even more–there was just one table of students left, dozing over half-finished pancake stacks. The quiet was deeper now, but not uncomfortable.

The waitress returned to your table just as you were lifting your mug for one final sip, now half-cold and slightly bitter. Her pen was already poised, her notepad loose in one hand, her face unreadable behind the faint sheen of a night shift glaze.

“It’ll be one bill,” Bob said before she could even ask, his voice smooth but casual.

Your head jerked slightly in surprise, a protest already rising in your throat. “Wait, no–Bob, come on, you don’t have to–”

He shook his head gently, cutting you off with nothing more than a glance and a small smile. “It’s all good,” He murmured, already pulling out his wallet. “You got me out of the house for the first time this week. I owe you.” Your cheeks warmed, a slow bloom of heat rising into your ears. You blinked down at your mug, then back at him, and that’s when the sky opened.

A sudden roar of rain crashed against the diner’s roof, pounding like a thousand thrown pebbles. The windows misted almost instantly, a sheet of water streaming down the glass and distorting the world outside into a watercolor blur.

Bob flinched slightly, twisting in his seat to look outside. His shoulders hunched on instinct, and a low, resigned sound escaped from his throat. “Well…” he said, squinting past the droplets, “That doesn’t look good.”

You turned your gaze to the window and let out a dry laugh, exhaling softly as you looked down at the windbreaker you had draped over your lap. The nylon was thin and practically useless, more aesthetic than functional, and the idea of stepping into a monsoon in it was laughable at best.

“Guess I’m gonna be taking a second shower tonight,” you muttered.

Bob laughed—a soft, tired huff that carried the warmth of shared annoyance. He reached for the debit machine the waitress had just placed down, brows furrowing slightly at the glowing screen.

“I mean…” he began, eyes still on the numbers as he typed in a 20% tip with practiced ease, “TRASH is closer than your residence, I’m assuming…”

You stilled, your fingers lightly tapping the rim of your coffee cup. You raised an eyebrow and tilted your head toward him, a smirk flickering at the corner of your mouth. “Are you asking me to stay over at the frat house for the night?”

The question hung in the air, playful but open-ended, wrapped in something more vulnerable beneath the teasing. Bob’s fingers hesitated only a second on the keypad. Then he cleared his throat, his jaw flexing faintly as he focused a little too intently on the screen.

A tinge of pink crept into his cheeks, barely visible in the soft overhead glow, “Well,” He started, still looking at the machine, ““I don’t think it’ll be as chaotic as it was when we first left. It’s…”

He pulled his phone out of his hoodie pocket, thumb swiping the screen quickly before glancing at the time. His voice was slightly rough when he spoke again. “1:58…So most of the party crowd’s probably passed out or Ubered home.” You let the moment linger, your gaze resting on him as you traced the edge of your mug with your fingertip. The rain was still coming down hard, a near-constant shushing against the glass. You could feel the chill creeping in from the windowpane behind you, but your fingers were warm.

Your tongue flicked out to dampen your upper lip–an unconscious movement. “Okay,” you said quietly, meeting his eyes as he finally looked up. “You’re right.”

Something flickered behind his glasses–relief, maybe. Or hope.

“So…” He asked, voice gentler now, “Is that a yes?”

You tilted your head, pretending to consider it for dramatic effect. Then you nodded, slow and sure, your smile small but certain. “Definitely.”

———————————

By the time you reached the frat house again, your windbreaker had clung to your frame like a second skin–useless, soaked through, plastered to your arms and back. Bob hadn’t fared much better; his sweatshirt was darkened with rain, sweatpants sticking to his legs, curls dripping water down the sides of his face. You both half-jogged the final stretch of the walk, laughing breathlessly as puddles splashed beneath your sneakers, your jeans growing heavier with every step.

The porch light still flickered above the sagging steps of TRASH, casting its usual jaundiced glow across the warped wood and the crowd that lingered despite the downpour. The music inside had dulled to a murmur now–more background hum than bassline. A few people still lounged on the porch and by the windows, some wrapped in borrowed blankets or wearing half-soaked hoodies, clearly unwilling to brave the rain to get home.

You and Bob didn’t say anything as you stepped back inside. You didn’t need to.

The shift in temperature was immediate. Warmth hit you like a wall–sticky and musty from the remains of the party, but comforting after the rain. Your wet clothes clung to your skin, and you blinked against the fog that immediately fogged up Bob’s glasses.

He muttered something under his breath and took them off, reaching blindly for the nearest surface. A tissue box sat crookedly on the edge of a table cluttered with empty bottles and a half-eaten slice of pizza. He snagged one with a quiet “thanks,” as if the house had done him a favor, and carefully wiped the raindrops from the lenses.

You stood beside him, dripping gently onto the floorboards, ignoring the damp squish of your socks in your shoes.

“This is your fault,” You murmured dryly, nudging him with your elbow, pointing down at your shoes.

Bob smiled behind the tissue, his glasses still in hand. “Can’t control the way I splashed the puddles, it’s not my fault.”

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth of the exchange settled between you like steam, softening the cold still clinging to your back.

The climb to the second floor was quieter than before–no bodies spilling down the stairs, no screams from behind doors. The hallway was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of a nightlight near the bathroom and the soft hum of a TV still playing somewhere behind a closed door. You padded side by side, shoes squelching softly, until you reached the door at the very end.

Bob stopped and looked down at the wet prints you’d both left on the wood floor. “Wait,” He said, hooking a finger into the heel of his sneaker. “Let’s not trash the room on the way in.”

You mimicked him without question, tugging your own shoes off and stepping gingerly onto the dry patch of carpet just outside his door. Your barefeet were cold against the wood, but you followed his lead as he opened the door and ushered you inside.

The warmth of the room embraced you immediately–soft light still glowing from the desk lamp, books undisturbed, bed still neatly made. It looked exactly as you’d left it, like the universe had paused while you were gone. A pocket of calm in the storm.

Bob shut the door behind you with a quiet click, and you both stood there for a second, wet and shivering, taking in the familiar scent of detergent and paper and pine.

You turned to him, wringing out the bottom hem of your shirt slightly. “So…What’s the protocol here?” You asked, gesturing vaguely to your soaked clothes. Bob cleared his throat, the sound soft but a little strained as he shifted in place. His hair was damp and sticking to his forehead from the humidity of the rain and the faint warmth of the room.

“Um… I have some spare clothes you can wear,” He said, gesturing vaguely toward the small closet on the far side of the room. “They might be a little big, but…”

You shook your head immediately, brushing a few wet strands of hair back from your face as water dripped quietly from your sleeves. “I don’t mind,” You murmured. “Not really trying to impress anyone.”

That earned the faintest smirk from him, quick and crooked–just a twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. He turned away and opened his closet, the wooden door creaking faintly on old hinges. Inside, everything was neatly stacked or hung: flannel shirts, hoodies, folded sweats, a few plastic hangers twisting slightly from where they’d been jostled. It wasn’t much, but it was organized–just like the rest of him.

After a second of deliberation, Bob pulled out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms–soft-looking, forest green and navy plaid–and a white t-shirt with faded navy lettering stretched across the front.

You tilted your head, brows lifting slightly. “‘The All-State Mathletes’?”

He sighed. “Yeah…It was a math team I was on in my first year. Don’t ask.”

You grinned and took the bundle from his hands, brushing your thumb across the worn fabric of the shirt. “I’ll take anything at this point.”

“I figured,” He muttered with a low huff of a laugh. Then, with a tilt of his head, “Bathroom’s two doors down. Towels are in the top drawer if you need one.”

“Got it.” You nodded, stepping back into the hallway barefoot, flannel bundle tucked under your arm and your wet clothes slapping faintly against your side with every step.

The bathroom was empty–thank god–and you wasted no time peeling off your drenched clothes. The fabric clung stubbornly, cold and limp against your skin, your jeans making that awful suction sound as you dragged them down your legs. The windbreaker hit the floor with a wet slap, your socks not far behind.

The dry fabric of the borrowed clothes was a godsend.

The pajama pants were big, predictably, and you had to roll the waistband twice just to get them to sit above your hips. The t-shirt hung past your thighs, thin and worn soft with age, the letters cracked and faded from a thousand washes. You caught your reflection in the mirror briefly as you towel-dried your hair–still damp–but a little steadier now.

You bundled your soaked clothes into a loose pile in your arms and padded back down the hall, feet cool against the hardwood. The party had dulled into something sleepy and distant. A door creaked open somewhere behind you, but you ignored it, your focus set entirely on the quiet golden glow spilling from the crack beneath Bob’s door.

When you opened it, your hand halfway full of damp denim, you froze in the doorway.

Bob was halfway through pulling on a clean shirt, the fabric bunched in his hands as it hovered just below his collarbone. His back was to you, bare and still slightly damp, pale under the soft overhead light. And god–he was lean, sure, but he was defined. His shoulders tapered into the strong slope of his spine, the muscles along his back pulling tight with every breath as he raised his arms. His skin was smooth, but the planes of him were lined with quiet strength–faint dips and ridges casting gentle shadows across his shoulder blades and the curve of his waist. You hadn’t expected him to be built like that.

Your throat went dry.

You coughed–a soft, involuntary sound that slipped from your chest before you could stop it.

Bob startled slightly and turned, shirt still bunched in his hands. His glasses were back on, fogged faintly from the warmth of the room. His cheeks went pink almost instantly, like the realization had only just hit him. “Oh Jesus,” he muttered, yanking the shirt over his head in a single, awkward movement. “I didn’t know you’d be back already.”

You took a cautious step in, one hand tightening around the bundle of wet clothes clutched to your chest. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to just walk in–didn’t really expect you to be…Changing.”

Bob shook his head as he adjusted the hem of the shirt, tugging it into place at his hips, smoothing it over the faint damp patches on his new pair of navy sweatpants. “No–it’s fine. Really. Uh…Let me get you a towel for your pillow…And I can throw your clothes in the dryer so they’ll be good by morning.” He moved quickly, brushing past you with careful steps, warm air trailing in his wake. You caught the scent of him as he passed–faint detergent, piney body wash, something subtle and clean that clung to the soft cotton of his shirt.

He opened a small drawer near the dresser, pulling out a thick grey towel and handing it to you without making eye contact. Then he glanced down at the soaked bundle in your arms and gently reached for it.

“I’ll toss these downstairs now,” He offered. “Give me five minutes and they’ll be spinning.”

You nodded, lips parting slightly. “Thanks. Really.”

Bob’s expression softened as he looked up at you–his blue eyes still wide behind the lenses, but a little calmer now. “Do you want a drink or anything?” He asked as he backed toward the door. “I’m probably gonna grab some water before…Sleep.”

You hesitated, then gave a small, grateful smile. “Yeah. Water is fine…Thank you.”

He nodded once and slipped out the door, leaving you alone again in the soft glow of his bedroom. The sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs, and you sat slowly at the edge of the bed again, towel draped across your shoulders, the smell of his room slowly working its way deeper into your skin.

You thumbed open your group chat as you sat at the edge of Bob’s bed, the thick towel still draped over your shoulders like a shield. Your wet clothes were gone–already clunking softly in the dryer downstairs–and the cold had mostly left your skin, replaced by the slow radiating warmth of his room.

The group chat lit up under your fingers:

You: made it back to the frat house safe. staying here tonight—will explain tmrw. love you guys. <3

A second later, Sue reacted with a heart. Jess sent a gif of someone raising an eyebrow dramatically, and Monica just wrote: “knew it 😉”

You rolled your eyes and let out a soft breath of amusement, then set the phone down on Bob’s desk, the screen glowing faintly for another second before fading to black. You turned back toward the bed and let yourself sink into the mattress, exhaling slowly as your shoulders dropped. The towel slipped from your frame, and you folded it carefully, placing it over the pillow before lying back, arms stretched loosely at your sides.

The room hummed around you. Softly. Comfortably. A distant thump of music still pulsed from the floors below–muted now, a sleepy echo of chaos already starting to dissolve into morning fog. Somewhere, a door clicked shut. Pipes murmured in the walls. And the desk lamp bathed the room in a low, golden glow, casting soft shadows against the bookshelves and the edge of the closet.

Then, the door opened again.

Bob entered quietly, closing it behind him with the same practiced care he’d used all night. His hair was slightly less damp, the ends curling gently around his ears. A bottle of water was tucked in each hand, condensation trailing slow rivulets down his fingers.

“Here,” He said, holding one out to you.

You sat up slightly, taking the bottle with a soft “Thanks,” and cracking it open. The cap clicked beneath your fingers, the cool water a sharp contrast against your warm skin. Bob twisted the top off his own and took a quick sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Then he lowered it and glanced toward the bookshelf with an unreadable expression.

“I’m just going to grab a blanket,” he said casually, “and take the spare room.”

You paused mid-sip, brows lifting. “What?” you said, letting the cap snap gently back in place. “You don’t want to share a bed?”

Bob’s eyes darted to yours, surprised. His lips parted faintly. “You…want to share a bed?”

You shrugged, voice light but steady. “Well…yeah. I don’t really mind. There’s enough room, isn’t there?”

His gaze flicked to the mattress like it needed to be double-checked. “Yeah, there is,” He admitted, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Just thought you wouldn’t want to be sleeping in a bed with a stranger.”

You tilted your head, the edge of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Hey now,” You teased softly, “Come on. We aren’t strangers.”

Bob huffed out a breath–a laugh, almost. “We met less than twelve hours ago and we’re already sleeping in the same bed. Seems fast.”

You stood slowly, the blanket falling back in soft folds behind your legs. “I’m fine with fast if you are,” you said, tone flirtier than before, the words curling at the edge like steam rising from pavement.

Bob looked at you for a long moment. His eyes flicked down your frame briefly–respectfully–but you caught it. Just the faintest breath of a glance at the oversized shirt, the rolled waistband of his pajama pants on your hips. Then he swallowed, the movement subtle but visible.

You climbed under the covers, placing your towel-topped pillow against the headboard and leaning back into it. The sheets were soft–cotton, a little warm from the dryer, carrying the faint scent of his detergent. Your body sank into the mattress like it remembered the panic you’d felt hours ago and wanted to nestle into something still, something safe.

You patted the empty space beside you, eyebrows raised in invitation. “Well?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just smiled–shy and a little stunned–and shuffled toward the bed like he didn’t quite believe this was real. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight as he climbed in beside you, his long legs folding under the blanket, which he pulled up to his shoulders like muscle memory.

His shoulder brushed yours–barely–but the heat of it lingered.

You reached across your chest and handed him your water bottle without a word. He blinked once, took it with a murmur of thanks, and leaned over to place it gently on the nightstand beside his own. The lamp clicked off a second later, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint sliver of moonlight that slipped through the small window of his room. A silver-blue sheen spread softly across the edge of the comforter.

The quiet pressed in, not heavy or stifling, but thick with awareness.

Your bodies didn’t touch, but the heat between them curled like smoke.

You could hear the shift of the covers when Bob adjusted his legs, the soft whisper of fabric against skin as he rolled slightly toward you on instinct–then seemed to catch himself and settle again on his back. The bed creaked faintly beneath the motion, and then stillness returned.

The air smelled like clean cotton, pine body wash, the faintest trace of rainwater clinging to the ends of your hair. You turned your head on the pillow slightly, voice just above a whisper.

“Still awake?”

“…Yeah,” He said quietly. “You?”

You nodded in the dark. “Mm-hm.”

The quiet stillness wrapped around you like a weighted blanket, warm but buzzing with something new. It had shifted—gently, imperceptibly—but it was there now. Not the panic. Not the awkwardness. Something softer. Something waiting.

You turned over slowly, your arm sliding across the blanket as you rolled onto your side, the mattress giving slightly under your weight. The movement made a faint rustle, just enough for him to hear.

Bob shifted too.

His silhouette turned toward you, quiet and careful, until you could make out the soft rise of his chest beneath the covers, the faint slope of his shoulder, and the curve of his jaw in the pale wash of moonlight. His glasses were gone, probably folded on the nightstand with your water bottles, but even in the dim light you could see the glassy reflection of his eyes.

Blue. Gentle. Wide. Fixed on yours.

“Do you maybe want to maybe…Do something?” You asked, voice soft, watching as he swallowed hard.

”…What…What do you have in mind?” You didn’t answer right away. Just let the silence stretch between you like silk. Then your gaze dipped, slow and deliberate, to the shape of his mouth.

Soft, parted slightly. Waiting.

His breath caught–just the faintest hitch–and you saw his eyes flick down to your lips, mirroring you. Like instinct. Like gravity.

You leaned in.

It was tentative at first–your chest barely grazing his, your hand resting lightly on the edge of the pillow as you crossed the final few inches. Bob didn’t move, but his breath deepened, a quiet exhale drifting over your cheek as your nose brushed his. Then you closed the distance.

Your lips met his, soft and feather-light.

He froze for half a second, as if stunned–but then he kissed you back. His lips were warm, slightly chapped, but so gentle it almost made your ribs ache. He moved like he was afraid to shatter you, like this moment was too fragile to claim outright.

His hand came up slowly–hesitant at first, then steady. His palm cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing the curve of your cheekbone. The contact lit a slow-burning warmth across your skin. He let out a breath–long and unsteady against your lips, like the kind you exhale when you’ve been holding it too long.

He pulled back just a little, the tip of his nose brushing yours as he hovered, eyes open now, close enough that you could feel the faint tremble of his breath. You opened your eyes too.

And then you leaned forward again.

This time it wasn’t tentative. Still soft, still slow–but heavier now. More certain. You kissed him with your full mouth, with the weight of everything the night had built. Your lips parted slightly and so did his. The kiss deepened, quiet but lingering, the kind of kiss that said I see you. I feel this too.

Bob responded with a quiet sound in the back of his throat, like the breath had been pulled from him again. His hand shifted from your cheek to the base of your skull, fingers slipping into your damp hair, holding you with a gentleness that made your stomach flutter.

Your other hand found his forearm beneath the blanket, the heat of his skin a slow thrum against your fingertips. He tilted his head slightly to meet your mouth more fully, deepening the kiss just enough that you felt your body lean in instinctively. His lips moved against yours with the kind of reverence that made your breath catch–slow, aching, as if he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, it was only by an inch. Just enough for air. Just enough to look at you.

The moonlight caught in his lashes, his irises shining like sea glass. His lips were redder now, parted slightly, the corner of his mouth trembling faintly from restraint or disbelief. His thumb brushed along your jaw as he studied you, breath still coming a little faster than before.

“Is this okay?” He whispered.

Your heart twisted at the softness in his voice. You nodded–barely a motion–but it was enough.

“Yeah,” You whispered back. “It’s perfect.” Bob stared at you for a breath longer, like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like this whole thing might vanish if he blinked too fast.

Then he leaned in again.

The kiss that followed was deeper–hungrier. Less tentative. His hand was still cradling the side of your face, thumb brushing under your eye, but there was a new weight behind the way he kissed you now. A heat that curled up from the pit of your stomach, spreading like honey beneath your skin. His lips parted a little faster, like he was giving in to something he’d been holding back.

You pressed in with him, lips slotting together again and again, and then you moved–your body shifting under the blanket as you brought one leg over his hip, slowly, testing.

Bob froze for half a second–just long enough for you to hesitate–but then his hand moved. The one on your cheek slid down, dragging lightly along your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder, until it found your thigh. His fingers curled around the back of it, firm and warm, and pulled you gently closer.

You moved instinctively, hips settling into the cradle of his body, your leg draped loosely over his, pressing in. The blanket bunched around your waists, forgotten. The worn cotton of his borrowed flannel pants brushed against your skin as you rocked forward, just enough to feel the heat between your bodies catch.

His breath hitched.

The kiss deepened again, your lips parting just slightly, just enough to taste his breath. And then you felt it–his tongue, tentative but sure, slipping past your lips to meet yours. It wasn’t sloppy or rushed. It was slow and searching, like he wanted to memorize the shape of your mouth from the inside out. You responded in kind, your fingers curling lightly into his shirt, gripping the soft cotton as you rolled your hips again–just once.

Bob gasped against your lips.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw–half breath, half sound, the air from his lungs catching in his throat. You felt the heat of him through the fabric, the slow, aching tension building there. His fingers dug into your thigh just slightly, not enough to hurt–just enough to pull.

You did it again. Slower this time. Your hips moved in a slow, steady circle, the friction sweet and hot even through the layers of borrowed clothes. Bob broke the kiss suddenly, his lips parting with a soft huff of air as his head tilted back against the pillow.

“Fuck–” He breathed, almost inaudible, as though it had been dragged from him by accident.

You pulled back slightly, brushing your nose along his cheek before pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Get on top?” he asked, voice rough, uncertain but yearning.

You nodded, lips still brushing his.

He shifted beneath you, back arching slightly as he rolled onto his back, adjusting the blanket so it slipped lower across his hips. You followed the motion, moving carefully, straddling him with slow, deliberate movements. The oversized shirt you wore fell forward slightly, hanging off your shoulders as you adjusted your weight over him.

His hands settled instinctively on your thighs, fingertips flexing gently as you leaned down to kiss him again–this time firmer, more desperate. It was less polished now, more honest. You kissed like people who hadn’t had something like this in a long time. Like this was a secret you weren’t supposed to be sharing but needed anyway.

You began to move again, hips rocking gently against him in a slow rhythm that made his jaw slacken beneath your mouth.

Bob groaned–quiet, tight–and his hands moved to your waist, holding you just a little more firmly now. His breath was hot against your mouth as he kissed you harder, sloppier now, letting go of some invisible restraint. Your thighs squeezed around his hips, the pressure sending heat curling down your spine. You could feel how hard he was through his sweatpants now, the heat of him pressed up between your legs with every slow drag of your hips.

His moan broke the rhythm.

Soft and helpless. It slipped into your mouth like a secret.

You pulled back, barely, kissing the line of his jaw and the soft, exposed skin of his neck. He tilted his head just enough to give you more space. His throat flexed when you kissed him there–gently, again and again–before murmuring softly:

“Are you okay?”

His fingers tightened just slightly where they rested on your hips. His breath came a little faster now, chest rising against yours in shallow waves. And then, softly, almost embarrassed:

“I…I’m a bit sensitive…”

You paused, still straddling him, your hand smoothing lightly over his chest. The thump of his heart was rapid beneath your palm.

You looked down at him, eyes searching in the dark. “Are you…A virgin?”

He shook his head quickly, cheeks flushed red even in the faint light.

“No…No, not a virgin. But it’s…It’s kind of been a while. And I haven’t… I haven’t had sex with many people.”

Your heart softened at the honesty. The way he said it, not ashamed–just cautious. Like he wanted you to know what you were working with. What you were holding in your hands.

You leaned down, brushing your lips gently against his jaw.

“We can stop if you want,” You murmured. “I don’t mind just doing this. You don’t have to prove anything.”

Bob shook his head immediately, voice quiet but steady. “No…No, we can keep going. I want to. I really want to.”

You smiled, slow and reassuring. A gentle hand slid down to his chest again, your thumb brushing the fabric of his shirt as you spoke.

“If you want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

He nodded, eyes wide and warm. “Okay.” You leaned down again, your lips brushing the corner of his jaw, then trailing lower, slow and coaxing. Bob tilted his head back, just enough to expose his throat to you, and you took the invitation without hesitation–pressing soft, lingering kisses to the curve of his neck, the warm hollow beneath his jaw. You let your tongue flick out lightly, tasting the salt of his skin, the faint tang of piney body wash and rainwater still clinging to him.

His breath hitched again when your lips ghosted over the edge of his collarbone.

You kept moving downward, slow and deliberate, your hips still rocking gently against his as your kisses followed the slope of his body. The heat between your legs pulsed against the firmness beneath his sweatpants with each subtle shift, each teasing grind of pressure. You could feel him trembling slightly under you–barely noticeable, but there.

Then, without a word, he shifted.

He leaned up just enough to grab the hem of his shirt and peel it over his head in one fluid, unhurried motion. His hair stuck up in damp little curls as he tossed the shirt aside, chest rising and falling more quickly now, bare and flushed under the faint light.

You paused.

Your gaze swept over him–up close now. Every inch of him laid out before you. His chest was broad, lined with soft muscle, not overworked but strong. The subtle lines of his ribs shifted with each breath. A faint trail of hair disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats, and your mouth went dry again.

“Jesus,” You murmured, almost to yourself, your fingers ghosting over his sternum. He shivered under your touch. Your hands traced down slowly–past his chest, over his stomach, feeling the flutter of his abs tensing beneath your palm. You kissed each inch as you moved, warm and open-mouthed, pushing the comforter lower as you went.

He was breathing harder now, lips parted, one hand fisting the sheets beside him as he fought to stay still.

When you reached the waistband of his sweatpants, you looked up.

“Can I take these off?” You asked softly, fingers already hooked into the fabric.

Bob looked down at you, eyes glassy with heat, and nodded. “Yes… Please.”

You pulled them down slowly, dragging them past his hips, down his thighs, then off entirely. Your breath caught as he was finally exposed to you–fully, completely. He was big. Thick and flushed and already twitching under your stare, the head glossy with arousal, a vein pulsing visibly along the underside.

Your eyes widened just a little.

He saw it.

His face went red immediately, arms twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to cover himself or not. “Is…Everything okay?”

You nodded quickly–so quickly it made your hair shift. “Yes. Oh my god…Yes.” You reached up, wrapping your hand around him carefully. His whole body reacted–his hips stuttered and his eyes fluttered shut, a choked gasp leaving his lips. His thighs tensed beneath your knees.

“Still okay?” You asked gently, your hand already stroking him in slow, reverent pulls.

He opened his eyes, dazed and breathless, and nodded. “Yeah. Fuck–yeah.”

You leaned forward then, dragging your mouth along the sensitive skin of his lower abdomen, kissing just above the base of him. His hips jerked slightly under you. And then you took him into your mouth.

The reaction was immediate.

Bob let out a sound–high and broken, something between a moan and a whimper–and his hand flew up, grabbing at the pillow behind his head like he needed something to hold on to. You started slow, letting your lips stretch around him, your tongue tracing every inch you could reach, eyes flicking up to watch the way he unraveled.

It was messy. Your lips were already slick, your breath hot against him as you took him in deeper, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t manage. You let spit slide down your chin, let your tongue swirl at the sensitive underside of the head, and when you pulled back just enough to suck softly–he whimpered again.

“Fuck–Fuck, you’re–” He didn’t finish.

His chest was heaving now, one hand clenching the sheets, the other twitching at his side like he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his as you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time. His head fell back.

He tried to warn you. “I–I’m gonna–shit–”

You didn’t stop.

You kept going, messy and steady, humming softly around him. That was what pushed him over.

He came hard.

It hit like a jolt–his thighs tensed, a full-body tremble ran through him, and his hips jerked once, deep and involuntary. You swallowed everything, kept your mouth on him, letting him ride everything out with soft, wet pulls until he was gasping, his voice broken and breathless.

“Holy shit…” He whispered, “Holy shit.” You pulled off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, then kissed the inside of his thigh gently. He twitched under the touch, already so sensitive.

You looked up at him.

His hair was wild against the pillow. His chest was still rising and falling fast. He looked wrecked–in the best way. Flushed and dazed and entirely undone.

“…You okay?” You asked softly, your voice a little hoarse. He nods. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves, a light sheen of sweat just beginning to bead at his collarbones. His voice was rough when he finally spoke.

“You’re…” He swallowed, almost like he didn’t believe it himself. “You’re so good at that.”

You smiled–lazy, warm, lips still glistening from where you’d had him in your mouth. “Glad I didn’t disappoint.”

Then you began kissing your way back up, slow and teasing, your mouth trailing over his thigh, the curve of his hip, the faint dip of his navel. His body tensed in small waves under you, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or ground himself.

By the time you reached his chest again, your lips hovered above his, your palms pressed flat against his ribcage as you straddled him once more. The moment your mouths met again–softer now, slower–he kissed you like he could still taste himself on your tongue. Like he didn’t care. Like it made him hungrier.

Then, without a word, he shifted beneath you.

His core tightened–subtle but strong–and his hands slid firmly up your sides. And in one smooth, steady motion, he turned you both. Rolled you right onto your back, his body pressing down over yours, careful but deliberate. The mattress dipped beneath the change in weight, the blanket twisting around your waists as he settled on top of you.

You gasped, then laughed, the sound half-breathless. “Oh, okay,” You whispered, grinning up at him in the moonlight. “You’ve got muscles after all.”

Bob smirked–still shy, still pink in the cheeks, but he liked that reaction. You could tell.

His hands skimmed up beneath the oversized shirt, fingers warm and reverent as they rested just below your ribs. His thumbs rubbed slow, uncertain circles into your skin.

“Is this okay?” He murmured, already breathless again, eyes locked on yours like he’d stop the world if you flinched.

You nodded slowly, voice quiet but steady. “Yeah. Let me take it off for you.”

Bob leaned back just enough to let you sit up, his hands sliding down to brace your waist. You grabbed the hem of the shirt and peeled it up and over your head in one swift motion, the cotton catching briefly at your wrists before falling in a heap beside the bed.

The second you were bare to him, Bob’s eyes darkened. Not with anything aggressive–just wonder. Awe.

Then his mouth was on you immediately.

He leaned down, lips brushing the curve of your breast, then the center of it, then closing over your nipple with a gentleness that made your breath stutter. His mouth was hot–wet and reverent–and when he sucked, slow and careful, your back arched instinctively off the bed.

You heard him moan against you.

It was low and quiet, but you felt the vibration hum through your skin, straight down your spine. One of his hands came up to cup the other breast, thumb flicking across the nipple, just barely grazing it–testing your reaction. You gasped, thighs shifting beneath him, and his fingers twitched in response.

He liked that. He really liked that.

Bob switched sides without warning–his lips moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of kisses behind. He sucked more firmly this time, tongue circling your nipple before pulling it into the warmth of his mouth. You couldn’t help it–you let out a soft, broken moan, your fingers threading into his hair.

You tugged. Not hard, but enough.

His breath hitched again, and he groaned into your skin.

The sounds he was making were softer than you’d expected–gentle and desperate all at once. As if pleasuring you was more overwhelming than being pleasured himself. He took his time with your chest, letting each kiss linger, letting each flick of his tongue draw another gasp from you. He alternated pressure, learning what made your back arch, what made you squirm, what made your thighs tremble against his hips.

You tightened your fingers in his curls and whispered, “Bob…Fuck.”

He pulled back, lips red and wet, his breath warm against your breast. His eyes flicked up to yours.

“Can I go down on you?”

The question hit low in your stomach–immediate, electric.

Your lips parted before you even thought. “Yes…” A breath. “Yes, please.”

His smile broke through slow and stunned, like it had just dawned on him that he’d get to do this–that this was real. He kissed your sternum once, then lower, reverent as he worked his way down your body. His hands slid beneath the waistband of your pajama pants, fingers brushing your hips gently.

You lifted your hips in silent offering.

The flannel was untied with fumbling fingers–more eager than graceful–and he tugged it down with care, eyes glued to your body like he couldn’t believe how lucky he was. You helped him, pushing the fabric past your thighs, letting it fall in a heap somewhere at the end of the bed.

Bob shifted between your legs, hands bracing your thighs as he kissed the inside of one, then the other. His short strands of hair brushed your skin, his breath hot and unsteady against the most sensitive part of you, and when he glanced up–eyes wide, lips parted–you thought you might actually combust.

He settled lower. Breathed deep. And then tasted you.

The sound he made was immediate—a choked, guttural moan that vibrated through your entire pelvis.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, voice wrecked already. “You taste so good…”

Then his mouth was back on you.

Hot, open, eager.

He didn’t know what he was doing at first—at least not perfectly—but he learned fast. Every whimper, every shift of your hips, every breathless moan was something he studied. His tongue flicked, then flattened. Lapped broad and slow, then circled tight and precise, adjusting to your reactions like he was memorizing you.

The warmth of his mouth was overwhelming. It was everywhere. Wet and insistent and so good.

Your back arched and your hips rolled forward on instinct, chasing the pressure, and he groaned into you again—into you—like the weight of your pleasure was his. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading you open for him, holding you steady like he needed to stay here, buried here, like he couldn’t risk missing anything.

“Bob–oh my god–”

You felt him moan at the sound of his name, his tongue dragging slow and deep, lips sucking just enough to make your breath catch and stutter. It was dirty and worshipful all at once. Sloppy and reverent. It had you squirming against his mouth, your legs trembling on either side of his shoulders.

Then he paused.

Pulled back just barely–just enough to catch his breath and speak. His voice was thick and panting, his lips shiny, chin wet.

“I’m gonna…” He swallowed. “Add fingers.”

You let out a breathy, desperate moan, hips twitching up toward him involuntarily.

“Fuck, Bob…Please.”

He dipped his head again, kissing your clit once–soft and wet–before trailing lower with his tongue as his hand slid between your thighs. You felt the first press of his fingertips at your entrance–tentative, reverent–and then one slipped inside, slow and gentle, curling just enough to make you cry out.

“God,” He breathed, kissing your thigh as he moved. “You’re so wet…”

He added the second without warning–easing it in slowly, stretching you around his knuckles, and you swore the breath left your body in a rush. His fingers filled you, thick and warm and so good, and he started moving them–slow and firm, curling upward just right, just right–and then his mouth was back.

This time, he devoured you.

Messy, hungry, moaning against your clit as his fingers worked inside you, finding a rhythm that had your entire body going taut. You were writhing now–hips lifting, thighs clenching, voice catching in your throat as you tried to stay grounded, stay still, but he was relentless. Determined.

Like he’d waited years to do this and he was making up for lost time.

You felt it building–hot and sharp and inevitable–and your hands found his hair, pulling tight, holding on for dear life as your body surged forward.

“I–I’m gonna–fuck, Bob, don’t stop–”

And he didn’t. He just moaned into you, tongue flicking faster, fingers pumping deeper, curling as he groaned in response to your tightening around him.

You shattered.

Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into the mattress, your hips twitching against his face as you came with a full-body spasm, mouth open in a silent cry. You heard yourself babble his name, hips bucking helplessly as the orgasm tore through you, hard and fast and blinding.

Bob kept going. Gentle but steady. Lapping you through it, moaning into you like your pleasure was the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You finally collapsed back into the sheets, breathing ragged, hair clinging to your forehead. You laughed–soft and winded–still twitching every time he brushed too close.

He lifted his head slowly, face flushed, lips slick, chin glistening in the low light. His pupils were blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon.

“You okay?” He asked, voice hoarse.

You blinked up at him, dazed and completely blissed out.

“You’ve been blessed…” You dragged in a breath. “With such raw talent.”

Bob blinked–then laughed. Hard. Giddy. His smile broke wide across his face, messy and flushed and so proud. “Yeah?”

You nodded, still catching your breath. “Definitely. You were so good… So, so good.”

His cheeks turned red. “Like, uh… Good enough for a second round?” He teased, voice low. Your smile widened, slow and a little wicked, still flushed and catching your breath. “I think…” You murmured, voice soft but laced with heat, “I want to feel you. Actually.”

Bob’s breath caught. His eyebrows rose just slightly, like the words had short-circuited his brain. “Yeah?” he asked, half-disbelieving.

You nodded, lifting your hand to trace a lazy finger along the line of his jaw. “If you want to, of course.”

His eyes softened instantly. “I want to.” His voice was rough again, thick with desire, but gentled by the way he looked at you. With care. With hunger. With awe.

He crawled slowly up your body, his hands braced beside your ribs, his chest brushing softly against yours. His lips found your collarbone first–featherlight and reverent. Then your neck, where he pressed an open-mouthed kiss just below your ear, tongue flicking briefly against your skin.

You could feel him, hard and hot, dragging against your inner thigh as he moved. It made your hips roll on instinct.

“Going down on you really got me going…” He breathed into your skin, voice low and desperate, hips twitching slightly. His body was shaking with restraint.

You giggled–a breathy, warm sound that made him smile as you turned your face toward him. Your mouths met again, lips pressing together, and you tasted yourself on him–your own slickness still clinging faintly to his lips, his tongue. You kissed him deeper, your hand sliding along his spine.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You really want to?”

You nodded, brushing your nose against his. “Do I need a condom?”

You watched his pupils dilate at the question, a harsh breath catching in his throat. “I’m on the pill, and I haven’t had sex in a bit but my recent STD test was clean.” You added, voice even softer now.

“Fuck…” He breathed, voice cracking a little. “Okay.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time–urgent but not rushed. Like he needed to feel you everywhere before he could push in. One of his hands slid down between your bodies, finding the heat between your thighs with instinctive precision. He nudged the tip of himself against your folds, dragging it up and down–slick and hot–through your wetness.

You both groaned.

Your hands gripped his arms, fingers curling into his skin as he slowly began to push in. His body trembled above you, the pace careful but steady, like he wanted to feel every second of it. The stretch burned in the best way–deep, hot, slow.

“Jesus Christ,” Bob whispered, his voice completely wrecked. “You feel so good… You’re so fucking warm…”

You gasped when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, every inch of him buried deep inside. The fullness made your toes curl, your whole body responding with an involuntary tremble.

He didn’t move right away. Just hovered above you, his breath ragged, his eyes searching your face. He kissed you–softly–his mouth trembling slightly as he whispered:

“You’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You moaned at that, your thighs tightening around his waist, your hands sliding up his back and digging in just enough to make him gasp. His hips drew back and rolled forward again–deep, grinding, slow. Each thrust pressed his pubic bone against your clit, and the sensation made your breath stutter.

“Oh–fuck–“ You gasped, your voice catching.

Bob stilled immediately, looking down at you through glassy, blown eyes. “You okay?”

You nodded frantically, hand gripping his bicep. “Yeah. Do it again.”

He did.

Again. And again. A slow, sensual grind that hit exactly right every time. Your hips began to twitch under him, your breath breaking in little gasps as you chased the rhythm with your body.

He moaned into your mouth as he kissed you–lips sloppy now, too lost in the moment to care. Every sound he made was raw: gasps, whimpers, soft broken curses whispered against your lips and skin.

“Fuck… You feel so good, so good around me, sweetheart,” He rasped. “You’re squeezing me—God, you’re… You’re perfect…”

The praise was relentless. You could barely breathe from how hot it made you.

You tightened around him, fluttering involuntarily with every thrust. You were close again–dangerously close–and the next roll of his hips sent a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your orgasm hit with a choked moan, your nails digging into his back, your body clenching tight around him as your hips bucked helplessly. Bob groaned as your walls squeezed him, loud and unfiltered.

“Fuck–I’m gonna–” He gasped, hips stuttering.

Then he buried himself deep, letting out a ragged, whimpering moan as he came inside you, face pressed into your neck. You felt his teeth graze your skin, his whole body trembling with the force of it.

For a moment, you both just lay there–panting, gasping, covered in sweat and warmth and each other.

Then he slowly lifted his head, eyes dazed but bright, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised.

“…Do you,” He began, breathless, “Do you want to go out to dinner with me tomorrow?”

You blinked, and then started laughing–a soft, disbelieving, breathless laugh.

“That would be really great,” You murmured, your voice thick with affection.

Bob grinned, wide and flushed, before collapsing gently beside you on the mattress. Your legs tangled. Your breath slowed. The room hummed in the quiet aftermath, soft and safe and one with the both of you.

[angrythingstarlight]

On TikTok I saw a comment where a woman said that she told her husband to pretend to be unconscious so he was dead weight to see if she could drag him out of the house in case of fire or emergency, she couldn’t even pull him off the bed and she cried so he had comfort her while dying laughing😭😭😂 reminded me of something biker Bucky and Gorgeous would do

Pairing: Biker!Bucky x Reader

A/N: Written on my phone, unbetad.

Bucky groans dramatically. "You might as well just leave me here and save yourself Gorgeous."

You keep pulling him with all your strength but he barely budges an inch. You might be able to move him if he'd stop talking.

He doesn't.

"Bury me with my bike." Bucky cracks open an eye, his lips twitching. "And a pair of your panties."

"I'm not doing that." A laugh spills past your lips before you can stop it.

You can't concentrate with him cracking jokes like this. Yeah that's the reason you're struggling to move this six foot something man. It's all his fault.

You keep laughing but the more he thinks about it, the more he likes the idea. "Matter fact, line my casket with your panties and toss in a few of those pics I have on my phone."

"Oh my god."

"I'll know if you disregarded my last wishes," he casually warns, like his massive body isn't splayed on the bedroom floor. Like he's still not budging despite the fact that you're putting your all into this.

"Shut. Up."

"Mourn me for the rest of your life," he sighs sadly, head lolling to the side. Bucky hasn't broken character once, he's fully committed to this bit. "Keep a shrine of me in our bedroom."

"Bucky I'm trying to focus," your breathless giggle lost under a grunt when you try to shove him to the side. Nothing. Damn it.

Eyeing his shirtless, tattooed body, you try new a new approach. Adjusting your grip, you hook your fingers under his upper arms. You can barely get your hands around half of his large, warm biceps. Bracing your feet on the floor, you pull so hard you feel your muscles tremble and ache. He slides up a centimeter.

"Don't even think about moving on."

"Be quiet," you start. Releasing his arms, you wince when they hit the floor with a thud. You'd have better luck moving a pile of bricks than your man. "What would you do if I did?"

You're teasing but Bucky takes you very seriously.

He doesn't play when it comes to you. Or his burial requests.

He slowly opens his eyes, his darkening gaze captures yours. "I will haunt you for the rest of your life," he states confidently. "No guy will even breathe in your direction by time I'm done with them. You're going to have a rep because of me."

There's no time to process that because his hands suddenly reach out, grabbing your ankles. You're tugged forward, turned and twisted—somehow he manages to squeeze your ass a couple of times—until you're flat on his chest, his pecs under your palms.

Bucky smiles, his hand cups the back of your head and he brings your face close to his. "If you think I'm a menace now, imagine what my ghost will be like. Just imagine what ghost me would do to you. I'd get rid of your little replacement and then you'd get all my attention. Remember ghost me isn't going to get tired."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh no.

Well maybe that could be fun. Wait.

Your eyes widen at the images his words are creating. He chuckles under his breath. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Resting your chin on his chest, you have to admit, no man would ever measure up to your bike. And if anyone could find a way to come back and haunt someone, it would be the handsome, incorrigible man under you.

"So you want all my panties or just your favorites?"

"Gorgeous. How many times do we have to go over this? All your panties are my favorite."

"Fine," you concede, failing to hold back a smile. "But you promised me a lifetime together and I'm holding you to that."

Bucky brushes his lips across yours in one sweet, sure motion. His deep voice rolls over your skin leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I have no intention of leaving you anytime soon. I got too many plans for you, Gorgeous."

All of his plans revolve around loving you, protecting you, being with you, caring for you any way you'll let him.

And he's going take his time getting through every last one of them.

[morganbritton132]

Tommy has three brothers.

You may think that this would have taught him how to share, but it didn’t. It taught him that if he wanted something to grab it quick and hold it tight.

Which is to say that he does not like Carol.

He is not thrilled when Steve asks their teacher if Carol can sit with them during snack time because Steve is his best friend. He found him first and he’s not letting go of him.

Especially not to some dumb girl that plays with dolls.

“Mr. Whiskers isn’t a doll. He’s a cat.”

“Mr. Whiskers is a dumb toy,” Tommy grouses, pulling on Steve’s backpack strap so he follows him. Steve says he likes toys and Tommy concedes because he likes toys too just - “Not dumb toys. I have cool toys. I can show you.”

And Tommy does. He drags Steve onto the bus with him. None of his brothers mention it when Steve gets off at their stop.

In fact, no one mentions it at all. Especially not to their mother so it’s something of a surprise when she turns around to find a boy in her kitchen. Not one of her boys but - “Hello?”

The little boy looks away from the pot boiling on the stove and asks, “How come you don’t have a microwave?”

“Mama says that I can’t use the stove ‘cause I’m not big enough,” He continues while Maria stares dumbfounded at him. “Tommy’s not big either and you don’t got a microwave. Does he just eat cereal?”

The boy blinks at her, “I’m Steve, by the way.”

“Steve,” She says slowly, connecting the name to Tommy’s friend from school. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“I know I’m here.”

“Anyone else?”

“Tommy knows,” He says. “He’s in his room. We’re playing nascar.”

“That sounds fun,” She says, slipping into mom mode. She crouches down so they’re eye-level and smiles, “Why don’t I call your mom and let her know that you’re having fun?”

She can see the clogs turning in his head before Sleve slumps his shoulders. His bottom lip juts out and his eyes get shiny. She’s about to ask him what’s wrong when Tommy slides into the room on his socks and Steve tells him in a sad little voice, “Your mama wants me to go home now.”

Tommy promptly bursts into tears.

He doesn’t want Steve to leave. He’ll miss him and he hasn’t even showed him his GI Joe yet.

It takes a lot of soothing words, many reassurances that she’s not kicking Steve out, and the recruitment of her husband before the situation was calmed down. It’s only then that Steve - dry-eyed now - suggests, “I can call my mama.”

This is what Maria was trying to accomplish in the first place.

She takes Steve into the living room where their landline was. He dials his phone number carefully as her, her husband David, and Tommy watch. He gives her a reassuring smile, holding the phone to his ear.

“Hi, Mama! It’s Steve,” He says into the receiver. “I’m at Tommy’s. He’s my best friend and his mama said I can stay the night. Love you. Bye. Love you.”

He hangs up the phone before Maria could ask for it and informs her, “Mama is a super busy lady. She’s goin’ to the - to the store. She says she loves you.”

The boys run off to continue playing while Maria processes what the hell just happened. She’s still processing when David picks up the phone and presses the same buttons Steve had.

He holds the phone to his ear and gets the answering machine for, “The fucking Harringtons?”

[jaeminvore]

Credit Card Baby | Z.CL

“Who do I gotta fuck for barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter around here?”

PAIRING: Chenle x Fem!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Four days, three broke girls, two possible outcomes, and one solution. What are you willing to sacrifice in exchange for a night seeing a long-awaited Juno pose five feet away from your eyeballs? Your dignity, probably because it just so happens that one (1) Chenle Zhong could be the solution to your current girl problem. Only, you don’t really do well with charity. Nothing in life was free and everything had a price, but Chenle likes to think differently—that he's simply helping a friend out. Like the many times he did before. There should be sugar-daddy-sugar-baby joke around here somewhere.

alternatively: ‘three dumb bitches telling each other ‘exactlyyyy’.’ — ‘A sugar-daddy (kinda) au with no age-gap, but with a financial gap that no one asked for’.

WORD COUNT: 15.5K

NOTE: first Chenle fic kinda nervous but also excited because I've been wanting to write for pookie for a loooong long while!! So I gathered all the remaining brain cells I have and came up with this hot garbage (affectionate). This is legitimately the most unserious piece of fiction I’ve written so far, so if you’re in the mood for some fun and entertainment centered around vibes n mild-horniness you’ve come to the right place! The title comes from a song with the same title which is funny to me because the song itself (Credit Card Baby by Wham!) is the complete opposite of the story I'm telling here LMAO

CONTENT TAGS & WARNINGS: mildly suggestive themes (as in, there's very little implication to sex and masturbation here if it bothers anybody. Just to put it out there so proceed with caution), crude jokes and language, crack treated seriously, comedy, college au, fluff, friends to a secret third thing, sugar daddy au (kinda), Chenle majors in business, MC majors in architecture, everyone yaps a lot... for some reason, Chenle’s also a micro-celebrity (streams and posts on TikTok), brief discussion of OnlyFans, but I am in no way encouraging it.

DISCLAIMER: none of this is meant to represent anyone in real life. This is purely fictional and for entertainment purposes only.

According to an article you’d come across, an OnlyFans creator earned an average of one-hundred-eighty dollars a month. Multiply that four or five times, you’d have enough for one ticket.

“Alright,” you sighed, bringing your knees up as your eyes glued to what laid out in a neat pile right before you and the girls you lived with. “how much do we have all together?”

“Twenty-seven dollars and thirty cents. One banana flavored condom. Three sticks of gum—a chewed piece of gum, ew—a crumpled tissue and a… hairball.”

Jesus. This was getting ridiculous.

“Fantastic!” You clapped, looking at both girls with a wide smile and desperate eyes. “Anything else?”

“A maxed out credit card,” Minjeong sniffed as she threw the offending piece of useless plastic onto the pathetic pile. “That’s all we have to our names combined. We’re broke as shit.”

No, really. You had everything you needed for a flourishing career of flashing your nether regions to the world behind a paywall.

A laptop with a webcam. A pretty face. A small collection of toys. Very small. A pink two-in-one vibrating dildo the girls had gotten you as a gag gift for your birthday still in its packaging type of small. Vaguely resembling a swirly ice pop you’d get on a hot summer day, and you had lovingly named it ‘Pinky’ before it had gotten shoved into the depths of your drawer, never to be seen again.

Your imaginary audience probably wouldn't mind, right? So long as they’d get an eyeful of a pretty girl playing out starved men’s depraved fantasies.

Then again, the idea didn’t seem too hard in theory considering how far gooners were willing to throw a couple of dollars for a  five seconds long clip. They wouldn’t even notice the difference between an overexaggerated moan resembling a cat’s mating yowl and a genuine moan of pleasure, far too busy jerking it until their keyboards were dank from their own mess. You’d be earning enough to broaden your pathetic sex toy collection.

Simple-minded people were easy customers and you sure had no problems capitalizing off of that.

It was a good plan. A perfect long-term plan even, if it didn’t earn less than minimum wage and if you weren’t racing against time.

“This sucks,” Yizhuo whined, throwing her head back and staring forlornly at the ceiling. “Where the hell are we gonna get that kind of money in four days?”

Minjeong raised a groomed eyebrow. “Can’t you ask your parents? Say it’s an emergency or something.”

Yizhuo’s head lolled to the side, frowning at her. “They still have me cut off, remember?”

And the thought wasn’t just devastating to Yizhuo who, up until a few months ago, had been living the life of a spoiled princess with the world right in the palms of her dainty, never-worked-in-her-life hands. Naturally, being the closest to Yizhuo where you all were practically sisters, you and Minjeong were tangled up in the punishment as well. That meant leeching off of her and her unlimited access to her parents’ money was ineffective until she learned her lesson. 

After all, she was the reason why you and Minjeong had a roof above your head because apparently buying a house out-of-pocket was much more cost-efficient than renting, leaving you girls the responsibility of paying for groceries and sparing you just enough to spend for personal items. Yizhuo handled the rest as she had become somewhat of a sugar mommy.

“Apparently Daddy thought I was being very irresponsible with their money.” Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “Whatever that means—that I spend most of my time shopping rather than studying, which is so stupid when I already know the business like I know Daddy’s card details by heart! Why should I go to university when I’m set for life?”

She had gotten a job a week after spending what was left of her savings in a fit of panic. Lavishly, one could say, where the amount of clothes, bags, makeup and accessories had your eyes bugging out at the exorbitant prices printed on each receipt. Minjeong hadn’t been responsive all throughout. You didn’t think she was breathing either when she stared hard at a receipt from Prada.

Lucky for Yizhuo, Minjeong’s job at a thrift store had recently let go one of their former employees after her boss had caught them doing lines in the break room.

It was perfect for Yizhuo, low effort as she’d be manning the cashier and would occasionally keep the racks in stock. And best of all, she won’t be alone. She’d be with Minjeong which also came as a relief to you since it was a huge adjustment from not lifting a finger all her years on Earth thus far, to suddenly contributing enough to keep your mouths fed for at least twice a day.

“Wow,” Minjeong drawled, “your life must be so hard.”

“Ugh,” Yizhou groused, crossing her arms as she leaned against the foot of the couch with a moue reminding you of a spoiled child being told ‘no’. “You don’t even know.”

Judging by the look on Minjeong’s face, she was not having Yizhou’s tone-deafness in the slightest, and while you silently shared the sentiment—that the youngest of the household could have refrained from flaunting her privileged life, you didn’t want any casualties that could potentially turn into a court case. Because as sweet as Yizhuo was, she could be just as evil and vindictive to anyone that wronged her in some way.

“At least your parents let us keep the house,” you joked, patting Yizhuo’s knee with a smile. She at least appeared genuinely apologetic by the situation. “Any ideas on how we could get at least fifteen hundred dollars for three barricade tickets in”—you glanced at your calendar app—“four days?”

“Girl, you are asking for a goddamn miracle,” Minjeong sighed, “even Jesus took three days to resurrect.”

You nodded sagely and added, “took him six days to create the world,” which got a confused noise from Yizhuo.

“I thought it took seven?”

Minjeong shook her head. “No. He rested on the seventh day. Didn’t you go to Sunday School?”

“Not really. I barely lasted half a day.”

Well, all of you were definitely losing the plot here, quoting holy scripture, or whatever, but Minjeong was right; none of you were divine beings capable of pulling miracles out of your proverbial asses in time when the goddamn concert was in four days.

One could argue that you were given a long enough timeframe to save up for pre-sale, but when you had a friend like nepo-baby heiress Yizhuo Ning who had connections everywhere, it was guaranteed that you'll get the best seats at a concert of a big-named artist with her influence regardless of the limited time frame. Perhaps backstage passes if Yizhuo liked them enough. And she liked this one. A lot. She could never resist Sabrina Carpenter’s big blue eyes and bouncy blonde curls.

So, no. None of you had the forethought of pulling out the ‘Saving Up For A Concert For Dummies’ manual. Not when you had Yizhuo and her endless pockets full of hard cash to fall back onto.

Then she lost access (temporarily) to the Ning family vault, with barely anything saved up from her job because her spending problem wouldn’t vanish with just a snap of her father’s fingers, apparently. Now here you were: sitting in a circle on the plush, mauve, floral embossed carpeting that must have costed a fortune with crumpled dollar bills and junk you found deep in your purses like you were all trying out a crude summoning ritual for fat wads of cash.

Nothing could get worse than this. You’ve been through worse than this.

“We could sell feet pics?”

“Hell no. Feet freak me the fuck out,” Minjeong shivered.

You plucked the condom from the pile and lifted it up at face-level. “Would a used condom sell a lot to some weirdo freak out there?”

“Maybe,” Yizhuo replied the same time Minjeong said, in absolute disbelief that one of you would ever think of something so unhygienic, “I wouldn’t know, I’m a lesbian.”

“Yeah, no.” You wrinkled your nose. “You would not catch me pulling out a condom with some guy’s jizz in it from the trash. Ew.”

“How about a sugar daddy?”

“Eh. I’m not really into older men.”

“You saying you wouldn’t let the guy who played M-C-U Bucky Barnes hit?”

“Oh sure,” you said, sarcasm dripping thickly with each word that followed, “let me just hit up my buddy, my pal, Sebastian Stan on Instagram. Maybe I should call his phone number too! Y’know, the number that I don’t have.”

“Okay, sheesh. You don’t need to be so mean about it,” Minjeong mumbled.

“Oh! OnlyFans!” Yizhuo suggested with reverence as if she figured out how to attain world peace, earnest as her eyes rounded with excitement. “I’ve heard plenty of success stories. It can’t be too hard for any of us.”

A beat of silence, and then—

“Not it!” Minjeong exclaimed, touching the pad of her index finger to the tip of her nose.

“Not it!” came Yizhuo’s shrill voice a close second, copying Minjeong.

“Not it—fuck!” you wailed, half from being the sacrificial lamb and half because you smacked yourself in the fucking face from momentary panic which the girls didn’t seem to catch, too busy shrieking and hugging each other in relief. “No fair.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty fair,” Minjeong shrugged, pressing her cheek against Yizhuo’s. “You were just slow.”

“And if anything, this’ll be easy for you!” Yizhuo cheered.

“Easy? okay—this“—you motioned wildly to your own body—“isn’t for the masses.”

Minjeong snorted. “Oh, sure. Tell that to the three guys you keep on rotation.”

“They’re just three guys. God forbid a girl has a healthy sex-life,” you whined. It was either wither away when you weren’t agonizing over your Architectural Design course—any of your courses, really—or fuck around with the guys you’ve met through mutual friends as your mode of relief.  “and why does it have to be me? I’m sure either of you could pull off being an O-F model.”

“One,” Minjeong raised a finger, “don’t ever call me that. Even if it’s in a hypothetical sense. And two, the thought of men being the majority of my audience unnerves me. I don’t think you could make it so only women could see me, so fuck that.”

“Fine. I’ll allow it.” You turned to Yizhuo with an expectant look. “What about you?”

She returned it with an unimpressed one, bordering on disbelief the longer you stared at her, waiting to say her piece.

“You’re kidding, right?” No, you were not. Was there a joke hidden in those three words forming a question? Not that you knew of, so you gestured for Yizhuo to get on with the program. “I’m like, the last person you should send to the wolves.”

“Why not?” You pouted. “You’re like, the most charismatic of us three. Got a pretty face too, if that wasn’t obvious enough.”

“Uh-huh, yeah—calling me pretty won’t change my mind,” Yizhuo said, firm and that meant she won’t tolerate any more of your pushing, yet the pretty blush tinting her cheeks told you enough that you almost got through her. “I’m an heiress to one of the largest Chinese conglomerates back home. How’d you think that would look for me?”

Bad, I’m guessing, and you knew this first-hand. 

There was an approximate six-thousand mile distance from where Yizhuo was brought up to where all three of you resided, yet that didn’t stop the Chinese media from getting their updates on how Yizhuo Ning was faring as an international college student.

You had a few run-ins with the paparazzi just dying to get dirt on Harbin’s sweetheart, fought with some too which had caused quite a buzz on both Weibo and Xiaohongshu when pictures of Yizhuo stumbling down the stairs of a frat house, looking drop-dead gorgeous were shared. No one could tell she was barely clinging onto sobriety. Or that she had already emptied her stomach twice in one of Sigma Chi’s bathrooms and a plant that surely had seen better days being under the care of jaunty frat boys who barely knew the concept of photosynthesis.

There was also a handful of you elbowing one of the paparazzi in the face when they had gotten too close. Your face, thankfully, had been blurred out. Same with Minjeong’s who had been trying her absolute damndest to keep you from getting aggravated assault charges while being tipsy herself.

If they had somehow caught wind of Yizhuo being involved in something so obscene—and you knew they would eventually—her life would be over. And yours. And Minjeong’s, because God forbid her parents might as well treat you as their own children with how often their darling daughter talked about you during their weekly check-up calls.

“And my parents would literally kill me if they found out their only daughter isn’t as virginal as they thought!”

“But you haven’t been a virgin since sophomore year.”

Yizhuo rolled her eyes. “They don’t know that, obviously.”

“And so that leaves me to be the breadwinner of this fucking household,” you said, heaving a conceding sigh. “God I hate you rich people.”

“I know you do. You say ‘eat the rich’ at least three times a day like it’s ‘grace’.” Yizhuo didn’t even sound remotely annoyed by your diss, basking in the relief of not taking your place and sacrificing her dignity. “It’s just until we get the tickets. Then you can be boring and gate-keep yourself until we have to slut you out again.”

“My body is a temple,” you said, feigning offense as you crossed your arms, cupping your breasts in a protective hold while Minjeong cackled. “Besides, OnlyFans might be easy on paper, but executing it? Four days won’t be enough. There are many factors involved and engagement won’t be that easy from how oversaturated it is. I’d be a no name. It’d probably take me months to get the amount we need and Miss ‘have you ever tried this one?’ would be in Europe by then.”

“And you did the math for that?”

“Only since we took all the shit out of our purses.”

“Right, because you always do the math for everything.”

“It’s a reflex.” You shrugged. You could even say it had been ingrained in you, haunted by the fact you almost failed Calculus I. You struggled less with it now, spending all summer drilling numerous Youtube tutorials into your brain and electing one of your classmates as your tutor. “How do you think we’ve survived this long without your parents’ money?”

Yizhuo shrugged. “Fair enough. Nerd.”

She gets a pillow to the face for that.

“Well,” you said with a clap. “If that’s all, I gotta go in”—you glanced at your watch and then panicked as you scrambled to get up—“five minutes ago. Fuck, I’m gonna be late!” The pop in your knees made you wince when getting on your two feet, making a bee-line towards your bedroom and stumbling over Minjeong’s thighs in the process.

“For a dick appointment?” 

“If you count AutoCad fucking up my chances for a four-point-oh, then sure.”

So maybe you had lied about the dick appointment, but in your defense, you actually had shit to do.

It just so happened Renjun also majored in Architecture, and that you shared all of your classes with him because if you were walking into five years of hell, you sure as hell weren’t going to suffer alone. You were simply hitting two birds with one stone.

If only those two hypothetical birds you hypothetically murdered coughed up fat wads of cash enough for three tickets, then you’d be set.

You let out a defeated sigh. “I need fifteen hundred bucks.”

Renjun, who just got back from a shower, blinked at the bold request.

“Say that again? You need how much?”

“Fifteen hundred bucks,” you repeated.

Renjun's face twisted as he stuck his pinky into his ear and wiggled it around. “I’m definitely hearing things ‘cause there’s no way.”

You rolled your neck to blankly stare at him. “I can say it again in Mandarin, if you want.”

“Please don’t,” Renjun shook his head, not minding that you were trying really hard to set him on fire with your eyes. “That’s like, using what I taught you for evil.”

“Well that’s too damn bad,” and you repeated what you said in near flawless Mandarin.

The conversation should have ended there. He just had the most underwhelming orgasm to-date due to whatever weird headspace you were in throughout your—ahem—session that made it less passionate and more robotic, but getting blue-balled was considerably worse than having to act as your last-minute financial adviser.

He simply could ignore anything that had just left your mouth when your attention was set onto the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling, but the unfortunate thing was that Renjun was nothing but indulgent at the moment. 

Dregs of lust in his brain prevented any of his usual no-nonsense approach and it certainly didn’t help that he could never say no to a girl—a pretty girl, no less—no matter how insufferable they were. Specifically you with his sheets wrapped around your still naked body. Renjun was still a man, and his IQ could still lose a few points if a girl so much looked his way.

Since you were both things, a girl and pretty, he calmly graced your dilemma with an answer.

“I can only give you orgasms, I’m afraid.” He said with a pout you knew was meant to be patronizing, mocking almost, especially with a detached lilt to his voice.

This wasn’t new to you as it was one of his methods to get under your skin. He knew you hated it, and you could definitely tell he’d prefer to discuss something else. Or nothing at all, but he had already poked the bear which meant he had to listen to you whinge until you either 1.) get it out of your system yourself or 2.) or he did something about it, and Renjun knew exactly the choice he made, yet that obviously didn’t work.

“What’s the fifteen hundred for anyway?” he conceded, barely tampering down the reluctance of circling back on your current financial struggles while rubbing his hair dry.

“Barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter,” you said shifting onto your side so you could face him properly. “VIP too if possible. For me, Ningning and Minjeong.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenching. Saying other girls’ names post-coitus should be considered an act of violation or something, but he digressed.

“I thought Yizhuo got you tickets already?” His eyes snapped open to regard you with a lost look. “Before the whole cutting her off from her parents’ money fiasco?”

“Well, no one was really expecting her to go broke. She didn’t think it was a priority when she could just get the tickets last minute.”

“And since they took away access…”

“No money for us until further notice.”

Both of his eyebrows rose at the sheer ridiculousness of Yizhuo, self-proclaimed number one Sabrina shooter who could not go one day without singing Feather as much as her lungs could take, not being able to cop tickets. “The concert is in four days.”

“Oh don’t I know it.” When it rang like a giant alarm in your head, it was hard to not think about it. “I’m thinking of taking out a loan from my bank.”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped and tossed his damp towel onto your face. You shrieked and clawed it away because, ew, gross. “No way in hell are you going into debt because of a concert. Are you fucking crazy?”

“It’s not like I can ask someone to buy them for me either!” 

Renjun just barely resisted the urge to groan at the fact your persistent yapping almost ruined your then stellar bed chem.

“Like, who would be dumb enough to buy me a ticket? Let alone three?”

It’s surprising how you were able to come up with coherent sentences aftergetting your brains fucked out, but Renjun had always thought you were a weird one. Stamina on good days, yet a common cold could have you acting like you were knocking on death’s door.

“I’m sure I can name at least one person,” he said, thoughtful.

“Does this person have two-toned hair, perchance?” you wheedled, rolling onto your stomach to cup both of your cheeks with your hands looking like a flower in bloom for him. “Is his name Renjun Huang? A-K-A my favorite guy in the whole wide world?”

“You’re cute,” Renjun snorted, sitting on the foot of his bed. “But no.”

Your bottom lip jutted out in a pout. “You’re no fun.”

“There’s Jaemin,” he offered.

You grimaced. “Too needy.”

“Haechan?”

“Too mean.”

“And you still go to that asshole?” Renjun asked, incredulous. 

“He’s a good lay?” you offered, sheepish almost under the glare of his disbelief and the full force of his eyebrows. “C’mon, at least one ticket for your best girl?” you cooed, laying it on thick with a flutter of your eyelashes. “The other two can probably work something out.” 

Minjeong and Yizhuo were your girls. No one could ever doubt the love you had for them, being housemates for two years and counting, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It’s every man (well, woman) for themselves and if there was an opportunity right in front of you, might as well take it.

“Yeah…” he trailed off with a wince and you already didn’t like what he was about to say when he glimpsed at you and then at some random spot behind. “about that—“

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t,” you ground out.

Renjun pretended like he hadn't heard you. “Someone from the student association gave me a ticket.”

“And you’re going?” You hoped he wasn’t.

As if he read your mind, Renjun’s mouth parted in offense. “It’s Sabrina Carpenter. It’s a great opportunity to clout chase.”

Oh he was definitely going to be insufferable on Instagram, talking about it for days on end. Just like you would be.

“Seriously?” you exclaimed, both hands covering your face, muffling your scream. This felt way worse than the time you almost didn’t meet the deadline of a plate submission that made up a large chunk of your grade. “Is everyone and their goddamn moms going except me?”

“Guess so.”

You peeled your hands away to Renjun scrolling through his phone in mild interest.

“Can you at least pretend to feel sorry for me?” 

Renjun let his phone drop in between his crossed legs. “My condolences that you won’t get to see Sabrina do her Juno pose five feet away from you.”

“You’re the worst,” you groaned, sitting up and holding the blanket tightly to preserve your modesty. “I’m literally out of options and you’re already kickstarting the FOMO.”

“And what were your”—he waved absently to the air—“options exactly?”

“There was the OnlyFans route—and before you say anything else,” you gave Renjun a look that was sharp enough to make him think twice about his needling. He said nothing, thankfully, but his pursed lips and scrunched eyebrows said a lot. “yes, I did the math and we all agreed—surprisingly—that it would be impossible to earn that amount of money before the concert. Then Minjeong suggested a sugar daddy, but I’m not really up for being a geraitric’s pretty play-thing. What if he dies mid-sex—”

You got cut off from Renjun doubling over with laughter. “Sugar daddy? Why don’t you just ask Chenle then?”

“Why should I ask Chenle?”

“Why shouldn’t you ask Chenle?”

“That’s why I’m asking you,” you quipped back.

Renjun laughed again. A rich, belly-deep equal parts loud and grating. “You cannot be this dense,” he said as he calmed down. “I just mean—you guys are close, right? Close enough that he bought you a replacement T-square.” He watched you, amused, as you considered the question. Renjun can almost see the gears turning in your head, chin resting in his palm and using his leg to balance his elbow.

“It was an emergency,” you stressed with an eye-roll, though you didn’t exactly fight the fond smile settling on your lips at the memory of Chenle getting rung up for a new sixty-four-inch long acrylic T-square while you perused the rows upon rose of cute stationery. You hadn’t meant for your old one to snap cleanly in half, but when there was a guy who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer and, well, there was a reason why the running joke of a T-square doubling as a weapon was still relevant to this day.

“Doesn’t he pay for you guys when you hang out?”

Renjun snorted. “Sure. If you count him demanding us to Venmo him later.”

“Huh. He usually just pays for us both.”

Actually, now that you’ve thought about it, his housemates hadn’t ever gotten the privilege of Chenle covering for any of their expenses, much less a cheap meal from a well loved hole-in-the-wall restaurant. You didn’t think it was favoritism either. Was that a thing in friendships too? You had no idea, and you never had to ask when Chenle never thought twice to remind the waiter or waitress that he was paying for two. For me and her—he would nod his head towards you—only and leave the rest to settle their shared bill among themselves.

“Huh.” you repeated.

“Yeah-huh,” Renjun echoed with one corner of his mouth lifted up in a smirk. “Seriously, if you’re that desperate to see Sabrina up close, I’m sure he can work something out for you. What’s fifteen hundred gonna do?”

You both knew the answer to that. Nothing, because although Chenle wasn’t as high profile as Yizhuo and her family was, you had a vague idea on how deep his pockets ran if he barely spared a glance at his receipt from Gucci for a track-suit set he’d been meaning to get. He might as well have slapped you in the face with a thick stack of one-hundreds.

It would have invoked the same feeling of being too poor to even breathe inside the store and it had been a relief you thought of dressing up that day too despite the fact you’ve pulled an all-nighter to complete a handful of plates for design class the night before. You were at least spared from any judgment from the sales reps.

Still.

Renjun clicked his tongue, sensing your mental turmoil. “Just ask him. If he says no, then there’s your answer.”

Just ask him. Easy for Renjun to suggest when he wasn’t the one stewing away in a puddle of anxiety. He already had a ticket! Of course he’d think nothing of it. 

Walking into Yizhuo’s obscenely large living room, you were once again reminded how excessive it was.

There was a grand piano in there, for fuck’s sake, in the far end after the actual living area with the plush seating, yet none of you could play any elaborate musical pieces except for Twinkle Twinkle Litter Star. Right next to it was a sunken conversation pit with a modern fireplace built into the large concrete column and there were a series of floor-to-ceiling windows and glass sliding doors encompassing the pit.

Other than overlooking the luscious, grassy backyard, the doors led straight to the deck where a round pool resided as its main attraction. There was a goddamn fountain just beside it, too. Who needs a fucking fountain in this economy anyway?

Actually, everything about the house was ridiculously extravagant for three college girls to live in. Your bedroom included. Yizhuo ended up giving you one of the bigger rooms and you were sure the drafting table you bought off of a grad student for cheap would do its job and cramp it up, but you knew the saying about gift horses and Mom raised you better than complaining about convenience being handed to you on a silver platter.

The round floor table of the conversation pit was vacant, though there were scattered papers, notebooks, textbooks and all sorts of pens on top of the reflective glass surface. That meant either one of the girls was home. Or both, as Minjeong’s and Yizhuo’s voices grew louder by each step towards the kitchen.

“Guess who might have found a solution to our ticketing problem!”

You slid onto the cushioned seats of the breakfast nook—a breakfast nook, Jesus—right across from Minjeong sipping her to-go cup of thai milk tea. She wordlessly slid on towards you. You took a generous drag of the stuff.

“Actually, it was more of Renjun’s idea—which I am effectively stealing.”

Yizhuo, who was in the middle of plating a hefty amount of pad see ew, looked like she swallowed something toe-curlingly sour. “Oh so you were with Renjun-ge.”

An easy smile curled on your lips as you lifted a shoulder to shrug, sweetly batting your eyelashes. “What can I say? The guy gives good head—” (“I did not need to know that.”) “—anyways, my idea.”

“Mine was probably better.”

“Oh yeah?” you drawled, egging Yizhuo on. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Breaking into the thrift store and stealing everything from the cash register.”

“What?”

“She claimed if her parents found out about her crimes, they’d have to bail her out from prison and then restore her money privileges,” Minjeong glared at the youngest who simply whistled to Espresso as she carried on with the food. “Then I had to remind her of her reputation.”

“Good thing you did ‘cause that’s the dumbest fucking idea I’ve ever heard,” you said and you made sure it showed on your face as Yizhuo wilted underneath your tangible disappointment that she would even risk an integral part of her privileged life when she had used it as a counter-argument to the whole OnlyFans thing. “So we’re going with my solution to our broke-ness—Chenle Zhong.”

Yizhuo did not look pleased whatsoever. “What does Caillou have to do with Sabrina Carpenter?”

You ignored Minjeong shrieking with laughter. “Chenle’s got money,” you said as if you were talking to a toddler barely getting a grasp on words having their designated meanings. “And do you know what we need to get tickets? Money, and Chenle has a lot of it.”

“It took Renjun for you to realize that Chenle could be our solution?” Yizhuo exclaimed in disbelief, head in her hands. “Oh my God—it took Renjun telling you, then you telling us that he could be our solution? How could I’ve been so stupid?”

Her head jerked upwards, ponytail swishing along and gave you a look so sharp and abrupt that you jerked in surprise. You fixed your posture so fast that your grandmother would have been proud. For once. “You’re definitely asking Chenle.”

“Uh—first of all, why me? Don’t rich people have, like, some sort of kinship with one another? Like, hey, can I borrow ten-thousand dollars? I’ll pay you back with five-percent interest.” That definitely wasn’t how deals between rich people were made, but whatever. “Second, why not you, money bags?”

“He’ll never say yes to me,” she said brusquely, clicking her tongue. “I kicked his ass a bunch of times in PUBG and he’s still bitter about it. It’s not my fault he sucks absolute balls. There’s like, a compilation of him complaining on stream about how I was cheating”—Yizhuo made air quotations—“on TikTok. It’s so funny. Actually, I’ll send you the link—”

You turned your gaze towards Minjeong for help, eyes widened a fraction for an added pathetic flair as the younger one focused on scrolling through the damn app.

“Don’t look at me. Chenle’s just cheap with everyone—actually, maybe except for you,” Minjeong pointed a long, black almond tipped nail in your direction. “the favorite.”

“You say it like it’s an insult.” You slurped your milk tea at an obnoxious volume, shrinking in your seat. “Maybe he’s just nicer to me because I’m nice to him unlike you two.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Minjeong said, eyeing you curiously.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She moved her gaze elsewhere. “Nothing.”

You squinted. “Uh-huh.”

“Anyways,” she said, pointedly keeping her gaze forward. “He started it. I asked him if I could borrow money for my Lyft and he laughed in my face.”

You pressed your lips together to keep yourself from laughing too because, yeah, the image was a little funny. “You’re exaggerating,” you said evenly.

Yizhuo made a half-wince, half-smile sorta thing with her face. “Are we though?”

“Lele’s not that much of an asshole,” you defended. “He drives me home. You could have hitched a ride with us is all I’m saying. And if I can remember correctly, he still gave you more than enough for your Lyft.”

“He didn’t have to laugh at me, then.” Minjeong looked like she was heavily debating whether she should smack you upside the head, or not. “For someone smart, you’re real stupid.”

You frowned. “Hey.”

The argument still carried on deep in your weekly ‘everything shower’.

“Face it, babe. He’s like your personal A-T-M.”

“Chenle doesn’t always get me things.”

You were aching in places you never knew existed as you passed the foamy loofah over your skin, yet the girls had denounced what it meant to have boundaries, making themselves at home in your bathroom to prove their joint points.

Yizhuo scoffed from where she sat on top of the closed lid of the toilet. “The shampoo you used earlier? That was imported from Japan.”

“So? He noticed I ran out the last time he was here. It’s just shampoo.”

“From Japan,” Yizhuo countered.

You pulled a face. “Is that supposed to mean anything? It’s fucking shampoo.”

She just threw her hands up in the air, visibly annoyed.

“And the body wash you’re using? From Chenle.” Minjeong piped up from the separated bathtub, pointed at the towels hanging on the towel warmer and added, “The bath towel set? Chenle.”

“Alright, fine, maybe—”

“The year’s supply of assorted sheet masks in the fridge we use?” she offered.

“The gargantuan tin of tea leaves you’ve mentioned you liked.”

“Okay. I get it—”

“A new backpack because your old one ripped at the seams.”

“Your underwear—”

“Hah!” You pointed triumphantly in Minjeong’s direction. “No, he hasn’t bought me any.”

“Not yet,” girl-in-bathtub emphasized, resting her chin on top of her arm propped on the tub’s edge. “Shit, he probably bought everything you own.”

“Okay, now you’re definitely exaggerating.” You snorted, walking into the spray of the shower to rinse off the suds. “I’m not that broke.”

“Should I also mention that if it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met us? Or that you would have been homeless?” Well, yeah, and you would have figured something out eventually, but you weren’t expecting Yizhuo to bring that up to one-up you in an argument.

“I can’t believe you would use the ‘you would’ve been homeless if it weren’t for me’ card against me.”

“If it weren’t for Chenle, you mean,” she corrected, propping her cheek on top of her bent knee. You glared at the needless addition, though the usual effect wasn’t as strong with warm water sluicing down your face. To Yizhuo, you were definitely doing an almost perfect rendition of ‘wet cat’. “You can’t be this stupid. You’re literally his favorite. I doubt there’s another guy out there that would willingly—again, listen—willingly spend money on you.”

“Does Jaemin buying me a pack of gum the other day count?”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re hopeless.”

Minjeong shrugged. “Maybe he was lowkey telling you your breath stinks.” (“Ex-fucking-scuse you?”) “Didn’t Chenle buy you a ring that looked like a bent nail?”

“As a gift, yeah?” Your wince was immediate the moment Yizhuo gasped at your confirmation.

“That was Cartier!” She whipped out her phone from fuck knows where and showed you the website and its price. Did she have that tab open all this time just for a ‘gotcha!’ moment? Jeez, she scared you sometimes. “Look—Juste un Clou ring. Classic model. I would’ve given you rose gold, personally, but the white gold looks pretty too,” she mumbled, nodding approvingly. “He knows his stuff, at least.”

“Viola!” You turned to Minjeong making jazz hands with flourish. “If he can blow three grand on you without blinking, fifteen hundred would be nothing.”

You let out a heavy sigh, rinsing the loofah free from the suds. “How sure are we that there are any tickets left? Last I heard, three nights sold out.”

“It’s Chenle. He has connections everywhere. He’ll probably end up tracking scalpers too if he could help it.” She weighed her own words for a moment. “As long as you’re the one asking.”

“If you say so,” you trailed off, still not entirely convinced even by her radiating certainty.

“Uh-oh.” Yizhuo promptly sat up. “That’s not good. What’s wrong?”

“It’s just—I feel kinda weird. Asking him. Like, I’ve never really had to ask him for… stuff before.”

“What,” the girls said in a way so dry that you most likely would have broken out in sweat with how serious their faces were right now. Thunderous even.

“What do you mean by ‘not having to ask him’?” Minjeong asked, deathly calm.

“Just as I said. He just does it on his own. Without me telling him.”

In hindsight, Chenle might have been an option right from the very start if the thought of simply asking for help financially didn’t bother you in the slightest, but that’s the thing. The idea did bother you to your very core because, again, it wasn’t like you were broke. A victim to capitalism? Absolutely.

Once you broke the news to your parents and brother about your acceptance to one of the top universities in the state on a full-ride scholarship, they had insisted on a monthly allowance. They hadn’t minded extending a helping hand at all, and it was the least they could do to lighten the burden with the condition that you should be devoted to your academics.

Consequently, you were also good with multi-tasking, so you’ve managed a healthy work-play balance so far. What your parents and brother didn’t know wont hurt them and you hadn’t given them a reason to not trust you on your own, miles away from home, either. Not yet at least.

Deciding for a part-time job was after the realization that majoring in architecture was a bit heavy on the pockets from the consistent need for materials and printing out your designs brought to life by the handful of software provided by your department. The café pay was decent, you were tipped just as okay, and you wouldn’t say no to some cash on the side. Adding that to the remnants of your monthly allowance, it was enough to buy a thing or two at the end of the month as a treat.

And then came Chenle, guns ablazing, with no qualms swiping his card on your behalf.

You never really had to ask him.

Literally.

He would already have it taken care of before you could even pluck your wallet out and split the cost. You couldn’t remember if you had a time where you outright asked (begged) him for a few bills, and if you did, you always always promised to pay him back.

That being said, Chenle wouldn’t let you fight him on it either. When his mind was already made up, it was like talking to a brick wall, standing tall and impervious to almost everything. A losing battle when you’re up against someone headstrong yet so goddamn stubborn.

That’s where your hesitation had stemmed from, because it could either go two ways: he could say no and you could kiss your chances of brushing hands with Sabrina Carpenter goodbye, which would be the best case scenario, or he’d say yes, and once he said yes, there was no turning back. A yes from Chenle was law—signed and sealed that not even expressing the preconceived regret of asking a favor would shake him.

This was entirely different from Chenle just doing whatever the fuck he wanted with his own money without any of your persuasion. You never had to ask him for anything before and the fact of the matter was, you were damn terrified of asking if Chenle could be a bro one last time and drop what was equivalent to the price of a newly released iPhone for you.

Asking him would literally be so detrimental to your conscience that you would probably go insane with guilt and you couldn’t afford getting thrown into the nearest psych-ward when you had tons of deadlines to meet.

Minjeong leaned back to stare forlornly at the ceiling. “Lord, I see the luck you’ve bestowed upon this girl so stupid.”

“Hey!” You whined.

“Congratulations on getting a sugar daddy,” Yizhuo said, dry. “Can you ask him for tickets now?”

Oh God, you thought with abject horror. What if Chenle is my sugar daddy?

Technically speaking, though, you both fit the description. Minus the ‘sugar’ part so, quasi-sugar-daddy then?

Okay, no. That’s definitely not a can of worms you’re gonna open, like, ever. Chenle just happened to be there whenever you had to go out and buy shit. Just happened to be faster whipping out his wallet than you were. After all, he’s the spry athlete while you were five cans of Monster Energy away from keeling over.

What you’d like to get into now was how this conversation developed backwards where you had to be naked and wet to get some sort of pep-talk. Was this even considered pep-talk? This was somebody else’s form of nightmare for sure.

“This is really weird,” you said, neither confirming or denying Yizhuo’s so-called congratulations as you glanced between the two girls unabashedly staring at you in your birthday suit, expecting. “Can you guys leave?”

“Nothing we’ve seen before.” You met Minjeong’s eyes for a second before they strayed to your naked breasts and back up again. “Bet Chenle would love to see you right now.”

For whatever reason, Yizhuo mirrored Minjeong’s sentiments as she bobbed her head so fast you would think the idea was exciting for her. “Only right for you to give him some sugar, too.” 

“Or—get this—I don’t do that?”

“Why not?” Minjeong frowned. “You fuck anything that moves.”

“Correction: I do not. I’ve only been with, like, five guys my entire life,” you said, brandishing one hand so they would get the picture. “And Chenle’s my friend! We’re like this”—you crossed your fingers, shaking them for emphasis—“tight, y’know? Literally everything’ll change if I go… do that.”

“You and Renjun are also”—she copied your crossed fingers—“like this, but you’re still fucking.”

“Well… that’s—that’s obviously different! He doesn’t count!” you said with each word increasing in pitch.

“Oh pray tell why you wouldn’t sleep with Chenle Zhong,” Minjeong goaded. “I may not like guys, but looking at him through an objective lens, he’s one of the good ones.”

“There’s no risk with Renjun because it’s strictly casual and platonic, and I know I wouldn’t get attached and develop—” you quickly clamped your mouth shut. Shit. “Uh—um—you’re breaking up,” you blurted, closing your eyes as you stepped into the heavy downpour of the rainfall shower. “I can’t hear you,” you said, though that likely sounded like incoherent blubbering. You were sure you’ve got your point across with that piss-poor save anyway.

“We can literally see you.”

You turned your back to them. They could talk to your ass if they wanted. Out of sight, out of mind. “Not anymore, you don’t.”

You hoped that was the end of it, though it was made clear time and time again that the girls weren’t satisfied with your hedging. A growl was heard, followed by the quick plap plap plap of feet against the cold tiles. As the glass door squeaked, the brief water prison you’ve enclosed yourself in stopped soon after and you opened your eyes to a hand retracting from one of the knobs.

There was barely a second for you to complain before an undignified yelp was forced out from your throat when you were spun around to find Yizhuo’s dour face, her hands clamping down on your shoulders.

“You’re just admitting this to us now?” she said, incredulous, and a little surprised that you’ve managed to keep a crucial detail from them for this long. 

“It wasn’t like an immediate thing I needed to resolve!” you argued, “but the thought was always there, I guess. Just sitting in the back of my mind until you brought up sex with Chenle. And I’m busy, in case it wasn’t obvious enough to you non-architecture majors. Never had the chance to explore it, y’know?”

Busy was the biggest understatement of the year. Your life revolved around sketching, drafting, rendering—hell, even printing your designs on sheets of paper almost (more or less) half your height had never been this stressful. Adding a part-time job to that? It was a miracle you were still kicking.

With all that combined, you didn’t have the time to give a damn about relationships running deeper than casual, less emotionally charged flings. Those were easier to manage without the messiness of feelings involved. 

“Well, Dora the Explorer,” Yizhuo tendered as she handed you your heated towel. “you better start explorin’ because you’re gonna fuck him either way.”

You swiped the towel from her. “No I’m not.”

“No you’re not,” Yizhuo agreed, and maybe the shrewd glint in those beady eyes of hers was only your imagination, toweling yourself dry and wrapping it around you once you were less damp. “but at least keep it as your trump card if he gets difficult—which I’d doubt, really.”

“You guys’re that confident he’d say yes?” you mused, pushing past Yizhuo to grab the other towel for your head. “It’s gonna be so embarrassing if he says otherwise.”

“To the tickets? Or the sex?” Minjeong then heaved a dramatic gasp, eyes wide as her voice dropped to a staged whisper. “Or worse, your alleged feelings.”

You puffed out your cheeks, ignoring the rush of warmth blooming onto your face. “Now I’m hoping he says ‘no’.”

“Oh, girl, trust me when I say ‘no’ is the last thing he’ll say to you.” Yizhuo said, looking very sure of herself. “So. How soon can you get to him?”

“God I hate you rich people.”

Yizhuo beamed. “I know.”

Well, it wasn’t like you were a stranger to testing your luck.

You: wyd

Lele: ? Lele: I’m not one of your groupies Lele: need something?

You: wanna get groceries with me? :D

Lele: be there in 15 Lele: need to grab Daegal’s kibble too

You: ur the best ✨✨

Lele: i know i am

You: girl whatever.

Lele: ❤️

“You know, when you said groceries, I was expecting personal stuff—like skincare or some shit,” Chenle said loftily. “Pads? Tampons? God forbid a menstrual cup—“

“How do you even know what a cup is,” you muttered. “and my period ended a week ago.”

“I know.” You looked up from your work to Chenle squinting down at his phone. He caught your eye and beamed, pocketing the device. You were too afraid to ask what that was about. “We could have gone to Sephora after.”

Oh you definitely could have if you had been more specific with what groceries meant, but you simply said to take both your asses to the nearest H Mart. Cute as the thought was, you weren’t exactly in the mood to watch Chenle try and figure out which products were on your current rotation. It would have made good content for him though, a sure hit for his predominantly female fanbase, yet the looming three days left to secure tickets above your head kept you from suggesting that.

“Well, I can’t exactly cook you a five-star meal with hyaluronic acid now can I?” 

He blinked and answered with a bland, “I have no idea what that is.”

You squinted at him, taking in the way he’s got his head tilted at an angle where the lighting hit one side of his pale face just right. No texture whatsoever, like a smooth, almost blank canvas marked by a singular mole on the cheek.

“‘Course you don’t,” you grunted, envious of his near perfect skin.

Chenle’s gaze slid towards the pot on the stove, then to his wooden chopping board where a humble spread of your additional ingredients had been neatly organized in small piles with two open noodle packets. “Also, that’s just your classic Shin ramyeon and some crab balls.”

“Well damn, Chenle, I’m no Gordon fucking Ramsay,” you snapped, swatting at his arm. “So ungrateful.” An elaborate recipe was out of the question when you were too busy panicking about how the hell you were going to pull this off.

(“The one thing you’re gonna ‘pull off’ is your top,” Yizhuo instructed as she followed you out the gargantuan front door. “You know how guys are with boobs. They’re like catnip for them.”

“Please don’t compare my tits to catnip.”)

He cackled, tucking himself into your side with an arm thrown around your shoulders in a side-hug. “Thank you,” he cooed, and like a cat, rubbed his head against yours. “You didn’t have to do all this, but I’d never say no to food.” You couldn’t exactly see his face like this, but you could hear his appreciation. Your heart squeezed at the press of his cheek against your temple.

See, it’s little moments in time like this were what jump-started the on-going betrayal you would never expect from your own beating heart, and Chenle made it extremely hard for you to not entertain any straying thoughts formed by the casual intimacy between you. It really didn’t help that Chenle was physically affectionate, and it especially didn’t help that you spent most of your time with him despite majoring in vastly different programs.

Starting the day with Chenle waiting in his car to take you to school, ending it with him driving you home and everything in between was a sure gateway for neutral feelings to gradually do a one-eighty. Reaching that level of comfort where you felt safe with him was just as inevitable, too. Chenle was safe. Always has been.

But for both of your sakes, it had been a conscious choice of burying yourself into your work—letting yourself get fucked over by the workload you had to do. The minor breakdowns you’ve had every time your calculations went wrong, or when color or material swatches didn’t seem to go together than you’d originally thought saved you from overthinking every single interaction with him.

You wouldn’t risk it. You couldn’t risk it.

“What’s the occasion?” Chenle prodded. Still there. Still close. Still trying his hardest to weld himself to your side that he would soon figure out something was up the moment you went stiff in his hold, but you were just as quick coming up with some bullshit excuse to save your own ass. Though it begged the question whether it will hold up against Chenle’s incessant need to stick his nose into anyone’s business.

The longer he stayed quiet, the more your nerves fried. His house—house because Chenle was a loose cannon with money like Yizhuo—was always set to a cool temperature and you wore an outfit that wasn’t meant to cover up much at all, yet you could feel yourself break into sweat the moment he pulled himself away from your space. You still stood there frozen and the pot was taking too long to fucking boil.

“No occasion!” you exclaimed, spinning on your heel to face him with the sweetest and most disarming smile you could muster at the moment. A drop of sweat trickled from your temple down to your cheek when all Chenle did was wrinkle his nose as he took a step back. “‘was just in the mood to cook… something. For you—uh, for us. I was craving ramyeon.”

“You were craving Shin ramyeon,” Chenle echoed, not looking at all convinced. “Shin ramyeon that Yizhuo has stocked in her pantry.”

“That’s why I asked you to get groceries with me,” you replied in haste. “We were running out.” 

Which wasn’t a lie. Technically.

The three of you used to gorge on whatever there was in the kitchen, fridge or pantry, or DoorDash when any of you craved something specific. Key words were ‘used to’ because snack options had been limited to cheaper alternatives and what was cheaper and filling than a packet of noodles that took less than five minutes to cook? Really, it was like you were back in your freshman dorm, living off of instant noodles.

“Running out.” The more Chenle repeated whatever you said, the more you started to realize how deep of a grave you had dug for yourself. “You bought just enough for two people to eat.”

“Right.” You drawled, snapping your fingers and hitting him with the finger-guns. Might as well make yourself look even more like a jackass than you already are with the dogshit lying. “Right—so no plans later? I could use another H Mart run.”

Chenle cracked this time. “You’re a shitty liar,” your name tapered off into laughter. “You want something, don’t you? You’re never this nice to me.” He simpered with a certain type of fondness you’d usually see in people witnessing a puppy scaring itself with its own bark—he should really stop that. You were already kind of a mess from the way he’d freely insert himself in your bubble like he owned the space. You didn’t need the ooey-gooey, cavity-inducing stares to go with that too.

This was all clearly very amusing to him—you stumbling over your own words picked out from throwing darts at random in an attempt to gaslight him. He shouldn’t find any humor in this, really, but Chenle had always been chill like that. Marching to the beat of his own drum or however the saying went that the ease of falling into character, the jester to his court, wasn’t surprising.

If it made him that happy, then you’d continue shaking your fool’s cap for him. As a friend, of course.

“What? Me?” you said, guileless and with a hand flat on your sternum, eyes rounded with that faux gleam of innocence for the full effect. “I have never wanted anything in my life.”

“Anything?” he pressed and received a firm nod. “Not even barricade tickets to Sabrina Carpenter?”

You gaped at him, stuttering out words that weren’t even qualified to be in the English dictionary until you settled with a broken, “who told you that.”

Chenle smiled serenely in kind, not at all fazed by your brain blue-screening in real time. “Renjun.”

The mention of a name sobered you up in record speed.

“That snitching bitch,” you seethed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I only told him because I was hoping he'd help me think of options, or buy me a ticket himself. The girls could figure something out.” You paused, absorbing the situation as your hand fell back to your side. “Less work for me, though. I've been shitting my pants since, like, yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

You huffed a short laugh. “Oh yeah. There’s this theory going around—not that I believe it—that it’d be easy convincing you.”

“Easy,” he huffed, amused.

“Easy as in—I just have to ask you.”

Chenle tilted his head, considering you for a moment. “Alright. Ask away.”

You balked, grasping straws for a response.

“Ask away?” Nod. “Just like that.” Nod. “I’m not asking just for me, y’know? I’m also asking for Minjeong and Ningning. Since we’re broke and desperate girls who just happen to love the same singer.” Chenle only raised an eyebrow, slowly nodding in a way that said, ‘yeah. I know. What are you trying to say?’.

“Are you not worried how much it’s gonna cost you? Even just a little bit? I’m already feeling sick just thinking about it.” You grimaced.

“Not really, no.” He shrugged, slanting an easy smirk.

You pursed your lips. Right. Okay. So maybe you had severely underestimated how disposable money was to him, then. It didn’t seem like he minded at all, barely showing any negative emotion sans the boredom slowly coloring his features.

You, on the other hand, were already knee-deep in a bog of guilt and regret that you could honestly spit-up today’s lunch from how nerve-wracking this was; standing in front of him while carrying as much audacity a human being was allowed to and asking for something so expensive.

“You’re insane if you actually say yes. I don’t know about you, but if someone asked me for a thousand bucks and told me, ‘oh, bee-tee-dubs, I’m not gonna pay you back. Like ever.’, I’d consider suing the hell out of that person until they have to file for bankruptcy.”

“I mean, money’s never been an issue so I don’t see why my attorney should be involved.” The fact that he actually has an attorney (or a full-blown legal team. You never know) at the ready did not bring you comfort in the slightest. Chenle still tried though. You could at least appreciate that. “I wanna circle back on your so-called theory, though.”

“Don’t look at me.” Both of your hands raised in defense. “I’m not the one who came up with the ‘I’m Chenle’s favorite’ theory. The girls did.”

“Did they?” And for some ungodly reason, he looked delighted by the claim. “Well, can’t say they’re wrong.”

“Chenle,” you warned with a tone so biting you would think it’d have him think twice with this blasé approach.

Though maybe there was something on your face that betrayed the annoyance you’ve vocalized when all Chenle did was smile genially as the syllables making up your name passed through his lips in smooth succession.

“I’m not a charity case,” you muttered, flexing your fingers then curling them into fists. You weren’t too sure if you were pleased hearing it from the source. That you were Chenle’s favorite, confirmed by the man himself. Whatever that meant, or more annoyed that he really couldn’t care less about the money he’d wasted on you because you were his favorite. “You know I don’t take charity as well as normal people would.”

“Why do you think I never let you argue?” He said cheekily. “It’s easier and faster that way. And it’s no big deal! Seriously,” Chenle emphasized quickly at the sight of your deepening frown.

“But it is to me! If there’s one thing I know, it’s that nothing is ever just free. People these days are always expecting something in return. Maybe not right away and what if you’re just letting me rack up enough debt so you could ask me for my soul, or something.”

Chenle snickered. “So this is an exchange, then. Your noodles for concert tickets. You drive a hard bargain,” he wondered with an impish quality to his words, giving you a once over. Twice. It made you a little self conscious, shifting from foot to foot the longer sharp, cat-like eyes passed over your form. “Is that why you’re dressed like that? In case your cooking didn’t make a good bribe—oh, sorry—exchange?”

“Like what, exactly?” You asked, a little offended that he wouldn’t completely fold—or at least crease—at the first bite of a dish that earned its Michelin stars back in Yizhuo’s kitchen. Or that your chosen outfit wasn’t creaming any pants.

“Didn’t you wear this exact outfit when you skipped class to meet with Haechan that one time?”

“It was a different top, I think.” A top that was just as fast to remove too, so you understood the confusion. “How do you even remember that?”

“I remember lots of things,” he clarified, closing the distance until you could make out the top notes of his five-dollars-per-spray perfume with each inhale. “Like how you dress differently whenever you meet with one of your guys.”

“Gee what a coincidence. I wonder why I’m dressed like I am about to meet with one of my guys while in your kitchen.”

This time it’s Chenle who got the surprise of a lifetime, eyes almost bugging out of his skull as those lips you had once imagined yourself kissing just to see how they’d give under the soft pressure parted in a delicate ‘o’. He was quick to recover though, with a sly uptick of his mouth replacing the initial shock of finding out that, yes, you’d probably sleep with him if it came to that.

“Didn’t think you’d be that desperate for tickets.” He’s closer now, too close for comfort that you backed into the edge of the kitchen counter. “Is that how you’re gonna repay me?”

“It’s charity work,” you answered blithely, emboldened by Chenle’s interest because, fuck, might as well. “Fuck knows if you’ve been getting your dick wet or not. I’d literally be doing you a favor.”

Chenle didn’t seem to take offense to that as he threw his head back in raucous laughter.

“Charity for charity.” He grinned. “Seems fair.”

And the words had never sounded sweeter until they came from Chenle’s mouth. You could already hear yourself screaming with the crowd filling up the arena, with your girlfriends who you absolutely did not resent for essentially pimping you out to the one guy who could arguably make your dreams come true—

“I’ll think about it.”

Both Minjeong and Yizhuo were dead to you.

“Think about—” you paused, taking steady breaths until you were calm enough to start talking again. “Chenle. Lele,” and out came the big guns, being sweet to him and using the cutesy nickname the girls from the Chinese Students and Scholars Association would croon to get at least five seconds of his attention. Watching that play out from the sidelines always left a sour aftertaste, how they all would go as far as touching him when they decided holding eye-contact wasn’t enough to fuel their delusions. 

You’ve soon come to realize that it was jealousy that caused your eye to twitch when Chenle’s capitalistic smile turned honeyed towards his junior. Because there wasn’t a day where you were short of his attention.

Perhaps the thought was a little unhealthy, but what if you said it was what you were used to? Can anyone fault you for being a little catty after that interaction?

Calling him Lele worked, you thought. Or so you hoped. You weren’t sure rendering him silent was a good thing, actually. Silence never bode well with larger-than-life Chenle Zhong whose entire personality was being loud, especially with eyes as expressive as his. Dark as shots of espresso you’ve brewed countlessly at work laced with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“The concert is in two fucking days! There’s no time to think—you know what? This was a bad idea. I don’t know how Ningning talked me into—” you shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your cheek with a heavy sigh. “We can just eat the goddamn noodles and forget all this. I’ll just tell the girls they were wrong, and you said no—”

“Oh, no no no,” you would never admit to making such an undignified sound when Chenle pulled you back by his steady grip on your wrist. “you can’t make that offer and leave just like that, c’mon.” And he had the audacity to whine on top of it.

“Well that’s before I—what are you doing.”

“Making sure I am getting something out of this,” he murmured, crowding in on you further where all you could see right in front of you was Chenle, and whatever you could see over the slope of one hoodie-covered shoulder.

Which by all means wasn’t a lot to begin with, him being taller and broader than you. And Chenle wasn’t even super tall. You knew plenty of people that exceeded the one-hundred-and-eighty centimeter mark, like that Jisung kid who hung out with you both on occasion. Wasn’t even built like a brick shithouse like Jaemin and his friend, your on-and-off tutor, Jeno.

Yet the way he had you cornered, hands planted firmly on the polished quartz countertop boxing you in, kind of screwed with your perception—made him appear bigger than he actually was. Perhaps it was the intensity of his gaze, pinning you down with deep pools framed by gradually thinning rings of brown the longer this stare down went on.

Coupled with the heat radiating off of Chenle, from standing so much closer where it totally crossed the limits of what it meant to be platonic, something just as heated unfurled beneath your navel.

“What—whatever you want,” you stuttered, swallowing thickly when the soft material of his jacket brushed along the strip of skin left exposed by your cropped top.  

“Whatever I want?” Chenle’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he studied you. “Even outside of sex?”

It was really hard trying not to not stare at his mouth. “I think being your errand girl will get you your money’s worth than a regular pump n’ dump.”

“The mouth on you.” Chenle cracked a lipped smile, wide enough that a hint of teeth peeking between the soft rosebud pink of his lips. “‘My girl’ does have a nice ring to it.”

Warmth creeped up your neck. “You forgot the word ‘errand’.”

“I know what I said,” he murmured, coming in closer that the tip of his nose gently nudged yours. “Kiss me.”

Your breath hitched, eyes growing into saucers because kiss me could imply anything. Everything.

“What—“

“You said whatever I want,” Chenle pointed out. “and I want you to kiss me. Or I want to kiss you, actually. Real bad.”

Words, apparently, weren’t enough to prove how much Chenle could want something as simple as a kiss.

Slender fingers splayed themselves along your waist, just marveling that you’re allowing him to touch you like this—with reverence. Palms cooled by the counter and the calluses earned from years of basketball raised gooseflesh along your skin when dragging them along the expanse of your stomach. The dips of your waist again—like he couldn’t resist how softer you were there—your back, until one of Chenle’s hands settled beneath the curve of your spine, the other just shy under the side of your breast. 

Chenle was impossibly closer now and your body’s natural response was to arch into him and—oh, he’s hard. So hard—straining against the fly of his jeans pressed against your stomach, and you’ve barely done anything except letting him feel you up, leaving phantom brands of his touch along the way.

“Feel that?” Chenle said, voice low and gravely, delivered like it was a secret only you two should know. He pushed his hips further into yours causing him to groan quietly as you gasped, your hands laying flat on his chest to steady yourself. “You’re definitely getting your tickets if it’s the last thing I do.”

Somehow, out of everything Chenle said, that knocked the breath out of you. The utter conviction. How positive he was in his own right that he will get those tickets for you, one way or another.

Frankly, you couldn’t care less about them now, nor what you had to do in exchange for what was essentially overpriced pieces of paper. All you cared about was who you were getting them from: Chenle, his mouth just a couple of centimeters—all yours for the taking, how secure his hold was around you as if the mere thought of you drifting away any second unnerved him, and the fact that he wanted to kiss you.

Because maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t at all one-sided. Maybe what Minjeong and Yizhuo had been speculating held some substance that, yes, it wouldn’t be too hard if it was you appealing to Chenle’s sweeter side. Maybe the notion was that gratifying to your dwindling self-esteem because how could you deny his simple request? 

So with a breathy, almost breathless, “just—just shut the fuck up about the tickets for a second,” you cupped his face with both hands and yanked him down for a kiss.

Chenle’s kisses were syrupy-sweet, if not purposely drawn out as though he was savouring a once in a lifetime opportunity; uncertain if he’d ever get the chance again. The most surprising thing about kissing Chenle, other than the act itself, was the unhurried pace. So unlike the man you would see loping over with this restless energy ready to leave him bursting at the seams, harrying his friends (anyone, really) to play ball with him. 

It had been near impossible, forcing him to sit still when all Chenle knew was to keep on moving. Keeping close at his heels was a fixed workout you didn’t remember ever signing up for. It was only to your relief that he made sure to keep you right behind him. Beside him, rather. There wasn’t a time where Chenle would knowingly leave you behind and if that ever happened, he would always wait for you to catch up.

There was no rush, and maybe that was the point of it all. Chenle’s willingness to adjust for you with no terms and conditions applied, and you have yet to see him stop.

With each push and pull, worrying teeth on lips and a shallow press of a warm wet tongue, Chenle kissed you like he was a man starved, stumbling upon an oasis and letting himself drown after a drought lasting so long. He kept with the pace, not doing too much or too little, lips slotting together like perfect puzzle pieces. Sweet and deliberate, each movement holding intention. Chenle really wasn’t fucking around when admitting he wanted to kiss you.

You shared that want too. More than you had initially allowed yourself, but that was to be expected when you’ve basically repressed every not-so-platonic thought regarding Chenle for a long while. And you know what they said about bottling it all up.

It came bursting in a flurry rush of movement. From their tender cradling, your fingers reached up to curl into Chenle’s freshly dyed jet-black hair just as he mirrored your own growing need, lithe arms coiling around your torso as your mouths grew greedier by the second. A show of teeth pulled an airy moan out of you turned muffled the second he licked into your mouth.

From there, kissing just became a mere afterthought. Devolving into a carnal dance of tongues, lapping it all up to get your fill.

Chenle tasted just as sweet as he kissed before, like the lemon ginger candy he had stocked around his house, his car and sometimes you would catch him plucking a piece or two out of his pockets. And it was quickly becoming a problem where you just knew there was no coming back from this.

That nothing will ever be the same once you walk out of that door when all of this is over. You couldn’t go back, not when you’ve gotten a taste of what it was like swapping spit with the guy, the same guy who you had thought wasn’t worth the risk.

Fuck it, might as well risk everything, then. You’ve already kissed him, already bulldozed past that boundary you swore you would never cross. So long as Chenle wouldn’t mind a kiss, or two, or three—until he has to pry you off of him and say enough is enough, you’d let yourself crave the sensation of having his mouth give under yours.

Just like how you chased after the plushness of his lips with a meek whine when he drew back, grinning at the state he reduced you to—a needy little thing this high strung over a kiss.

Please. As if he didn’t pop a boner at the thought of kissing you.

Just as you were about to voice out the retort, one of his hands raised to cup your cheek. You leaned into the touch, feeling small under his thoughtful gaze as his thumb swiped over your kiss-swollen lips. You chased after that feeling, too, each drag winding the coil of your self-control tighter and tighter ‘til it snapped like you did, catching his thumb in between the edges of your teeth.

Chenle’s gaze darkened then, no traces of the playful glint you were used to seeing as he surged forward and kissed a searing path from the corner of your mouth, all the way up to the swell of your cheek. Then lower, and lower until the scrape of teeth under the hinge of your jaw made your knees buckle from the sensation with a gasp.

You gripped his hair tighter, though you made no move to pull him off. “That—this is more than just a kiss,” you lightly chided, voice shaky. “Greedy.”

“So what if I am?” He mumbled, mouthing his way down your neck. Your fingers left his hair and curled around his nape. “Want me to stop?”

Pulling him in further by his neck told him enough. The vibration of his pleased humming against where your pulse was at its strongest made you shiver. You could feel him smirk. Like a knife to your neck.

“Thought so.”

Staying true to his words, he didn't stop. Chenle latched onto your mouth again and you’ve quickly grown familiar with his rhythm. Only this time, his hands joined in the fray, seemingly needing more than just having you secured in his arms.

Though perhaps you bit off more you could chew. 

Like, yeah, getting fucked by Chenle wasn’t the most horrible idea you’ve had so far in your early twenties, but thinking about it was vastly different from actually doing it.

So you were definitely in your right to squeal when one of your best friend's wandering hands went up your skirt.

Chenle stilled and pulled back with his eyebrows knitted together. Your face was on fire, both from his bold move and the embarrassing sound you made.

“You okay?” He asked, the same hand that was under your skirt—right below your ass cheek—rubbing soothing circles. It was anything but soothing. When you’ve got thighs as sensitive as yours, the only thing Chenle was helping with was making you hornier.

If he moved his hand a little further up and a little further in, he would have felt just how soaked your panties were.

“I—uh—I’m not ready.”

He blinked. “My hand is literally up your skirt that’s barely covering your cute little butt,” he pointed out as his hands trailed higher and squeezed the plump flesh. “and you’re not ready.” Now he’s looking at you like you’re crazy. Shit, maybe you were. And it’s his fault. He’s just as crazy for calling your ass cute to your face, too.

“I mean yeah, that’s nice and all—your hand is really warm, um—but I may or may not have been talking out of my ass about fucking you.”

Chenle snorted. “I dunno. Your outfit clearly screams ‘fuck me!’. Cute shirt, by the way.” A stray hand wedged itself under the tight fit of your tube-top, earning him a sharp intake of breath when his fingertips grazed the underside of your tit. His touch didn’t go further than that, hand simply splayed across your ribs. “If you can call it that.”

“You bought me this shirt, dumbass.”

“Even better,” he said, delighted by the thought. “Feeling cold?” Chenle wondered, almost in an innocent, offhanded manner you wouldn’t think much of if the twitching of his mouth slipped under your radar. You caught his leering stray south, too. Just what could he possibly be intrigued by when he was quite literally sharing your breathing space?

With eyebrows furrowed, you let your curiosity get the best of you, tracing his line of sight.

You should have stayed curious.

Better yet, you shouldn’t have acknowledged the change of his focal point because of course he’d take notice of your nipples poking against the soft material of your shirt; as if they were saying ‘hi’ to the man who had come so close to giving them some attention.

Chenle dissolved into a fit of cackles. You could only imagine how embarrassed you looked to him. Why were you even embarrassed? You chose to forgo a bra in hopes of distracting him with your boobs if all else failed.

“Yeah, yeah,” you acquiesced, keeping your chin up as you blindly reached for his hands. “Hands where I can see ‘em, pervert.”

Only, you don’t exactly take his hands off of you. This was like, casual touches here and there dialed up to an eleven, right? It wasn’t a foreign concept to you, being held by him. Being friends with him for this long and counting, hugs were a thing you were frequently subjected to, and Chenle loved those, so you did your due diligence of settling his hands on your hips as a pseudo form of it.

A peace offering, if you will, for cutting the closeness short and a little because you were starting to like the warmth emanating from a more intimate touch.

Seemingly pleased by your initiative, Chenle graced you with the sweetest of smiles, squeezing you. That got him a snort and a fond shake of your head, though the amusement dimmed into contemplation as you lingered on the silver padlock-shaped pendant hanging from the dainty chain of the same metal around Chenle’s neck, not knowing where to go from here.

Eventually, you found your voice. “That better be worth fifteen hundred bucks,” you joked because if there was one thing about you is that you had a knack for making light out of an emotionally charged situation.

“I’ve spent more on you before, and you're worth every single penny so far.”

That shouldn’t have flustered you. Really, it shouldn’t have you hot in the face when you weren’t sure if he meant the dig towards you unintentionally milking him of his fortune. But Chenle’s ease of letting weighted words spill from his mouth was the sure contender here, and to deliver the final blow was the charming grin that ensured you everything was going to be just fine. He’d make sure of it.

“That’s definitely something a sugar daddy would say,” you said with a wry curl of your mouth. “Are you my sugar daddy? Because I can’t remember the last time I had to pay for my shit when you’re around.”

There was one time you went out for a bagel on your own, though that didn’t seem like a big girl purchase compared to your ergonomic chair he had ordered from Amazon. The look he had given you when you told him you made do with the many dining chairs Yizhuo had around her huge glass dining table had been the funniest thing you had ever seen. Like stiff chairs having multiple uses was a foreign concept to him.

You didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were mostly on your feet when you had to (by hand) draft floor plans and vignettes that took up almost the entire space of your choice of paper. And the chair was comfy. Good for your back too.

“It does look like that, huh?” Chenle laughed at that, shaking his head as he did so out of endearment because you just wouldn’t get it. “What if I just like taking care of you?”

Now wasn’t that an insane thing to say out loud? Granted that you could kind of see where he came from as he did save your sorry ass a bunch of times with either a tap or a swipe of his card, this was Chenle you were dealing with. The likelihood of him just pulling your leg under the guise of flattery was great and backing down that easy had never been your forte. No matter how sweet he was being about it.

You could count the serious conversations with him on both sets of your fingers and this regularly scheduled bout of psychological warfare won’t even count.

“You just want to get in my pants,” you accused with a defiant raise of your chin.

“You almost let me in your pants,” Chenle pointed out, his fingers gently grasping your chin so he could tilt your head back at its normal angle. “My hand was literally up your skirt and I heard no complaints until you got stage fright.”

“Fair,” you allowed with a shrug. “Still not gonna fuck you though. Not now at least.”

“Whatever you want,” he said softly as he bent down to catch your gaze. “and you know I won’t do anything you don’t want to.”

You hummed, thinking Chenle’s words over. “I’ll give it a few days until you’re on your hands and knees begging to stick just the tip in.”

Chenle’s smile wobbled then turned pained. “If I have to.”

It took three whole seconds for his admission to register in your brain before you sputtered a laugh, falling forward until his shoulder cushioned your forehead. No wonder you and Chenle worked so well. There was not a serious bone in any of your bodies and you wouldn't want to change it for the world.

“Down, boy,” you teased, still cackling as you nuzzled into his neck. “Who’s desperate now?”

He huffed. “Like you weren’t trying to eat my face moments ago.”

You pulled back with a pout. “I could say the same about you.” You poked him in the chest. “Were you actually trying to suck my soul out?”

“Regret anything yet?” Chenle’s question was posed as playful, but there was undertone of uncertainty to it too and over the years, you’ve gotten good at figuring out his tells. The uncharacteristic sudden stiffness in his frame, the way he chewed the inside of his cheek (subtly as he could) and the tightness around his eyes—he thought you did. Regret it, that is, but it was the farthest from what you were feeling right now.

“The only thing I regret is not seducing you sooner.” 

And that did it. Anything that fell in the same vein of uncertainty gave way to the radiance you were much more familiar with.

Chenle looked like an absolute winner—the cat that caught the canary and washed it down with cream in celebration of his win before diving in for his prize.

Until Daegal barked at the sound of jingling keys the moment your lips were a hair breadth away from touching, her excitement piercing through the bubble and granting you awareness from beyond it; namely the pot barely having any water being left on the burner for too long. 

There was a flash of white from your peripheral as you shared a panicked look with your qausi-sugar-daddy when the front door opened, followed by one of Chenle’s housemates, Beomgyu, announcing his arrival with a loud, “I’m home!”

“Shit,” you whispered and the two of you set into motion. Harried, if anything, yet still efficient with the swiftness Chenle displayed in fixing your clothes just as you smoothed stray strands of his hair back in place.

For a quick moment, he took a good look at you, a crease in the middle of his eyebrows before he was shucking off his hoodie and urging you to wear it.

“Didn’t take you for the protective type,” you teased, yet took it without question as Chenle rolled his eyes with a gentle shake of his head, watching you pull on the sleeves; a smile equal parts warm and mischievous playing on his lips.

With the zipper in place, you glanced at him then down to his very obvious problem beneath those denim jeans. “You gonna do something about”—Chenle’s eyes blew wide in alarm and stuck his hand in his pants—“yeah, okay,” you mumbled.

His smile widened into something annoying and you quickly pushed him towards the kitchen sink, a silent command to wash his hands once Beomgyu walked right into the kitchen, surprised that you were here. Daegal trotted closely behind, her tail wagging happily as you bent down to pick her up.

“We’re going to get groceries after some noodles,” Chenle answered the silent question for you while pouring water into the pot. “Want some?”

“I’m starving,” Beomgyu groaned. “I’ll eat anything.”

“Hope you’re excited for Shin ramyeon and crab balls, then.”

Over Beomgyu’s shoulder, Chenle winked at you and you nuzzled into Daegal’s fur, hiding your smile.

In the end, after letting Beomgyu devour most of your noodles, Chenle did take you out for another H Mart run.

“Are the two carts necessary?”

You didn’t think so. One full cart was pushing it, but two? For a second, you feared he might just buy out the whole store if you dared him. Then again, Chenle wasn’t familiar with the concept of limiting oneself and it seemed like it applied to you too. Well, in a way where he showed you it was okay to want things. That it was okay to ask him for things.

Because it’s Chenle who did most of the shopping. Fresh produce, different kinds of meat that didn’t need to be cooked in complicated ways for it to come out edible—namely the humble samgyeopsal. Quick, easy and absolutely delicious—he glossed over most of the condiments seeing you still had them at home, then he absolutely went insane when it came to the snacks, ice cream and, of course, packets of instant noodles.

Chenle had another pack of a different variant in his hands, tossed it into the snack-filled cart he was pushing around.

“You’re really playing into the sugar daddy thing,” you said as you mentally calculated the amount of debt you were in now with the addition of groceries that could last you and the girls the whole month.

“Better than you starving,” he said cheerfully, grabbing a dozen of Buldak Carbonara noodles and dumping them into the cart like a dad finding out their kid’s favorite snack. “Wouldn’t want you living off of shin ramyeon and crab balls.”

You scowled. “It wasn’t that funny.”

Chenle laughed and laughed and laughed anyway because your failed seduction plan was that hilarious if he was still making jokes about two-person groceries.

The drive home was quiet. Peaceful. Less awkward than you had initially expected when the soulful drone of music filled in the spaces with you sat in the passenger’s seat, reaching over to feed Chenle the Pepero you elected on sharing. When it all ran out, you relaxed in your seat and just… watched.

Watched your best friend in his element with his hand on the wheel while the other patted his thigh along the beat of the current song. He looked good. Unfairly so. With the lights glinting off the watch that likely made up your yearly university tuition and the high points of his face, the ruffled look of his hair and the way his jaw flexed every time he sang along the melody.

All this filled you with the urge to kiss him. Reach over and plant one on him and the thought still lingered even as you drove past the house’s gates opened with an app on your phone.

As Chenle helped put away the groceries while you pretended not to notice the leering from the peanut gallery.

As he helped himself to a Melona while keeping up with the verbal spat between him and Yizhuo munching on something yoghurt and blueberry flavoured.

It was all you could think about as you saw him out the door, and if you couldn’t help yourself and acted on it—a quick peck to the corner of Chenle’s plush mouth as thanks—leaving a sheen of your lipgloss, then that was between you, God and the security camera angled to where you stood.

Yizhuo wouldn’t notice if you deleted a few seconds of footage anyway.

Late into the night and you could still feel it. Feel him—the ghost of his kiss, his touch as everything that had transpired in the afternoon played on loop in your head.

You couldn’t sleep. Not when your mind was chanting Chenle Chenle Chenle like a mantra set to summon him. Like an itch you couldn’t get rid off no matter how hard you scratched.

If only…

That night, you decided to get well acquainted with Pinky, fishing her out deep within your drawer.

Mornings like this were rare, where all of you were awake at the same time. Even rarer that you were all up before ten, quiet. Relaxed.

No sense of urgency found on anyone’s person. No school, no jobs to clock into, no not-so-secret meetings—none of you girls had anything of priority today.

There was breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day, though it seemed Minjeong and Yizhuo weren’t exactly in a rush demanding their eggs be cooked just the way they liked. Just fine with nursing a steaming cup of whatever energized them for the day ahead as they sat at the island counter.

Your phone chimed in the middle of cooking Yizhuo’s scrambled eggs. A text from Chenle—a sent photo to be specific and—

You screamed, nearly dropping the spatula.

fine shyt: [IMG_6969]

You: WWHAT THEBFUCJ

fine shyt: got your tickets 🤓

You: YEA I SEE THAT???????????

When you screen faded into Chenle’s caller ID, a photo of him holding up Daegal, Minjeong immediately took over the cooking as you rushed towards the living area.

“You got the tickets,” you said as you accepted the request to FaceTime, half in wonder and in disbelief that he was able to nab tickets in less than twenty-four hours and a day before the concert. You really should stop doubting Chenle and his ability (see: privilege) to get whatever, whenever. “Not that I doubted you, but the first night usually sells out quick—so how the hell.”

“You underestimate how far money can get you,” Chenle laughed. He looked sleep-ruffled, like he had just woken up. This was his cutest state yet and you really wished you were with him right now. “Think you’re ready to find out?”

“As I’ll ever be.” As long as he held your hand through it, sure. What the hell. You could survive future heart attacks caused by six figures by sheer will alone, you thought. “I asked for three tickets though. Who's the fourth one for?”

“Me,” he answered, beaming. “Someone has to drive you girls.”

“What? I mean—thanks.” That was one less thing to worry about then. “But since when do you listen to Sabrina?”

“Since last night. Still at it, by the way.” he clarified, a little too happy and if you listened closely, you could make out Sabrina’s crooning of Read your Mind on his end. “An enlightening experience, I might say.”

“Good luck on memorizing twenty-one songs then.”

“Oh, Princess. I released an album when I was eight. Memorizing the setlist is light work. Bet I could sing louder than you.”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll grill you on the album thing next time because what the fuck.” The ‘Princess’ thing you elected to ignore, too early and dire to suffer an aneurysm when a concert was waiting for you.

“I’ve lived quite the life,” he mused (“oh I’m sure.”) combing his fingers through his hair. “So what do we say?”

You scoffed, fond and grateful for his generosity whether you were deserving or not. “Thank you.”

“Thank you what, baby?”

Your face twisted in horror, quickly clocking what he was trying to get you to do. “Bye Chenle.”

He was cackling when you hung up, your face on fire, yet you didn’t put in any effort to tamper the giddy grin threatening to split your face.

The tickets were yours. Chenle got the tickets and they were yours. Gosh, this was probably the best morning in your life so far and nothing could dampen your mood from doing your girls proud.

“Now do you believe us when we say you’re Chenle’s favorite?” Yizhuo asked with a mouthful of scrambled egg.

You laughed, cheeks aching from how hard you cheesed at a simple fact. “I’m starting to.”

And selfish as it sounded, you hoped that it would remain that way for a long time because you couldn’t remember a life so dull when Chenle walked in with colors so bright that it sung, and because he was your favorite, too.

a/n: waow you've reached the end! Here, have a cookie 🍪 as always, thank you soo so much for reading until the end! I'd like to thank the girls: Aria, Moon and Aeriel for letting me talk my shit about this fic and help with ideas! and yes, brainstorming with them is an almost daily occurrence and it's great mental exercise imo lol! I hope you had fun reading the chaos that was this fic. I know I had fun laughing to myself writing all this 😆 and please please please let me know your thoughts! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

TAGLIST: @jaylaxies @hoondrop @gojosmojodojo @justalildumpling @dammit-jjk @learnthisfeeling @90s-belladonna @spacejip @ykvdani @drunkhee @neozon3nha @dinosaurtoothbrushwithninjasauce @sunghoonsgfreal @champagne1221 @yuyita-rosier @grimlinshere @jvngw0n @nanaxwi @kissesfromdarling @peterm4rker @haechology @evergreeneyesx @bbina @nctseventeensworld (special thanks to those who asked to be part of the taglist!)

[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

[kawaiigirly21]

Our Little Soda Pop: Chapter 3

Later on, the rest of that day went about as smoothly as it could go. During the recording, the boys did become a bit more touchy but Natasha simply chalked it up to nerves. She fought the urge to smirk everytime one of them tried to allude to something sexual. She was perfect at playing dumb. As if she couldn't smell their wanton arousal. She knew she triggered something and had perfect and total control. So much for their loyalty to Gwi-Ma.

She bet that if she asked them to, they would give up all alliance with the so-called king. Watching as the boys got through their last lines, Natasha had food brought in so they could eat something after singing for so long. Abby and Baby were the first to attack the food but after minor scolding, made sure to leave some for the other three. “You boys sounded great in there.” Natasha complimented as she fixed a plate for Mystery who practically became attached to her hip. “Thank you Ms. Natasha. We're one step closer to our goal in taking down the hunters.” Jinu replied after taking a few bites of his food.

“Jinu lean forward.” Natasha responded. As he did so, his eyes widened as Natasha took a napkin and wiped the corner of his mouth clean. “There we go. Oh? What's up Mystery?” Natasha asked, turning her attention back to the other idol. “Hey um miss manager? When do we get what Romance got this morning huh?” Abby asked, huffing a bit. “I think we all behaved ourselves today. Don't we deserve a little reward too? How come you touched him?” Baby added. “I don't have to explain myself to you and if you keep asking about it, you won't get it. Eat. You have a photoshoot later.” Natasha replied unbothered.

That evening as the boys wrapped up the last of their photos, Mystery watched as Natasha typed away on her phone with a serious expression. She was talking to someone about something important for them. He loved that about her. She was always working. She always looked so busy. Like she completely had her shit together. He adored that about her. However, he also wished she would take a break every now and then.

“Alright boys. Time to go! Max, I expect those photos by Friday!” Natasha spoke while ushering the band out the doors and into their van. “I call shotgun!” Abby shouted as he practically launched himself into the passenger seat. “You had it on the way over here Abs, let someone else get the seat.” “Ugh fine!” He huffed as he moved to the back and Jinu climbed in the front. The drive home was silent save for the silent music playing in the background.

After arriving home, while everyone scrambled to get in Natasha's bed, still, she asked to speak to Abby alone in the living room. “I know you didn't want to give up your seat but you still did because I asked. I like when you boys listen to me.” She smiled as she led him to the couch and sat him down. “It makes me happy knowing that you respect me that much.” She whispered before leaning down to kiss him sweetly.

Almost instantly, his arms were around her and bringing her down to his lap. “Do I get some lovin this time?” Natasha giggled slightly before nodding. “Yes you get one thing of your choice tonight.” The man wasted no time in choosing his reward. “I want your mouth on my cock. I need it Mistress… please~” He whined as he began to free his cock from the confines of his jeans. Looking down, Natasha smirked before pressing a quick kiss to his neck.

“You’re a big boy aren't you?” She then moved off his lap and settled on the floor in between his legs. “Nervous?” Abby chuckled. “Oh please. I've had bigger sweetheart.” Natasha sighed before leaning in to press a kiss to the tip of the large cock waiting to take sanctuary in her mouth. That was a lie. Natasha had her fair share of fun sure, but none of her past exploits were ever this well endowed. Taking the tip into her mouth and swirling her tongue around it, her ears perked up at the heavy breaths Abby was starting to take.

Slowly but surely, she started to bob her head on the erection. Taking more and more of the cock until it almost filled her mouth completely. Save for a few inches at the base. “Oh f-fuck… you look so hot…” Now, at this point she would have smirked and made a comment about how desperate he sounded, but doing anything but trying to fit the rest of the cock down her throat was impossible. “Mm… oh yea… keep going…” Abby moaned as he watched Natasha suck his cock.

Although he was definitely enjoying himself, he was also physically fighting the urge to take the older demoness by her hair and fuck her throat. Not because he was worried about her, oh no. He knew she could handle it. It was his own safety he was worried for. Getting on her bad side was something that was not on his list for that evening. Suddenly, he began to moan louder and his grip on the couch tightened as his eyes watched Natasha quicken her movements.

Humming around his cock, creating vibrations that added to the pleasure. “Shit! Y-yes! Please! Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Unable to resist anymore, Abby grabbed a fistful of Natasha's hair and began to fuck her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch causing her to deep throat him. “Fuck!! Mistress! Your throat feels so good! Your mouth! Mm! Mm! Fuck! So good!” The sounds of her wet mouth fueling his desire and urge to paint her throat white.

“Cumming! Oh shit! I'm cumming!! Yes! Yes! Mistress!! I'm cumming!” Looking up at the man, the moment Natasha's eyes met those of Abby's he immediately came down her throat. Pushing her head all the way down to his crotch once more. “Mistress!!! Mm! Fuck!!!” It didn't take long for the man to come down from his high after Natasha pulled away from his cock. “You alright? I-i didn't mean to get that crazy.”

Natasha only laughed and smiled before standing from her position and kissed his forehead. “I'm fine hun. Are you ok? I didn't think you could sound so…whiny.” She laughed as she watched the man groan before standing as well. “Put that away and get ready for bed. I'll join you shortly.” Natasha smiled before grabbing her phone and walking into the elevator. She then dialed a number, while the elevator descended.

“Natasha. I am pleased to hear from you. How are the boys settling in?” Gwi-Ma asked. “Fine. That's the only update you're getting from me, asshole. Don't contact me anymore.”

@prettygirlkiki

@rivainimermaid

Chapter 4

[sourb1tter]

𐔌 : LARA RAJ...

──────── .☘︎ ݁˖ What's on the radio today ! : 15 MINUTES ! ༉‧₊˚.

Then I had a crazy thought in my head

Synopsis: you’re on the run with lara from the cops, whatever the crime is, but it’s still not stopping you & lara from a high speed chase with the law down streets & highways. in fact, it’s just a game to you both. it was fun & exciting, the thrill of practically playing mario kart in real life made it so much more addicting to do it again. once u & lara do eventually get away, high off the adrenaline was such a good aphrodisiac as well.

Warnings: mentions if criminal activity, smutt, Semi-public sex, g!p Lara, Switch!Lara, Switch!Reader, Dick riding, blowjob, breast/nipple play, praise/degradation, mentions of words slut and whore, Lara desperate and excited.

Tyy to my baby, @danisstarkon for giving me the idea to do thiss 💗💗.

the sound of the police alarms blared in my ears. “ Fuck. We gotta go. “ Lara said in a slightly frantic tone. She grabbed my wrist and led me onto her motorcycle carefully— her touch was gentle. As if i was a fragile, porcelain doll.

“ Stop immediately! “ the cop had yelled at us as he rolled his window down to try and get us to stop. Lara ignored him and the engine of the motorcycle roared loudly— the motorcycle drove off quickly. The cops had now started to chase us.

We giggled and laughed as Lara made multiple sharp turns around corners to catch the cops of guard. The red and blue siren light shined behind us. My arms clung onto Lara’s waist as i snuggled into her.

soon enough. We pulled off into a dark alleyway and the cops lost us. “ Fuck.. wow.. “ Lara exclaimed as she took off her helmet. She helped me take off mine and our eyes locked together. Our thrilling experience with eachother earlier turned into one of excited desire and wanting more. Lara sat down on a bench that happened to be deep in the alleyway, I got on top of Lara’s lap and hot kisses exchanged. Passionate and messy, i slightly nibbled on her bottom lip. Receiving a small sigh from her.

Her hands roamed my back as she snuck her hands underneath my white plan tank top and unclipped the back if my bra. Her hands found my breast instantly. Groping them as if they were meant to be there— shaky breaths left between our lips, my lipstick now smudged and ruined. Her lip liner now smudged with light pink lipstick.

She quickly and desperately unbuckled the belt on her jean pants. Hands fastly unbuckling it, her breath was heavy. “ Baby, calm down.. no rush. “ I said calmly as i leaned back in for a kiss. Further helping her unbuckle her pants— the palm of my hand immediately landed on the tent on her boxers, she whimpered quietly— i immediately pulled down her boxers. Her dick first hit my stomach then hers— my hand wrapped around her length at a slow pace.

Her lips left mine as she started begging for me to go faster. “ Mmfh.. Faster.. please.. “ She said in a shameful tone as she bucked her hips upwards to chase my hand, “ It feels so good. Doesnt it? My little slut. “ My pace picked up as she started babbling incoherent sentences about how she needs to cum so badly, and how good she feels.

I quickly unbuttoned and pulled my shorts down my thighs and calfs— throwing them somewhere near the bench, I desperately climbed back on top of her as I lowered myself onto Lara. Her groaning from how tight my cunt was as I slowly rid her.

Her hands gripped my hips and forcefully made my go faster. Lars immediately let go of my hips— now thrusting inside of me as her hand reached to the back of my neck to engulf me in another kiss with fiery passion.

Our lips only parted for 10 seconds to get some air then immediately went back. " Fuck.. your doing so good baby.. " Lara muttered between hot, open mouthed kisses. I threw my head back and just nodded and gripped onto her shoulders for more support.

Lara's hands roamed all over my body as if she couldn't get enough of me. Particularly spending more time on my breast— groping them every chance she gets " your such a whore.. so desperate for me. " She said as her hand landed on my throat. Only further pushing me to the edge as she planted dark love bites and marks on my skin, my collarbone and chest were covered in them.

I felt my release wash over me like no other— I practically screamed her name out loud. Her hand covered my mouth as she help me getting over mines. I smiled at her softly as I climbed off of her— I knelt down infront of her as my hand closed around Lara's cock— bringing it to my mouth as I first kissed her tip and then slowly. But she made sure I engulfed her whole cock down my throat.

Gagging slightly from her length being in my mouth. Lara's hand reached to grab a fistful of my hair. Guiding my movements with a fast pace, her hips jerked at how fast she was going. She was muttering stuff under her breath about how I'm such a slut for her cock and whispering sweet praises mixed with dirty words.

Her hips stuttered and she fluttered inside my mouth as she finished in my mouth, she kept thrusting to help ride it out— pulling out afterwards. She caught her breath and looked down at me as I swallowed her cum whole.

" Good.. " Lara said breathlessly as she zippd the zipper up on her pants and rebuckled her belt. I reached for the shorts i threw to the side and put them back on and hopped back onto her lap. My face nuzzled into the crook of her neck as she held me on that alleyway bench.

Prodotto da sourr

[nanamisbbygirl]

—☆ friends with benefits!

chapter 4. mary jane & co.

paring: geto suguru x reader

genre: college au, drama, smut with plot

summary: a pact of pleasure between friends runs the risk of ruining everything. passionate flames burn the hardest. you and geto care about each other, but what happens when sex gets tangled with friendship?

cw: marijuana use, toxic relationships and friendships, angst, smut, creampie, unprotected sex

a/n: hi! i just wanted to pop in and say that trust the process with this chapter! and also that the next one might take a little longer to come out as my schedule is very hectic for the next week! i hope though that i can at least have chapter 5 out in 7-8 days instead of 4-5! enjoy!

prev. < masterlist > next

Geto hated being home. He hated the quietness of the halls, he hated the smell of the carpets. He hated how the only time his mother was there, she would complain. She would taunt him, curse his father, complain how love is for idiots. Ever since the divorce she’d been keen on that fact. 

“Your father was a fucking asshole, never believe it when someone tells you they love you. Before you know it they’ll move onto someone else,” she would hiss, scanning her son with discontent. On other occasions, she would sneer at him, reminding Geto that he was starting to look just like him. 

It was the main reason he always hosted parties– it was a day to drown out the silence that haunted his house. It was an easy distraction, the drinking, the fun, the girls. He took his mothers words very seriously, realizing among all the sweaty teenage hormones, that no one knew what loyalty was, just like what his mother had warned him about. There was always some kind of drama and someone’s heart was always breaking. 

He stood with his best friend near the window of his room, feeling the breeze dilute the skunkish smell. Intertwined between their fingers was a perfectly rolled joint, and with every inhale they puffed smoke out the opening. Geto was feeling buzzed, and he could tell Gojo was even more out of it. He knew he should’ve been using the week to study– that was its intended purpose– but being home, looking at his bed, staring at his empty phone notifications, he felt as though there was nothing else to do. 

“This shit feels so fuckin’ good,” Gojo hummed, taking another drag, “we should do it more often.” 

Geto only agreed, fidgeting with the joint slightly, cautiously taking a hit. Judging by Gojo’s body language, he was much more loose, as though his thoughts had become unfiltered. 

“This year’s been so much fun so far– whoever said college was stressful clearly wasn’t doing it right.” He laughed, continuing with his gibbering nonsense. “And man, honestly I gotta tell ya– I thought I’d been fucking around hard once school began, but I think I’m fucking falling in love.” 

The black haired boy raised a suspicious eyebrow, intrigued on what else his friend would admit to him, “oh, really?” 

Before you know it they’ll be in love with someone else, ringing in his head at the thought of his best friend supposedly being in love. 

Gojo only nodded, “something about her, the way she laughs, the way she does her makeup, I don’t know I haven’t been able to shake it. We’ve gotten much closer in the past two months. I think I’m gonna give it a shot.” 

“Gotten closer?” Geto looks confused, “did you know her from highschool or something.” 

“Something like that,” Gojo mutters. He seems tense, like he’s unsure about what he’s going to say next. “I’m just worried that things might change too drastically, stuff like this gets messy.” 

Geto thought of you, about how it all started on the very bed that was next to him. Messy was an understatement. He hadn’t seen or spoken to you since that party, since you were cozying up with that other guy, since you broke off your friendship. 

“Do you think she likes you back?” He wasn’t sure why he was playing into Gojo’s delusions, but he couldn’t help it. 

“It’s hard to say,” Gojo huffs, inhaling his joint, “we usually hang out in group settings, but when we’re alone we always have fun.” 

“Worth a shot then,” Geto muses, “but probably best to not get your hopes up.” 

“Yeah but this girl is different.” He clarifies. “Trust me, if you knew who I was talking about, you’d understand.” 

“You’re saying that like I know this chick personally.” He laughs. 

However, Gojo stiffens. “You do.” 

Geto’s eyes narrow, trying to refocus himself on the conversation. Who the hell was Gojo falling in love with? 

“Shoko?” He questions, causing his friend to scoff, rolling his eyes. 

“Don’t be fucking dense.” Geto felt his face go pale, his breath slowing down as Gojo finished his sentence. “It’s y/n.” 

There’s a sinking feeling in his chest, although he tries his best to keep a straight face. Geto can feel the twitching of his heart, the way it’s trying to claw through his ribcage– it makes him nauseous, and he doesn’t know why. He thinks about your angered face, the way you stormed out on him just a handful of weeks ago. 

He didn’t know what to say, wondering how much time had gone by since Gojo last spoke. He wasn’t sure if his senses were being skewed because of the weed, or because of the perplexity of the whole situation. He figured it was the weed. 

A part of him wanted to tell Gojo about your friends with benefits situation, even though it had soured. He wanted to brag to his best friend about how he’d taken your virginity, about how he was the only one to see you in such a vulnerable state. It was twisted on how much he wanted to splice through Gojo’s little romantic fantasy, but still his lips moved without his brain. 

“Really? Her?” He said almost with a chuckle, taking another long drag. “You know she probably isn’t into guys like you.” 

Gojo hissed, “and what kinda guys is she into?” 

Geto could sense the devious little smile creeping up on his face, “she’s into the type of guys that make her work for it. She likes when they’re a little bit mean.” 

“And how the fuck would you know that?” Gojo asked, puffing smoke out the window, coughing slightly. 

“Because we’ve been fucking.” He admitted, even though it was him who suggested keeping your affairs secret. Geto’s lips were curled into a grin while he smoked, waiting in anticipation for how Gojo would react. 

“You’re full of shit,” he said, starting to raise his voice. It was obvious that Geto’s words stung. 

“Tell yourself what you want,” he told his best friend, “but I even took her virginity, right… here.” He said, pointing to his bed. 

Gojo remained speechless while Geto continued. “And the craziest thing is that we’ve been doing this whole friends with benefits shit, too, but she hasn’t slept with anyone other than me.” He couldn’t say the same for himself, though. 

“Yeah but you’re not anymore. Right? That’s why we haven’t hung out as a group for a while, isn’t it?” Gojo was always the bright one, and he seemed to have figured it out quickly. 

“Maybe,” Geto mumbled and Gojo only hummed. 

“Man, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is, but if you don’t give a shit about her, and she doesn’t give a shit about you, I’m still gonna fucking ask her out.” He boldly declared. 

“Sure you will,” Geto could feel his words slurring together, heart still thumping. 

“No kidding she broke things off with you, do you not see how much of a douche you are? Fuck, man, me and y/n are going to the bar tonight, I’m gonna take my chances, whether you were fuck buddies or not.” 

With that, Gojo stormed out, not looking back to see the expression on his friend's face. Geto was in awe about what had just happened, as if he hadn’t been the one to instigate the situation. He couldn’t believe that Gojo was so adamant on confessing his love to you. It seemed ridiculous– couldn’t he tell that you were his? Wasn’t it clear from what he had said? Even if you weren’t on speaking terms, he knew you’d come around eventually, he knew you well enough to know that you were a forgiving person. Yet, there was an inkling of doubt now. Why wouldn’t you pick Gojo over him? 

Remembering that fateful night, how he tore that guy off of you, the rage you directed towards him, the way you brushed off his advances, he wasn’t too sure anymore. He sat down on the edge of the bed, hand over his chest as his breaths became heavy. He could only think about your face, how you seemed to hate him– how he caused all of it. He never had regrets about who he slept with, but something about you was making a new sensation arise within him. Was it because you were friends first? A constant in his life? Before you started sleeping together, he could rely on you; you would listen to his woes, and make him smile. You were a mistake, he realized, and he had to let you know that. He had to put things back the way they were before.

He was standing outside your house, still not sure what he was possibly thinking. He thought about throwing pebbles at your window, but he figured that would only make you more upset with him. He pictured himself ringing the doorbell and the face you would make when it was him standing at your door. 

But, he had already dragged himself that far, he just had to push through.

Before his knuckles could even knock on the door, though, it swung open, as if his presence had already been anticipated. It was your mom at the door, although she was clearly in a rush to get somewhere. 

“Oh hi, Suguru, nice to see you,” she smiled, warmly. “I’m just running to the store, but y/n’s upstairs.” She turned to call for you, letting you know that a friend was at the door. 

“Tell them to come up,” you replied, although judging by how happy you sounded, you weren’t expected to see him standing at your door. 

You were seated at your vanity, starting to doll yourself up, wearing nothing but lingerie. Were you doing all this just to see Gojo? He felt his heart skip a beat, studying every inch of your body. The white lace; the way it perfectly framed your plunging breasts, complimenting your skin. You just looked so angelic, hair pushed back, innocently getting ready. Little did you know Gojo had every intention of confessing to you. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” You snapped at him, rightfully so. 

Geto was speechless, it felt like for the first time in his life, he was at a true loss of words. He stared deeply into your eyes, gulping before mustering up the courage to spew out his words. 

“I just needed to talk to you, now that we’ve both calmed down.” 

“Both? You think a week was enough for me to not be mad at you anymore?” Your eyes narrowed. 

“No- I mean I just at least wanted to tell you something, before anyone else got the chance to tell you this.” He explained, “When you and Satoru go out tonight, he’s gonna tell you that he’s in love with you.” 

Your expression softened, as if you were imagining the other man, filling your face up with some perfect little day dream. Geto could feel an angry grunt getting caught in his mouth before he continued with what he thought was the best solution to all of this. 

“And I think you should also know that I’m sorry.” 

“Do you really think sorry is going to fix it? You treated me like shit.” You huffed, standing up in order to get closer to him. As you looked up at him, Geto felt himself melting, almost as if the proximity between the two of you was affecting his judgement. 

“I know, I-I can’t explain what it is about me, but I can never get close to people properly. I always do something to fuck it up. I’m surprised our friendship lasted three years before I fucked it up-” 

“Are you saying sleeping with me was a mistake?" You interrupted, and Geto felt himself shaking his head quickly. 

“No,” he took a deep breath, building up the strength to continue, “I’m saying that I shouldn’t have done things the way I did. But, I will never regret sleeping with you. I just wish that I could’ve just been honest with you from the start.”

You’re practically standing face-to-face, feeling the intensity of his soul crushing down on you. He was being truthful, it was clear through his gaze, with the way his body was limp, like he had dropped every line of defense. 

“Honest about what?” Your voice was a borderline whisper. 

“Honest about the fact I’m in love with you. It just took me ruining everything to realize it.” His confession is swift, but heartfelt. You look up at him with starry eyes, wide and yearning for him to kiss you. 

“Su..” you say, your thoughts trailing off as you reach up to kiss him, entangling your hands in his hair. His arms hug your waist, bringing you into his chest. 

Everything felt like a blur, from the way you guided him to your bed, wrapping your legs around his waist, passionately kissing him with all the strength in your body. He feels it in the way he grinds himself against your white panties, and how he slips down your bra straps. You’ve never looked more beautiful, he can barely find words to describe it. 

So when you end up on top of him, cute little underwear pushed to the side, his raw cock teasing your entrance, he thinks he’s finally at peace with the world. You carefully ease yourself onto him, chanting out how much you love him, how good he is, it rings in his ears like a melodic symphony. 

“Fuck Sugu, you feel so good,” you cry out, riding him without a care in the world. This is different from all the sex he’s had before, this one isn’t as lustful, the girls aren’t squealing out obscenities for him, not begging to be roughed up, or to be degraded. It’s genuine. He feels as though he could be in this moment forever. 

You bounce on his dick, hands resting on his chest for support, simultaneously pushing your boobs forward. 

“I’m gonna cum,” you pant out, giving him a warning before he starts feeling the intensity of your orgasm. You clench around him and he’s never felt better. He can sense that his own end is near too, but he doesn’t want to pull out. 

“That’s it pretty girl, cum for me, yeah good girl.” His hands find your waist, stopping you from squirming, “fuck, ‘gonna make me cum, fuuck I’m gonna cum so deep inside you, baby.” 

“Please Su,” you plead with him, “I love you so much, please cum in me.” And he does.

Although, it doesn’t feel as good as he thinks it would feel. 

That’s when he wakes up. 

That’s when he realises he never left his room.

He curses the marijuana for making him pass out, and he curses himself even more when he looks down and sees the stain on his crotch. It was just some fucking wet dream, he concludes, groaning as he rubs his hands over his face. 

Before he could reach for his phone, he took a deep breath, feeling the way his heart ached at the fact that he didn’t get to say those words to you in real life. Looking at the time, it read 10:47. Fuck. 

He thought about what Gojo was telling him early– that you were going to the bar. Which bar? He looked to see if his friend had posted any photos and luckily for Geto, he had. 

Roxxy Bar and Lounge. Posted ten minutes ago, it’s a picture of your drinks. He figures if he leaves now maybe he’ll make it in time, before Gojo drinks up the courage to tell you how he really feels. 

Geto knows that he, too, has some explaining to do. He needs to tell you that he’s sorry, he needs to tell you everything he told you in his dream and more. He can’t let you slip away, not like this, not when he was the one driving you away the whole time. 

taglist: @bunnygorex @iwas-baby @coffee-and-geto @i2s2m @zeunys @murasakiyams @sukunasbigtiddiewifey @izluvsyou @goonforgeto @multistan-247 @chosoclub @idyllicsam @0tsukie @suckkuna @loverzxi @lilbxtchsyndrome @blombat @ll0rona @astrokenny @izluvsyou @saint-boudica @cutehobii @shadyd3ar @getofanclub @suguruswifett @rryujn @kenmacantakemeaway @keiva1000 @reader2004 @hearts-for-asa @siennadoodles @se-phi-roth @reidluvr9 [open]

© all work belongs to nanamisbbygirl on tumblr, please do not plagiarize, repost or translate anywhere

[ladykailitha]

Three Cheers for Toby the Tiger Part 4

Thank you so much for all the love this story has been getting. I'm excited to see where this story going and it's nearing the end.

In this we have the results of the mischief, Steve flirting with Eddie, and everyone thinking they're cute.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

~

It turned out that anyone could be ejected from the game.

Eddie sat in the hall outside the other school’s gymnasium, costume half off, and tied around his waist, the head off, and his arms crossed as he slouched against the wall.

Principal Higgins came out of the gym with a sigh. “May I ask why you chose to use the opposing team’s captain as target practice?”

Eddie tilted his chin up and said, “He deserved it for going after Harrington the way he did. If anyone should be ejected from the game, it’s him.”

“I saw the play, Munson,” Higgins said, removing his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It was a valid play.”

“Not if they knew Harrington had a concussion and was only there to keep the school from having to drop out of the tournament all together,” Eddie said coolly.

Higgins paled.

“Yeah,” Eddie groused. “I don’t know much about the game, but even I know that’s straight up bullshit.”

“You can’t possibly believe that they are trying to deliberately hurt Harrington!” Higgins bellowed, his voice bordering on outright panic.

“I don’t know,” Eddie said with a half shrug, looking away, “how good do you think the team’s chances are without him?”

Higgins gulped. “Right. You have been sufficiently chastised. I will speak to Coach Rowland about what we can do with Harrington in the meantime.”

Eddie sat up straight and looked up at him, curiously. “I’m not going to be punished?”

“I have berated you for a long time and have gotten your express word that it won’t happen again,” Higgins said with a straight face.

Eddie blinked at him for a moment and then realization spread over his features. “Oh. Yes, sir. I have been thoroughly reprimanded and promise to not throw balls at assholes.”

Principal Higgins cracked a smile for the first time. “See that you don’t.” He turned on his heel and then paused. “And for record, Munson next time try a little harder to make it look like an accident, yes?”

Eddie burst out laughing. “Aye, aye, Captain!”

~

As they were getting back onto the buses that would take them back to Hawkins, Eddie spotted Harrington. He watched as he said something to Coach Rowland and then trot over to the cheer bus.

“Hey, Eddie?” he said a little breathy and all pinked cheeked.

He turned to him. “Hey.” He raised an eyebrow as he watched Steve get even redder.

“I just wanted to thank you for the assist tonight,” he said with a small smile. “Even Coach thinks they were aiming to get me injured for the season. He’s not a hundred percent sure they know about the concussion. But they know that if I’m gone, the team doesn’t have enough players to compete.”

“Hey,” Eddie said with a half shrug, “no worries. I had fun testing the limits of the refs tonight. If another team tries it, I’ll be a little more subtle.” He held up his forefinger and thumb close together.

Steve laughed. “Yeah? You going to tackle them to ground next time?”

“If it was football, I’m sure I could get away with it,” Eddie said with a snort. “Unless you basketball guys are holding out on me and you guys can tackle each other too?”

“God, I wish,” Steve said shaking his head. “It would make fouling the other guy way more fun.”

“Tough luck on that one, man,” Eddie said tilting his head to the side. “But then if you were playing something with a lot more contact they wouldn’t let you out on the court...field? Giant rectangle thingy.”

Steve laughed. “Actually you’d be surprised. They’d just hide the concussion better and send me out anyway. Got make sure the team wins!” He shook hands like they had invisible pompoms in them. “Go team!”

Eddie blinked at him. “That’s horrific.”

“Don’t act like it’s not the same in cheer,” Steve said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve seen them do stunts that would be illegal in any other sport, but because it’s girls and not actually considered a sport, it’s all okay, right?”

Eddie stopped for a moment and cocked his head to the side. He thought about Chrissy’s ankle and Eleanor’s stalker.

“When you’re right, you really hit it on the nose,” he said with a huff. “Any word on what’s going to be happening with you for the rest of the season?”

Steve shook his head. “I just hope it’s not letting Tommy and Billy off the bench, because I think that would really suck.”

“You and me both.”

~

Thankfully Billy and Tommy stayed on the bench at the next game but it seemed like Coach Rowland had come up with a different strategy.

Steve still went out for the tip off, because he was the best at it, but immediately after he would get the ball, Coach would call a time out and sub Carver in. Then in the final minute of each quarter Steve would be out of the court, playing his heart out.

There was only once that game were Eddie thought that a player on the opposing team had fouled Steve deliberately as he didn’t even have the ball.

Eddie made his life hell for the rest of the game, always acting innocent. It gave Eddie great pleasure when the player was ejected from the game for getting in his face.

After the game, Principal Higgins just patted Eddie on the shoulder and murmured, “Good job.”

Steve came jogging up to him as they were filing into buses again. “You know with a throw like that you’d make a hell of a pitcher.”

Eddie chuckled. “I’ll leave the throwing balls around on the reg to the jocks, I like mine right where they are, thanks!”

Steve let out a strangled noise before dissolving into giggles. “I’ll have to remember that one next time!” He winked.

Eddie about swallowed his tongue. Because there was no way Steve Harrington was flirting with him.

“Anyway,” Steve said, running his fingers through his hair, “I just wanted to thank you for going after that jerkwad tonight. You managed to convince Coach Rowland that they are trying to take me out.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Eddie said solemnly. “I hope this means he’ll take it more seriously now.”

“Oh he is,” Steve said in wide-eyed earnestness. “So yeah, I just wanted to say thanks.”

“Well, you’re welcome,” Eddie said shoving his hair in front of his face. “It’s nice to be appreciated once in a while.”

“If any of the guys give you flack for the mascot thing,” Steve said, blush rising on his cheeks, “just let me know and I’ll sort them out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Eddie said, dropping the strand of hair. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself.”

Steve patted him on the shoulder. “I know you are, but I like taking care of people. I’ll see you around, Munson.” And then he turned on his heel and walked back to his bus.

Megan wrapped her arm around his shoulders. “Looks like someone’s got a crush!” she teased.

Eddie looked at her in opened-mouth shock. “I do not have a crush on Steve Harrington! You take that back, missy!”

She cackled and then hopped up the stairs of their bus, her ponytail swishing. She grabbed the railing and looked back at him with a grin. “I didn’t say you had a crush, Eddie.” She winked at him and then disappeared into the big yellow monstrosity.

Eddie turned to Coach Miller, pointing the direction Steve had gone. “Can you believe that?”

Coach Miller looked at him for a moment. “Do you mean that can I believe Harrington has a crush on you or that can I believe that Steve came all the way over here to thank you?”

Eddie’s mouth worked for a moment or two without sound coming out before he snapped his jaw shut with a click. He gulped. “Both?”

She stared him straight in the eye. “Yes. Now get on the god damned bus.”

Eddie let out a noise that he would absolutely deny was a squeak and hurried up the stairs to enter the bus. He scrambled down the aisle to sit next to Eleanor.

“Do you think Harrington has a crush on me?” he asked, chewing on his thumbnail.

Eleanor blinked at him for a moment. “Well hello to you, too.”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “There is no time for niceties when both Megan and Coach think he’s coming over to flirt with me when he comes over to thank me.”

“Ah,” Eleanor said with a grimace. “Yeah, I mean if he liked boys that’s exactly what it looks like. but that’s a pretty big if, you know.”

“Yeah,” he said relaxing against the seat. “Yeah. It’s a pretty big if that the hottest guy in school would have a big, ole gay crush, let alone for the freak of Hawkins High!”

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “Though it does sound like you might have a crush on him,” she teased, sing-song.

“Eleanor Rigby Morris!” he protested. “You take that back!”

Eleanor cackled. “Not my middle name, you dork! But I’m serious! You rant and rave about the guy, but you never really call him out or bully him like you do other players on either the basketball or football teams.”

Eddie slouched into the seat and crossed his arms. “You and Jeff have been conspiring again. He thinks I have a crush on Harrington, too.”

“Jeff’s the hot black kid, right?” Eleanor said cocking her head to the side, finger on the side her face.

Eddie straightened up and looked at her with wide eyes and a slow smile spreading over his face. “Oh, this is juicier than Harrington having a crush on poor little me. Do you have a crush on my best friend, Eleanor?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head, eyes wide.

“Ooh, you do!” he cackled gleefully, clapping his hands. “You have the hots for my very nerdy best friend.”

Eleanor turned bright pink and ducked her head. “He’s sweet. He holds the door open for me in our math class every day and helps me out when Mr. Mundy is too busy.”

“And much better choice then meathead Kyle!” Eddie crowed. “I approve!”

She pushed him out of the seat, him cackling all the way down. “That’s not hard. The bar is literally on the floor.”

“Munson!” Coach Miller barked. “Get your ass off the floor! I’m not going to be the one scraping your face off the windshield if Frank has to break suddenly!”

“Aye, aye!” Eddie said with a sardonic salute.

He scrambled back to the seat and glared at Eleanor for getting him into trouble. He stuck out his hand, “Truce? I won’t tease you about Jeff if you don’t tease me about Harrington?”

She looked at his hand for a moment before she shook it. “Truce!”

~

Tag List: FOUR SLOTS REMAINING

1- @niniel-karenine @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 ​@tartarusknight @gloomysoup @cryptid-system @kultiras

3- @maya-custodios-dionach @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog

4- @bookbinderbitch @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006

5- @yikes-a-bee @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @thesecondfate

6- @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual

@disrespectedgoatman

7- @counting-dollars-counting-stars @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77

8- @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss @steddieislife @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale

9- @mags6422 @wheneverfeasible @blackpanzy @the-fantastical-asexual @stedestielfrattficlover

10- @themoonagainstmers

[bluebnny]

Can u make a luffy x reader smut friend with benefits?

monkey d luffy x reader

contents: luffy fucking you in the storage room at your work :) – reader has a vagina, but gender is not specified

warnings: smut, P in V sex, maybe slight voyeurism?, MDNI

a/n: yes, anon, yes i can :) thank you for the request! I didn’t make reader a pirate, as i always find that dynamic to be a little more interesting. Also, sorry if you wanted me to get more into the "friends with benefits" aspect of it. This is more focused on the smut than their specific relationship. Anyway, hope you like it! <3

(Dividers made by me)

word count: 1.020

Luffy is the same in every area of his life: messy, spontaneous, and carefree. But he is also the most enthusiastic person you know, burning with an intense passion that shines through in everything he does.

Even if that “thing” is you.

“Ahh- fuck. Luffy, more, please…” Here you are, in the storage room of the bar you work at, with your face pressed up against the wall. You’re doing your very best to keep your moans under control, trying to end the night with both your job and dignity intact. But he is not making it easy.

“Sure you can handle more?” Even when he’s breathless and panting, he somehow manages to joke around, and you don’t have to look at him to know he’s grinning.

Luffy snaps his hips roughly into yours, mesmerized by the way your ass and thighs shake with every harsh thrust. He’s impossibly deep now, using so much force that his hips still for half a second before pulling back again. You feel him pressing himself all the way inside, and the way it hurts so deliciously has your eyes rolling back in your head.

He goes on for what feels like forever and at the same time not long enough to your dizzy mind. All you know for sure is the pleasure building inside you, making you let out a string of whines and whimpers at the intensity of it.

He’s ramming himself into you from behind, keeping a steady pace. One hand is on the back of your head, the other on your hip to keep you from squirming away, his feet firmly planted on the ground.

You’re a whole different story. Hair messy and mouth half open, you’re barely able to contain your whimpers of pleasure. You have a hand on the wall, trying – and failing – to steady yourself, as your shaky legs are not helping much at the moment. Your other hand is placed on Luffy’s abs, whether to make him slow down from the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you, or to ask for more, you couldn’t even say yourself. All you know is that you’ve been craving this ever since you heard this morning that the straw hats had docked at your town again.

You and Luffy had met not too long ago but quickly considered yourselves friends. However, it didn’t stay like that for very long, as your friendship had swiftly evolved into something a little… more.

It had happened on a drunken night a few months back. Luffy and the straw hats had visited your island for a quick stop to restock and have some fun on land, going to your bar for a few drinks to catch up with you. You had joined them, seeing as you were off work that night. One thing had led to another, and you had found yourself under him on his ship, just about coherent enough to pant and moan out as the breath was repeatedly being knocked out of you by none other than the captain himself.

Ever since that night, you were addicted.

“Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tightly.” He groans into the back of your head, bending over a little from the delicious feeling.

You honestly couldn’t tell anymore from how blissed out you are, no longer in control of your body. Retaining just enough sense to be aware that your boss is tending the bar on the other side of the door, and remembering that you were trying not to be too loud.

But Luffy gives a particularly hard thrust that has you gasping out despite your best efforts. You’re beyond grateful for the deafening music playing throughout the establishment. Without it, you’re sure everyone would hear exactly what you two are up to.

“Careful, or everyone out there will hear you.” He teases.

“I- I can’t.” You breathe out. How the hell are you supposed to keep any sense of control when he’s making you feel this good? But the mortifying thought of someone catching you like this sends a shiver down your spine and you clench down harder around him.

“Fuck, you like that?” He’s chuckling, but it’s coming out a little choppy from his rapid movements.

“Luffy… I’m close. Ah!” You let out another squeak when his hand moves from your head down to your clit and he starts rubbing it in tight circles that have you breaking on the spot.

Your mind is reeling from the orgasm crashing through you, your entire body shaking and convulsing from the intensity. Both your hands are now planted against the wall from the effort of holding yourself up.

Your pussy is helplessly spasming around his thick cock, which Luffy is still slamming into you. But you can tell he must be close from how desperate his thrusts are getting. It doesn’t take much before he’s cumming too. With a groan, he releases into you in thick spurts, his pace slowing down for the first time.

You both start to come down from the intense sensation, and you feel like you might actually fall now. Your legs start shaking even more violently as the tension leaves your body. But just as you’re about to collapse, you feel Luffy’s steadying grip around your middle, and he helps you sit on a spare chair in the corner of the room.

“You alright?” He asks you after a moment, his mind clearly still reeling from everything.

“Yeah. Just got to regain my breath.” How the hell was he already so energetic again? You feel like you’ve just run a marathon. At least your legs do.

“Yeah… fuck that was hot!” Is all he says, and when you look up to se his characteristic smile back on his face, you can’t help but mirror it.

“It was. Alright I’m good now I think.” You search for your pants which are somewhere on the floor of the storage, meanwhile hoping that your hair doesn’t look too much of a mess as you don’t have a mirror to check. But judging by how Luffy looks, your hopes are not too high.

Thanks for reading! And thank you so much for the request! Also uhhh this one doesn't have a title. It's midnight here and i am in no state to think of a good one lol.

(This is my fic, don't repost or use in any AI training programmes! Reblogs are always appreciated <3) Here are my rules, and my masterlist.

[rosenclaws]

Hi rose!!! IM SO GLAD YOU'RE BACK AHHHH

omg i was reading kitty and marie earlier AND I LOVE IT SM U ATE and now i have smth in my mind im not sure you'll like it but its like Marie has a family day activity at school and Marie insists that Logan should go with her Mommy 🫣

Family Fun Day || Worst Logan x Reader

warnings: fem!reader, fluff

a/n: this is such a good fucking idea non holy. My old elementary school used to have these events like a star night or a fun festival so Im gonna use one of these.

Kitty and Marie Series

"Family fun day? Face paint, bake sale, and games." You read off of the crumpled flyer Marie had shoved into her backpack.

"Do you want to go honey?" You ask. She looks up from her homework and nods.

"Yes please, Dani said she's gonna go with her mommy and daddy." Dani was her best friend. You often found them playing together after school when you went to pick her up.

"Can Kitty come?" She asks and you hesitate.

"We can ask but I don't know if he'll want to honey." You tell her gently.

Logan often couldn't say no to Marie but this was going to be a family day and well, you don't want to scare him by dragging him to a school with a bunch of screaming kids.

"But...but..." Her little eyes well up with tears and you can't help but laugh. Oh she's perfected her puppy eyes.

"Here, how about we'll ask him the next time we see him okay?" Marie nods and goes back to her homework. While she's occupied you whip out your phone and text Logan. Not wanting to spring something on him so he thinks he has to say yes. Marie is very convincing.

Are you free on Friday?

Yeah. Why?

Marie has this family fun day and she wants to invite you. It's totally okay if you don't want to go though because it's a lot and I don't want to put any pressure on you to go.

You bite your lip as you see the three little bubbles pop up and then disappear. Did you type too much? You didn't know if Logan would freak out seeing the family part of the family fun day. You're still early into your relationship. Hell you still get shy when someone calls you a couple. Plus Logan wasn't a very expressive texter so it was hard to read his mind when all he sends are short messages with the occasional emoji.

I'll be there.

👍

You take a deep breath as you tuck your phone back in your pocket. This is just supposed to be fun, nothing to read into right?

Marie sees Logan the next day and asks him if he wants to go. She's practically jumping up and down as he picks her up and hangs her upside down for a moment making her squeal with laughter. He says yes and Marie couldn't be happier.

Friday rolls around and you and Logan walk to her school. He can already hear the screams of the children and he shudders.

"You don't have to go Logan, it's okay really." You tell him, noticing his super senses starting to act up.

"No I promised Marie, I can deal with a few...okay a lot of rowdy kids for a few hours." He can suck it up for a little bit. Marie's waiting by the front with a few of her friends and spots them as soon as they walk up.

"Kitty!!!" She screams as she runs up to him. Logan picks her up with ease as she jumps into his arms.

"Hi Mommy! Can I get my face painted please please pleaseeeee." You laugh as she starts to squirm in his arms. Leaning over you boop her nose and tell her of course.

"Dani!! Mommy said yes!" She calls over her shoulder. Logan sets her down and he grabs both of your hands and "drags" you towards the face painting table.

"What do you want kid?" Logan asks as he bends down to look at the options.

"Mmm Butterfly or Unicorn." Marie thinks hard as she looks between the two.

"This is the hardest decision a little girl has to make." He teases.

"I think...Unicorn." She nods her head firmly and hops in the chair.

"Kitty look they have a tiger." She points out on the poster.

"Stay still honey." You tell her as she keeps moving her head.

"You should get the tiger face paint right mommy?" You smirk as you look at Logan who is shaking his head.

"No way. I am not painting a damn tiger on my face." He huffs.

"Not even for us?" You pout your lips slightly and so does Marie.

"You two are evil. Evil." He points at you and you just smile sweetly. 20 minutes later and Logan now has half a tiger painted on his face.

"You look purr-fect." You joke and he just glares at you playfully.

"Oh shut up."

Marie tugs on his hand and points towards some of the games. Her eyes go wide when she sees a massive cow plush sitting on one of the shelves.

"I need it." She whispers.

There's a crowd of kids around the booth. It was one of those knocking down the bottle games and so far everyone else has failed. Even some of the parents can't seem to get it. You hand Marie a few tickets and she goes up to the booth. He hands her a ball and she gives it her best shot. Knocking down one bottle but not the other ones.

"That was a good shot honey." You tell her trying to cheer her up. But you can see the sad look on her face. There's not tantrum or fit but just disappointment.

Logan narrows his eyes at the game. He watches a few more people take some shots and still nothing. He notices one of the bottles at the bottom get hit square in the middle but it doesn't budge. He knows most carnival games are rigged but at an elementary school? Really?

"Give me a few tickets, I'll get that stupid cow." He whispers in your ear.

"Its okay Logan we can just buy her one from the store." You tell him but he insists.

He hands the tickets to the guy at the booth and takes the ball. Logan throws the ball hard. It's not even at his full strength and it knocks the bottles clean off the stand. And rips through the tent and gets stuck in the fence behind the tent.

"Oops." Logan shrugs as everyone stares in awe. Logan plucks the cow from the high shelf and hands it to Marie. She squeals in happiness as a few kids come up to celebrate with her. Petting the fluffy hair and looking at Logan with big eyes.

"Is using mutant strength cheating?" You tease as he grabs your hand.

"Nah, That wasn't even my full strength." He smirks as Marie continues to show off her new plushie.

"Maybe I can show you how strong I really am sometime." He whispers in your ear, winking when he sees your jaw drop. Oh that jerk. You glare at him but he just smiles wider.

The whole day she wouldn't let go of it. Bragging to everyone who would hear that Kitty won it for her. She eventually hands the cow off to you as she goes to play on the playground. You and Logan sit on a bench eating some popcorn. The cow tucked under his arm.

"Thank you for coming Logan, Marie is having so much fun and so am I."

"I mean I really only came for the free food." He jokes and you roll your eyes. He wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer.

"Thank you for inviting me. I...It's nice being apart of your life like this." He says, his voice serious as he presses a kiss to your head.

"It was all Marie's idea. I was worried it would be too much."

"Too much how?"

"Its silly but sometimes I get nervous that we're moving too fast. The word family can be a lot." You explain. He's quiet for a moment which worries you.

"I never thought I'd be this kind of guy. The one who goes to their kids school events and gets their face painted because I can't say no to a child." He's teasing but there's a hint of vulnerability.

"How's it been so far?" You ask softly, the fact he said "their kid" doesn't escape you.

"It's better than I could have imagined." You lean your head against his shoulder as you watch Marie play.

As the fair winds down Logan gets up and heads over to the playground.

"Hey kid it's time to go home." Logan hands Marie her cow as she sighs, not wanting to leave yet.

But the promise of ice cream has her ready to go. Logan buys her a small ice cream cone on the way back. She swings on his arm as he orders and sticks by him while they wait. Marie has seemed to fall in love with him just as quickly as you have. You never imagined this was going to be your life.

Since her father left you all alone with her, it's been hard. Doing your best to make her happy, to be there for her while providing for her too. You were so happy with just the two of you and then Logan swooped in and filled the small hole that was still living in your heart.

"Thanks for inviting me kid, I had fun." Logan tells Marie as he drops you off at your apartment.

"You had to come, you're part of the family." She says. She doesn't realize how much it means to Logan to hear that.

"Yeah?" His voice is barely a whisper as Marie hugs his leg and hurries inside. You see his eyes turn misty and smile.

"She's right, you are part of your family now Logan. We're never gonna let you go now." You tease, trying to lighten the mood. He looks up at you with a serious face and your smile fades.

"I think I'm in love with you guys." He admits.

"No actually, I know I am."

The two of you were easy to fall in love with. He looks at you and suddenly his old ass wants everything. The school events and playdates, the tantrums and sick days. All of it. The good and the bad.

"Logan..." Your heart squeezes in your chest as you reach out and cup his face.

"We love you too. So much." You tell him and he kisses you gently.

You think you fell in love with him a long time ago, maybe even the first day you met him. Or at least you knew you would. He gently presses you against the door as he deepens the kiss.

"Stay for dinner?" Or stay forever. But you'll take dinner for now.

"Of course." His hands slip to your waist as you open the door.

Marie lights up seeing Logan still here. Already rambling on about making dinner. He helps her wash her hands as the three of you start to cook. He looks around to see the two of you cutting some vegetables.

There's a small tug at his heart as he realizes he's right where he wants to be. Wishing he never has to let go.

[olgasaysso]

The apothecary diaries made me realize something very interesting about how women perceive power...

I can't be the only one who noticed that in stories written by women power is often compared to a prison or a cage meanwhile in the ones written by men it's mostly fun and freedom.

It is that women tend to see power as more of an responsibility and men think of it as the ability to do whatever they want?

The apothecary diaries made me think of it first. I discovered with surprise that I actually like the emperor, which I almost never do. Any guy that has relationship with more than one woman at once tends to disgust me, especially if he's in a position of power but for some reason not him.

Because the emperor is as much a prisoner as the 2000 women in the rear palace. Maybe even more because as long as he doesn't touch them, they're allowed to leave.

Like on one hand, he's the most powerful man in the empire. He calls the shots, right?

But on the other hand, he can't even properly protect Lishu from being sold to some pedofile by her father. The only way he could protect her was to make her his concubine and how f*cked up is that? She's like a daughter to him and the only way he could protect her was by marrying her? And then he couldn't even spend time with her anymore because that would be read wrong.

It's the fact that 3 of his children died because there was no proper medic to save them due to the fact that they don't allow non eunuchs to treat them and forbid women practicing medicine... when he doesn't even care about that. He hasn't blinked once at Maomao running around the inner palace and being a doctor.

At first when I was watching the story I thought of how horrible it was that he didn't even visit Lady Lihua after their son died. But then it made me think of how he's literally not allowed to get attached because of his position and how hard it is for him? The fact that he couldn't even provide enough support for Lady Ah-Duo so she doesn't lose her uterus? The fact that she switched their baby with his brother and he had to watch his son grow up "away" from him?

There's so much more to this, especially with Jinshis approach to power and I could go on an on but I think I made my point.

And when I started comparing the stories written by women to those by men... Women tend to write power as more of a burden than a gift.

After watching TAD I watched solo leveling.

And for those of you who don't know, it's basically a story about a guy who suddenly "discovers" that he's like a character in a game (not exactly but it's be too long to explain) and basically finds out that he has endless potential and over the course of the story he becomes the most powerful being in the entire universe.

And there's a moment where he's talking to his little sisters friend that gets very misread as something inappropriate by another character.

This other character points out, kindly, to Sung Jinwoo that the girl is a minor.

Sun Jinwoo doesn't understand so he just looks at him and asks "so?".

And so the guy immediately gets scared and never mentions it again despite the two of them being friends.

This moment is kind of played for laughs. Nothing actually happened, Sung Jinwoo is a good guy so he wouldn't.

But he could. Nobody could do anything to stop him.

And when I watched that I laughed too. But then I thought of how terrifying that is. To have someone be so above the law, this untouchable. Who can do anything he pleases because no one will ever stop him.

But that's never actually adressed in the show other than to show us how cool this is.

It this was written by Natsu Hyūga there'd probably be a million different situations to show us how fucked up this is and how it weighs on the main character.

In the apothecary diaries Jinshi doesn't even want to ask anything directly of Maomao because he doesn't want her to interpret it as an order.

[justmeinadaze]

Easy To Love/Hate (Steddie & Plus Size Y/N)

A/N: Im not sure what triggered this but Y/N is very much a manifestation of alot of my fears and trauma. But yeah, she's also very inspired by Kate Winslet in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

New record of longest story I've written and they definitely have more of a story to tell.

Enjoy!

Warnings: Steddie & Plus Size Fem Y/N, SMUT, dirty talk, semi public (lover's lake, no one is around), stoned sex (but its consensual), oral (m and f receiving), fingering (m and f receiving), p in v, frotting, unprotected p-in-v, slight overstimulation if you squint, aftercare always.

ANGST! Eddie and Steve have an intimate encounter when they were younger but not aren't friendly which is expanded in as the story progresses, Reader is mentioned as being inquisitive and asks alot of questions but she does make it clear that they don't have to say anything they don't want to, mentions of King Steve and all his insecurities with being popular and his dad, Eddie briefly mentions his relationship with his dad and how people hate him in the town, Reader is new to Hawkins and is slightly spicy :) (talks back to teachers and jocks), Has a run in with jocks and kicks their ass, has a run in with Mr. Harrington who, well IS Mr. Harrington (talks down to her about being poor), Reader pokes fun at her own weight but not a whole lot and no one in the town talks to her about it negatively, mentions of a feeling abandoned by parent, argument between her and the boys... I think that's it.

Word Count: 13, 887

Steddie Masterlist/Donate to Me

"She's easy to love, oh, and easy to hate She tastes like a drug, and she feels just the same Bitter to the tongue, but a thrill for your brain A little bit crazy, but it's worth all the pain.

Her mind is a beautiful thing You never quite know what she thinks But if you're lucky, she just might let you see What hides behind nightmares and dreams."

“I’ve, um, I’ve never done that before.”, Steve murmurs from his spot on the edge of the bed while the buzz cut boy in front of him finished buckling his pants. 

“The making out part or the blow job part?”, Eddie asked with a crassness that had the other boy flinching. 

“All of it, I guess. I’ve made out with girls but never—”

“A handsome lad like myself?” When he cut him off, Steve flinched again causing the other boy to softly sigh before taking a seat beside him and placing his palm on his shoulder. “I get it. The first time I kissed a dude, my dad walked in at the same time and…let’s just say it didn’t go well…”

Steve’s honey irises scanned over Eddie’s face as his own eyes fell to the floor in front of them. 

“You did good…I mean like…it felt really good…having your lips…fuck, why can’t I talk?” He smirked when he heard the boy beside him chuckle. “Did you like it? I mean…how did it feel for you?”

“I like kissing you. Your lips taste good.”

“Yeah?”

Steve nods. 

“I also like the sounds you make. You, like, whimper when my head bobs—”

“I do not!”, Eddie shouts defensively, pushing his shoulder playfully. 

The other boy doesn’t miss a beat, grabbing his wrist just in time and yanking his mouth to his own. 

“What happens on Monday, Munson?”, he whispered as his forehead leaned against his.

“You tell me, Harrington. Do you still want to hang out with a freak like me?”

Steve cups Eddie’s cheeks and kisses him again, not wanting to let the boy go. 

“If you’re a freak, then so am I.”

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

3 Years Later

Steve hated history class with a burning passion. 

He always struggled to remember dates and certain aspects of the material never made sense to him. Add in the fact that Mrs. Hill droned on and on with no inflection in her tone; everything just seemed to run together. 

He did his best though, taking notes and doing what he could to at least maintain a good average so he could keep playing basketball. 

Sports was his only outlet for all his stress.

Every time he focused on dunking the ball, he didn’t have to remember that his father kept reciting about his future and what he planned to do with it. With every finished lap in the pool, he would focus on bettering his time and not the fact that he was already bored of the last girl he took out on a date. 

Every cheer from the crowd in the stands made him forget that Tommy and Carol had bullied another kid from the debate team or that stupid fucking Hellfire Club.

With every win and applaud whether it be from the crowd at a game or keg stand at a party, he felt more like the king they claimed him to be and he could ignore the fact that he was incredibly bored with it all and how awful it genuinely made him feel. 

“Mr. Harrington?”

“Huh?”

“Care to answer my question?”

“What was the question?” 

The kids around him snicker, they think he’s joking so he smirks to cover the truth. 

“I see we still aren’t paying attention today, are we, Mr. Harrington?”

���She was asking if the introduction of music television like MTV was a positive or negative like MTV and violence in our society are mutually exclusive.” All eyes turned your way as you continued to absently doodle in your notebook. “If it did have any effect, at most it would chill people the fuck out.”

A couple of people gasped while Steve’s eyes widened. 

He had never seen you before let alone was aware you were even in the class. How could he not have when you were in his row 2 seats away?

“Miss…”, the teacher pauses as she looks at her clipboard. “Y/L/N. I know you’re new to the school so you may not entirely know the rules but I would assume most schools wouldn’t allow for language like that.”

“Oh, I apologize, Mrs. Hill. It’s probably the influence of all that MTV.”

At your sarcastic reply, you turn towards Steve and throw him a playful wink that actually has the king of Hawkins blushing. 

The bell rings and even as everyone throws their belongs in their bags to escape out the door, you slowly maneuver your books into your backpack before slinging it over one shoulder. 

“Hey, um, thanks for what you did in there.”

“Did I do something?”, you tease, heading into the hall with him in tow. 

“I’m not very good at history—”

“I noticed.”, you giggle, finally turning to give him your attention. Your eyes gradually take him in, from his expensive tennis shoes up over his tight jeans to the polo that hugged his waist. “I’m Y/N.”, you relay as you extend your hand out to him. 

Encapsulating it with his own, he sizes you up just as equally totally into the jeans torn at the knee and your converse with drawings all along the toes. 

“Steve. Steve Harrington.”

“Oh…the illustrious king.”, you sing with a smile and he swoons. “I’ve heard all about you.”

“All good I hope.”

“Let me just say, the whispers about your hair don’t do it justice.” The man laughs at your joke and you grin at the sound. “It’s nice meeting you, sire.”

***

Eddie exhaled smoke from his lips as he sat on the edge of his van in the back waiting for the school to clear out so he could meet the guys for their Hellfire meeting. 

He absolutely hated the student body who couldn’t manage to keep their destain hidden for even one second while they giggled and pointed his way as they passed. 

Even some of the men at the factory taunted Wayne for taking him in because he was such a “fuck up” and “bound to end up like his father”. His uncle hid the critiques but the employee’s children made sure to relay the information. 

“Fuck me!” 

Eddie’s eyes darted in the direction where the consistent swears were pouring out of your mouth as you kicked the front end of your car before lifting the hood. 

“Please…please, baby girl, don’t do this to me.”, you sigh as you scan the area, beautiful irises locking with his. “Hey, do you know anything about cars?”

When he theatrically looked around and pointed at himself you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Yes, you, Hellfire. Do you know anything about cars?”, you asked again and this time he rose to his feet, slinking your way. 

“Um, I know a little bit. I can take a look.”

“Well, I do declare. Thank you, sir.”, you reply with an exaggerated accent that has him smirking your way as he takes off his jacket and tosses it aside. “I’m Y/N btw.”

“Eddie Munson.”

“Oh? Any relation to Wayne Munson?” The metalhead’s body straightened and you immediately sensed his defensive energy. “It’s just, I went to visit my dad to see how his first day of work was going and he was having lunch with his foreman leader with that name. He was very nice; shook my hand and called me ‘sweetheart’.”

Eddie grins softly as he focuses under your hood once more. 

“Yeah, that’s my uncle. He’s a good man like that. It looks like this thing here just needs a patch. I can fix it enough to get you home but it’s going to need a mechanic.”

“Great.”, you whine, watching as he heads back towards his van and digs around for a bit before returning with some tools. “So…what’s Hellfire? A theater troop or?”

“Ah, no, we’re a club filled with freaks who play D & D.”

“That’s cool. I can’t play that game to save my life but it’s fun to watch.”

“Pfft, you don’t have to pander to me, sweetheart, ok?”, he sasses, grunting as he begins working under your hood. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, you ask as you fold your arms across your chest. 

“It means most women don’t know what D&D is let alone badass girls in Metallica t-shirts so I know you’re just being nice because I’m helping you. You don’t have to. I’m used to people treating me like weird.”

Your fingers suddenly wrap around his bicep as you force him to face you. 

“First off, you are incredibly defensive. I’m new in town and I AM trying to be nice especially since you’re doing something nice for me when you don’t have to. Secondly, I don’t think it’s weird or freaky to like Dungeons and Dragons. It’s a complex game with cool missions and shit that I can’t fucking understand but you seem to which makes you cool to me. And third…thank you for the compliment.”

As you grin wide at your last sentence, Eddie can’t help but be totally dumbfounded by you. You had to be a figment of his imagination, right? There’s no way a girl like you existed.

“You’re welcome. Thank you for saying I’m cool.”

“You’re welcome.” As soon as he’s done, you turn your key and the engine roars to life. “Oh my God, thank you, Eddie Munson. You are my hero. Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow? My way of saying thank you properly.”

“Um, yeah, sure. I don’t eat in the cafeteria alot though. There’s a bench out in the forest by the campus.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound ominous.”, you joke, shouting thank you again before speeding away. 

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

Steve couldn’t get you out of his mind for the rest of the night. 

He kept thinking about your ripped jeans and heavy metal shirt, your attitude and the way you effortlessly contradicted his teacher without any fear of consequence. Your smile and the way you laughed echoed through his ears, piercing his heart. He watched you during class that following day as you sketched in your notebook occasionally looking at the board as if you were paying attention.

Today, you had on black cargo pants with chains all along the pockets that clinked every time you moved with the same converse that seemed to have new doodles along the side. The matching black polo you were wearing hugged your curves and more than anything he realized he wanted to do the same. 

“Steven!”, Carol shouted as she waved her hand in front of his face. “Tommy’s been talking to you, man.”

“Oh, um, sorry.”, he mumbled as he glanced down at his uneaten lunch tray. “I’m just thinking about something.”

“About that new girl? I heard they moved here because she killed someone in her hometown.”

Steve rolled his eyes at his friend’s gossip. “Be careful with that one. Wouldn’t want you to end up on the news.”

Of course, as if on cue, your chains jingled as you walked by and out the side door. He didn’t even think twice as the jock casually rose to his feet, leaving his food and friends behind to catch up with you. 

“Hey, Y/N!”

“Hey there, Steve Harrington.”, you beam even as you continue to walk. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m meeting a friend for lunch. Would you like to join?”

“Oh, um, yeah, sure. So, how do you like it here so far?”, Steve asked, cringing at his earnest energy. 

“It’s…alright. A lot of people here are pretty conservative and kind of assholes.”

“They definitely can be.”

“I saw you talking to a couple of ‘em. Tommy Hagan and Carol…something. I don’t know her last name. I just know she strongly believes it will one day be Hagan to.”, you laugh. “I heard them gossiping about one of the teachers.”

“Yeah they do that.”, Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Why do you hang out with them then?”

Your question wasn’t mocking nor did it carry an accusation. To him you sounded genuinely curious which is something he found incredibly fascinating.

“Honestly, I’m not sure. I guess because it’s better to be popular and appreciated than alone and hated.”

“You really think they appreciate you, sire?”, you ask sarcastically. “I assure you, they’d probably sell you out in a heartbeat. Alright, he said bench in the woods…”

“Who’s your friend?”, Steve inquired, head quirking at the word he.

“He helped me fix my car yesterday. He said his name was Eddie something. Eddie…”

“Munson.”, the popular boy finished for you just as the metalhead stepped from the path to come into view and their eyes locked. 

“Yeah, that’s it!”

***

“What the fuck are you doing here, Harrington? Get lost on your way to a party?”

“For your information, I was invited, burnout. What the fuck are you doing out here?”

“Um, do ya’ll know each other?”, you ask a bit more playfully than you meant it to sound.

“Oh, of course. Who doesn’t know our illustrious king of Hawkins High?”, Eddie replies sarcastically as he bows towards the other boy. “Thank you, sire, for gracing me and the lady with your presence.” 

Your eyes narrow in amusement as you watch them interact, placing yourself on the table and leaning back on your palms. 

“I’m sorry, I thought this was a free country and I could go wherever I please. Are any of the other freaks here? Wouldn’t want to embarrass them.”

“Wouldn’t want to be seen with them is more like it. Seriously, what the fuck are doing here? She invited me to lunch.”

“Well, she invited me to so…”

Both sets of annoyed eyes flash your way and you sit up to face them. 

“To be fair, I’m new here so I wasn’t aware that you two knew each other let alone had this intense rivalry—”

“I’d have to care for it to be a rivalry.”, Steve mumbled as he folded his arms across his chest. 

Eddie blinked before doing the same but you noticed the emotion flicker across his face. 

“Why did that bother you?”

“Huh?”

“He said he’d have to care and you made a face for a moment like that bothered you. I’m curious as to why.”, you explain, glancing towards the popular boy whose own features seem to reflect confusion before turning away in a huff. “Ooooh wait a second. Did you two date?”

Both men’s arms fall as they immediately get defensive especially Steve. 

“No! Pfft, I’m not into guys and if I was I wouldn’t date a freak like him!”

“Feelings mutual, Steven! If I wanted a pompous asshole in my life I’d of kept my dad around!”

“HEY! I’m nothing like your criminal father, Munson!”

“You may as well be with how much you fucking hurt me!” Steve flinched as he took one step back and Eddie did the same as he reached into his pocket to find his cigarettes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not hungry at the moment.”

With that the metalhead turned and stomped away leaving the popular boy to stare after him. 

“Sooooo you didn’t date but you definitely fucked, right?”

“This is all your fault!”, he shouted, turning on you so fast you couldn’t help but smile. “You’re like a fucking plague!”

“Oh, so you two didn’t have this tension before I came along?”

“NO! We never even fucking saw each other and that was ok!”

“But you never stopped thinking about him, huh?”, you smirk as you lay down flat on the table. “He definitely hasn’t stopped thinking about you.”

“Ugh, fuck you!”, he blurted angerly, stomping away in the opposite direction. 

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

Eddie had pretty much been chain smoking cigarettes since yesterday afternoon choosing to skip school as he wondered the town. It wasn’t the first time he had thought about that night with Steve Harrington but it was the first time in a long time he actually felt the sting of it. 

Every time Steve went on a date with some girl or he caught him making out behind the bleachers, Eddie remembered. Any time Steve laughed at a stupid joke and scrunched his nose, showing off all of his teeth, Eddie remembered. When Garth would tell him about how Steve Harrington stood there and watched while Tommy Hagan pushed him into a locker, Eddie remembered. 

But he blocked out the pain with weed and partners of his own, till he was left semi-satisfied and numb. 

A part of him wished he could erase the entire memory of Steve Harrington but another part liked having that bit of feeling locked away in his pessimistic heart. 

“I said fuck off or I swear to God—”

“You swear to God what?”, a boy threatened just as the metalhead passed the alleyway next to the arcade. 

You were backed against the brick wall with some of the other jocks circling you. Your face glared up at them with defiance and Eddie swooned at your confidence. 

“I’ll break your fucking arm.”

“Oooo.”, he mocked but you didn’t falter. 

“Problem, boys?”, the long-haired man asked as he made his presence known. 

“This doesn’t concern you, Munson.”

“It does when you’re threatening one of my friends.”

At the declaration, he noticed a small smile twitch across your lips before they went back to being a thin line of anger. The jock in front of you gestured with his head towards Eddie. 

“This freak really someone you want to be associated with?”

“Rather a freak than a dick who doesn’t understand the word no.”

“People don’t say no to me.”

“Get used to disappointment.”

“Listen, baby, I can show you a thing or two—” Right as his arm lifted and his fingers just barely touched your hair, you took hold of the limb and bent it to the side causing the man to howl in pain before you ducked under him to quickly take hold of Eddie’s bicep. “You fucking bitch! You broke my arm!”

“I warned you. Come on, babe.”

Intertwining your fingers with his, you both bolted away from the jocks screams towards the trailer park. 

***

“Whew. Hang on a moment, I…I need to catch my breath…”, you pant as you lean your palms on your knees. 

“Do you want some water? Our trailer is right there.”, Eddie offered as he gestured towards his home and you nodded allowing him to lead. “My castle.”

“I like it.”, you grin as you take a look around. “You live here with your parents?”

“My uncle.”, he replied flatly, coming around the counter to hand you a glass that you sip as you watch him walk away. 

“Oh. When you said Wayne was your uncle, I didn’t realize you lived with him to.”

“Yup.” Eddie put emphasis on the P, popping his lips as he nods. 

“Where are your—”

“Jesus, you ask a ton of questions.”, he snaps, stomping towards what you assume is his bedroom and you hastily follow. 

“Forgive me for wanting to get to know my friend. Why are you so defensive!?”

“Look, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, people in this town fucking hate me so I’m always on edge when someone asks questions trying to ‘get to know me’. No one wants to know me.”

“Wayne doesn’t hate you. I don’t hate you. Those kids in your little Hellfire thing don’t hate you. Steve doesn’t hate you.” The metalhead snorts out a laugh as he glares towards his wall and sits on his bed. “He doesn’t. He’s mad at you about something but I can tell…he doesn’t hate you.”

“What the fuck would he have to be mad at me for?! I didn’t do fucking anything to him!”

“I’m just telling you what I see.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

Your eyes take him in before you sit beside him and cross your legs on his mattress. 

“I’m sorry for asking so many questions. I’m aware that I’m inquisitive. I think it has something to do with my parents always hiding things and my mom being shady. That’s why we moved here. My dad wanted him and I to have a fresh start.” 

Eddie’s irises meet yours with a softness you appreciate. 

“I’m sorry for snapping. I am very defensive. People in this town have been calling me a freak since I was a kid, even after my mother died.”

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”

He shrugs at your kindness and a heavy sigh leaves his lips.

“Hey, um, do you want to get high?”

***

“I didn’t break his arm!”, you cackle as Eddie snickers through his teeth before taking another hit. “At most I sprained it. I’m not the fucking Bionic Woman.”

“Dude, the fact that you could even do that is amazing. Be prepared though with basketball season, some people in this town will be pissed.”

“Look, I warned him. I don’t pander to people.”

“No, you don’t.”, he murmurs softly, passing you the joint with a smile that you match. 

“I like this side of you, Munson. Calm…happy…”

“I like hanging out with you, Y/L/N. It’s been a while since I smoked with someone I liked talking to.”

“Not even your friends?”, you ask as you pass the weed back to him. 

“I like my friends I just don’t really open up to them, you know? To be fair, no one in my life asks as many questions as you do.”, he chuckles, smile growing when you laugh. 

“It’s a blessing and a curse. I notice everything.”, you jest as your eyes widen in playful horror. “Kind of like how I noticed that chemistry yesterday between you and Mr. Harrington.”

“Ooooh…”, Eddie groans, scrunching his nose in slight disgust as he tries to roll away before you grab his shoulder to keep him still. “Do we have to talk about that shit?”

“No, my love, we don’t have to.”

At the term, his eyebrow quirks your way and he exhales, placing the joint in the ashtray on his shelf. 

“We were never together…Never really even got a chance to be…”, the metalhead began as you both stared at the ceiling while the acoustic guitar emitting from his stereo continued to play softly. “It was near the end of our freshman year at some party one of the upper classmen were throwing. I was trying to hide but found him on a bed alone in a room. I remember he looked so heartbroken. 

He said something about how he didn’t want to be there because his dad had yelled at him before he came. I don’t know what you’ve heard about Bill Harrington but he’s a fucking asshole.”

“I haven’t heard anything.”, you answer, feeling him nod in affirmation beside you. 

“He looked so heartbroken.”, Eddie repeated causing you to shift your gaze to look his way. “I don’t know where the confidence came from but we just talked and I told him everything would be ok while I played with his hair.”

“That soft, fluffy thing he’s got going on.”

“Yeah.”, he chuckles, feeling your body move until your head was laying on his chest. 

“I bet he felt safe with you.” Your words were muffled by his shirt, his eyes closing when your arm laid across his belly to hug him tighter. 

“Yeah. I, uh, he wanted to make it up to me…for me listening and being there…I told him he didn’t have to…b-but he insisted.”

At his strained breathing, you lifted your head onto your chin so you could see his face. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” Eddie nodded as your hand cupped his cheek, lowering your lips to his gently, feeling his body come to life. “Do you want to touch me?”, you whisper, smiling when he nods dragging the tip of his nose along yours. 

Lifting his palm to your mouth, you tenderly kissed the pads of his index and middle finger causing a little groan to emit from his throat as he pushed up onto his elbow to bring his lips to yours again. A moan of your own filled his ears and he realized then you had placed his hand on your breast. 

Leaving him to play, you released him from your grip, laying your palm on the bulge in his jeans and feeling his warm breath heat your cheek as his lips trailed down your neck. 

“Do you want to touch my pussy, Eddie? Tell me.”, you command when he nods. 

“I wanna—fuck—I want to touch your pussy, sweetheart, please.”

Slowly, you unbutton your jeans and push them down your chunky limbs, tossing them on his floor and throwing one of your legs over his hip that he promptly clings to so he can bring it high up his form allowing you to be as close to him as possible. 

“What about you?”, you tease.

“Oh, shit. Yeah, I mean…”, he stutters out as he fumbles with his belt buckle and sloppily pushes down his own pants to his ankles. “Sorry. I’m a lot smoother than this.”

“Of course you are.”

Lifting one of his eyebrows in amusement, he obnoxiously runs his thick tongue along the entirety of his palm and reaches between your legs to rub his fingers through your folds. 

“God, you’re so wet.”

Biting your bottom lip, you place your hand in front of his mouth and he smirks before licking it. You scoot your body closer to his till your chests are just barely touching and his jaw goes slack when you take hold of his cock, pumping him at a gradual pace. 

“So are you.”, you joke when your run your thumb over his tip and feel the precum that had already begun to stain his sheets. “Fuck, Eddie, your dick is so big.”

“Yeah, baby, it is but you can take it, right?” As he asked his question, the metalhead guided two of his fingers inside of your entrance and his cock twitched at the feeling of your breath as you panted at the feeling against his lips. “Yeah, sweetheart, you can take it. Fuck, you’re tight.”

Your rhythm began to hasten and he matched your energy, moaning along with you as you built each other up. 

“Do you want to fuck me, Eddie?”

“Yes, pretty girl, I want to fuck you.”

“How do you wanna fuck me, Eddie?”

“Jesus.”

Your nose grazed his as you smiled and whispered. “Tell me, baby. Will it be hard?”

“So fucking hard. I’m going to fuck you so hard you’ll feel me for weeks.”

“Atta boy. Do you—mmm—do want me to ride your cock or do you want me on my back? How about on my hands and—”

Eddie’s mouth cut you off as they crashed to yours and he pushed you onto your back while slotting himself between your legs. You didn’t hesitate when you wrapped them around his waist and after lining up his tip with your cunt, began guiding himself inside you. 

“Oh my God.”, you whimper, your nails dragging deliciously down his back. 

“Your pussy is just…pulling me in…fuck…”, he grunts, his head falling beside yours. “I don’t know how long I’m going to last.”

“Fuck me, Eddie, like you told me. Fuck me—ah—fuck me hard, baby.”

Pushing up a bit, he allows his forehead to rest on yours as he takes hold of your wrists and presses them above you while honoring your request. 

“Yes, Eddie, please. You feel so good.”

Your eyes roll shut as his cock stretches you open and consistently hits that sensitive spot inside you. A whimper escaped you when you suddenly felt pressure on your clit, realizing then he was trying desperately to feel you cum. 

You moaned his name repeatedly till the ball in your belly dropped and you screamed so loud the metalhead was sure his uncle would get complaints tomorrow morning but he didn’t care. 

“Where…where can I…”

“Inside…inside…”

With your permission along with your pussy milking him as your high slowly descended, Eddie grunted followed by a couple more choppy thrusts before you felt him painting your walls. 

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

You exhaustedly smile as he collapses on top of you, his lips lazily leaving tender kisses along your jawline.

“I’ll say.”, you tease lightly, shakily lowering your arms to circle around him. 

“Do…do you need…anything? Water? S-Shower?”, he asked in a groggy tone that had you craning your neck to notice his eyes were closed as he began falling asleep. 

“No, Eddie, I’m alright.” His lips continued to move making your smile grow as you caressed some of his messy hair away from his sweaty forehead. “I can’t hear you, babe.”

“I said…don’t…please…don’t…ignore me after tonight…”, the metalhead rushed out as he sighed before fully falling asleep in your arms. 

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

Throughout the next couple of days, Steve continued to watch you from afar. 

During your lunch, you came into the cafeteria late and for your remaining period, sat with Eddie and his friends without getting any food. He was curious if you just didn’t have the funds to eat which seemed to not only bother him but the long-haired boy as well when he noticed as soon as you sat down, he appeared to ask you something before handing you a bag of whatever was in his lunchpail. 

During your classes, you always seemed a bit reserved but you engaged during conversations and debates which he found amusing. In your chemistry class, you excitedly mixed chemicals that began to smoke up the room causing you and your partner to laugh while the teacher scurried around opening windows. 

When you interacted with people, you visually appeared closed off but he would listen to you ask questions telling him you were indeed listening. Some of the jocks would pass by and say something snarky and you would reply equally so with little to no hesitation. 

One day, he followed you home in your beat-up car that wasn’t too far from the school as you turned into one of the lower income neighborhoods. 

Your eyes seemed to change when you walked up to your front door and to him you almost seemed sad. Someone he wasn’t able to see greeted you when you entered but he had to convince himself to cut his snooping off here because climbing up to a stranger’s window crossed a line ignoring the fact that he already followed you in his car like some creepy stalker. 

The next day after school, he was able to focus on basketball practice and was thankful for the distraction. What he wasn’t prepared for was you sitting in the bleachers with a smile and a small wave. 

“What are you doing here?”, he asked after running towards you. 

“It’s nice to see you to, Steve Harrington. I hope you’re well.”, you sass, rolling your eyes when all he does is stand there. “I, um, I wanted to apologize if I made you uncomfortable the other day. I seriously didn’t know you two knew each other and it’s been brought to my attention I’m a bit too inquisitive—”

“You are.”, Steve interrupts and you sigh in jest.

“I’m sorry, alright? You were the first person to really talk to me here and you’re one of the few jock assholes in this town who ISN’T an asshole so…”

“Harrington! Let’s go, kid!”, the coach yells and the boy flashes him an ok symbol with his palm before tossing a smirk your way. 

“I forgive you. I’m sorry for getting defensive and all that.”

“I forgive you.”, you beam, shooing him playfully with your hands as he runs back onto the court. 

While you watch him practice, you can’t help but bite your bottom lip to stifle the grin from widening on your face when you notice him showing off for what you assume is you. 

Everything changed however when the gym door opened and a man in an expensive looking business suit clacked his equally expensive looking shoes across the court before stopping as his piercing irises take in the boys in front of him. 

Steve’s gaze shifted towards him giving him pause and one of the other men on the court effortlessly swiped the ball from his hand to make the basket causing the well-dressed man to shake his head and chuckle. 

“Hey, dad, what, uh, what are you doing here? Everything ok?”, the pretty boy asked after jogging towards him. 

“Yes, of course. Jesus.”, he continues a bit callously. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d come watch my son practice.”

“Um, okay, but I don’t think you’re allowed—”

“Nonsense! Is it alright if I watch for a bit, coach?”

“Sure, Bill, no problem.”

“Ah, that’s Mr. Harrington, actually.”

As his father laughs, Steve cringes as he glances towards you in embarrassment, his face turning a darker shade when he sees you looking them both over with those inquisitive eyes. 

Taking his place back on the court, everything changes as he makes mistake after mistake, cursing under his breath with each failed shot or swiped ball. His final straw was when he tried to block another player and was pushed so hard he fell backwards. 

“Wow are you alright?”, you ask, extending your hand that he doesn’t take, clutching his elbow instead. “Steve? Are you ok?”

“Well, son, I must say, I’ve seen you play better.”, Mr. Harrington sighs, not even glancing his way as his eyes focus on his pager. “Alright, I have to head back to the office but—”

“Are you seriously not going to ask how he is?”, you interrupt. “He just got knocked over and hit the ground pretty hard.”

His dad freezes before turning to run his eyes down your frame, snickering at the blue jeans with drawings on the thigh and your Hellfire shirt Eddie had given you that you had cut into making it your own. The symbol was left untouched but you snipped the sleeves turning it into a tank top allowing your flabby arms their time in the sun while showing off your “Do or do not there is no try” tattoo.

“I’m sorry and you are?”

“A decent human being.”, you snap back, placing your hands on your hips. “And you are?”

The players around you gasp as they whisper to each other and Steve hastily rises to his feet, raising a hand to assure you he’s fine when you try to help. 

“This is Bill Harrington…my father…”

“Interesting. I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone introduce their parents that way.”

“Steven, who is this girl—”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N and I can speak for myself unlike you.”

“Miss Y/L/N—”

“No, no, coach, it’s alright.”, his father assures, raising his hand towards the man just as Steve had. “I’ve heard of your family, Miss Y/L/N. Well, you and your father. This town is small enough you hear all the gossip especially when someone new moves in the slums of Hawkins.”

“If that’s the slums, I’d hate to see the over exaggerated, God-y side of town you live on.”

“I live in comfort with my wife and son. I don’t have to work at the factory for 12hrs a day to not even make ends meet.”

“Not really something I’d brag about, Mr. Harrington; the fact that other people struggle while you live above them in your undeserved, selfish luxury.”

He laughs again as he takes steps towards you and you feel Steve’s fingers twitch beside.

“Dad…”

“Shut up, Steven.”, he growls before pointing his finger in your face. “I know girls like you, Miss Y/L/N. You grow up with that sarcastic attitude that screams confidence but the truth is, little girl, you’re just as scared as the rest of them if not more so. You’ll graduate and tell yourself you’ll achieve something great but you won’t. You’ll be stuck here with a husband who hates you and kids that won’t stop screaming, working a job you hate till you’re old and gray.”

Steve feels the anger vibrate through you as everything in his body tells him to back away. He half expected you to ignite and come back with a snarky quip that would leave his father emotionally wounded for weeks to come. 

Suffice it to say, he definitely wasn’t prepared when your palm grabbed the jock’s sweaty collar and brought his lips to yours. Again, he heard the gasps of the people around him and felt the wind of his father backing away but all of that was overshadowed by the delicious taste of your mouth on his. 

Just as he lifted his palm to cup your cheek, you pushed him back and smiled towards his dad. 

“At least I’ll be stuck here with your family growing old and gray in luxury.”

***

Practice ended after your display and Steve didn’t acknowledge his dad’s angry shouts after him as he ran to follow you as you hastily exited out the back door. 

As an apology, he bought you a burger that you two shared on the other side of lover’s lake sitting on the trunk of his BMW. 

“Are you sure it’s ok that I sit up here? Wouldn’t want daddy to yell at you if he finds a dent because of my fat ass.”

“You don’t have a fat ass and yes, it’s fine.”, he sighs with a smile, sliding onto his feet and reaching down to grab some grass so his hands had something to fiddle with. “I’m really sorry for him. He had no right to belittle you like that.”

“It’s ok. I’m kind of used to it with my smart mouth.”, you chuckle, grumbling the wrapper that had once housed your food. “When Eddie mentioned your father was an asshole, I didn’t expect that though.”

“He talked to you about me?”

Your eyebrows quirked upward with a smirk. 

“I said he mentioned your dad.”

“What, uh, what did he say?”

“That your dad was an asshole.”, you laugh and he does the same. “He said you two had spent time together at a party and you didn’t want to be there cause of your dad. Something he said…”

“Hm. Is that all he told you?”, Steve asked with a bitterness you picked up on. 

“He just said ya’ll spent the evening together and then you hurt him. I put two and two together.”

“I didn’t--!”, he cut himself off as he fumed and faced away from you. “…hurt him. He’s the one…” When he turned back to look at you, he saw a softness that reminded him of that night and that terrified him. “It doesn’t matter.”

The BMW thunks loudly back into place as your body slides down and your hands grasp his, pulling him towards the water. 

“Come on.”

“Come on, what? Go swimming? We don’t have any—”

“Yes swimming and I refuse to believe King Steve has never skinny dipped before.” You see the apprehension in his eyes and grin tenderly as you take a couple of steps closer to him, still clinging to his palms. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to or tell me anything you don’t want to. I’d be happy to place a new dent on the hood and we can talk about…I don’t know…basketball.”

He chuckles at your joke, nodding his head towards the lake as he releases you to take off his shirt, doing his best to keep his eyes focused ahead as you do the same thing. He takes a note that you keep your matching bra and panties on as you squeal in delight before jumping in so he keeps his underwear on as well before following after. 

“Fuck this water is cold!”

“Yeah, that’s normal.”

You playfully push his shoulder as you both laugh while you swim a little further out but when he hears you hiss, he quickly swims to your side. 

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just stepped on a rock, I think. Ow.”

“Well, um, here. I know this lake pretty well…” Your eyes narrow as he takes your arms and legs to circle around him before he realizes what he just insinuated. “No! I meant…shit…the swim team and I practice out here sometimes and—”

“Steve! It’s ok. I’m not judging you.” 

Nodding, you feel his eyes studying your face as you look around the area and up towards the stars that had begun to paint the night sky.

“That night at the party three years ago? My dad had given me a lecture about being a man.” At the sound of his voice, you focused on him once more as his irises seemed to be focusing on the memory within a void. “His examples were basically everything I’m not and I couldn’t stop thinking about it when my mom dropped me off. I tried but… I wanted to be alone so I hid but then Eddie came in.”

Steve hadn’t moved since he took you in his arms and the two of you waded in the water as he continued. 

“It all just fell out of my mouth like I couldn’t hold it in anymore and he listened to every word without interrupting or critiquing me.”

“While he played with your hair?”

His eyes finally met yours and when he didn’t see any mocking, he nodded his head. 

“I felt so safe and comfortable and when I was done venting I felt so much better. I wanted him to feel good to… I don’t know why…I had never done anything like that before.”

“What did you do?”

Steve whispered it so low that you knew the only reason you heard it was because you were currently clinging to him with your ear near his lips. 

“I sucked his cock.”

As he closed his eyes, you cupped his cheeks and gently kissed his forehead. 

“I loved everything about it, honey. The way he held my hand and my hair, the moans he made when my throat gagged around him, and—fuck—the way Eddie whimpered my name.”

Your fingers twirled into the hair near the base of his neck as your lips trailed down his nose and hovered just above his mouth. 

“What happened after? Why are you both so angry?”

Steve shakes his head as he abruptly cups your cheek to roughly kiss your lips, groaning at the taste of you once more with his tongue passionately searching for yours. 

You smiled as his grip tightened to an almost bruising degree. 

“Do you wanna fuck me, Steve Harrington?”

He doesn’t verbally respond but you feel his free hand that’s clinging to your waist reach between you to move your panties to the side. 

“Answer me, Stevie.”

“Yes, I want to fuck you. Please, baby.”, he begs, his hold on you returning when he feels you reach down to effortlessly glide your palm into his boxers and free his cock eliciting a soft moan. 

“Of course, the king has a big dick.”, you tease making him bite his lip to try and conceal his pride filled grin. Your gaze shifts to the void but you feel him watching you as you guide his length into entrance. “Oh, wow.”

“Fuck.”

Licking your lips, you utilize his shoulders and neck for leverage as you roll your hips, allowing your pussy to take him in inch by inch. 

“Jesus…you and Eddie are going to ruin me…”

At your whispered words, his fingers on your waist twitched.

“You fucked Eddie?” You nod. “What did it feel like?”

Your eyes open as you assess his features but when he hugs you tighter to him allowing his cock to fully rest inside you, you realize then that he’s not jealous but genuinely curious. 

“So good, Steve. He—fuck—held my wrists above my head w-while he fucked me so hard.”

Water had gradually begun to swish around you both as you steadily rode him wishing you had more to stabilize you. The jock sees your wish and swims with you still in his grasp towards the bank, climbing out and lightly tapping your ass to signal for you to let him go. 

With his hand in yours, he brings you to the hood of the BMW, spinning you around, and lightly pushing your front half against the cool metal.

“Oh f-fuck.”, you mewled as he slides effortlessly back into your core and thrust his hips allowing the smacks of skin against skin to fill the quiet area. 

Chest hair tickles your back as he leans over you and his palm firmly grips your throat while his other arm circles around to your tummy.

“Tell me more…please…”

“H-He—”

“Who?”, he asked gruffly making you smile. 

“Eddie’s thick cock stretched m-me open. He was—oh my—making a mess before we even got started…his cum leaking w-while I stroked him with my hand...”

At your last couple of words, Steve watched as you dragged your tongue along the pads of your fingers before reaching between your legs to match his pace as you rubbed your clit. 

“Cum inside me, Steve, just like he did.”

The man grunted at your request, pushing up to his full height as he pounded his length so deep inside you that you swore you could feel him in your stomach. Your cunt clenched tightly around him and his mouth fell open at the feeling as you came panting his name. 

Fingers tangled in your hair and he pulled you upright to kiss your lips as he chased his own high. It didn’t take long, his strong arms wrapping around your waist and chest to hold you to him as his rhythm faltered releasing his seed inside you. 

“Fuck.”, he exhaled as his forehead rested on your shoulder.

“Don’t die on me, Harrington.”, you joked, smirking when he huskily laughed. 

Neither of you moved while he continued to cling to you as if you’d disappear the moment he let you go. 

“Steve?”

“Hm.”

“I’m cold.”

“Shit! Fuck, honey, I’m…” After carefully pulling out, you watched him scurry to his trunk, digging through it, and slamming it shut before running back around to wrap a towel around your shoulders. “I’m sorry. Let me grab…grab your clothes…”

You gently smile as your eyes follow him as his confidence vanishes and he fumbles over grass to hunt for both sets of outfits the two of you had discarded so recklessly. He seemed different like this…less uptight…less like a boy playing pretend and more of who you imagined he genuinely was. 

“Here, um, let me…” You allow him to dress you which seems to make him happier as his own smirk grows, his palms occasionally caressing your skin before leaving a kiss. 

When he finishes, you see a glimmer of a question start to form as his lips part before they immediately shut and form into a thin line. 

You don’t know what it is but Steve does and to be honest no matter what your answer is he knows it doesn’t matter because of what happened the last time he asked. 

“So what happens on Monday?”

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

To their surprises, not much changed after they were intimate with you beside the fact that you spent a fair amount of time with them, separately of course. 

You watched Eddie play his most recent gig at The Hideout and banged your head while all the other patrons ignored them like usual. You went to his trailer often discussing movies and music you both liked while smoking and relaxing. 

One Saturday, you showed up at an away game and cheered Steve on as he ran up and down the court leading Hawkins High in victory. He took you to the “cute little theater” as you called it to watch the new Indiana Jones movie where you clung to his arm to cover your eyes as some guy’s heart got ripped out of their chest. 

Over the next month, you took the time to get to know them better but both men felt like you were keeping them at a distance when it came to personal things involving you. When you were in their bed your pillow talk was minimal to say the least and the only time they got a glimpse into your life was when you casually dropped things into conversation, breezing past it as if it meant nothing. 

“I love this record. Roberta Flack’s voice is gorgeous.”

“Yeah it is. My mom loved soft music like this.”, Eddie beamed as he leaned back on his palms. “What kind of music did your parents introduce you to?”

“Well, my father liked The Police, the band not the conformist bunch of pigs.”, you clarify making the metalhead laugh as he reached for a pack of cigarettes nearby. “My mom always listened to The Rolling Stones which makes senses seeing as how she never seemed to be satisfied.”

The metalhead paused just before lighting the stick between his teeth at the sad drop in your tone right as you smiled and started to sing, “Telling my whole life…with his words…killing me softly…”

“What are you reading?”, Steve asks, having been staring at you with a little smile from his desk where you commanded he finish his homework for history. 

“Don’t get distracted, Harrington.”

“I’m not. I’m just curious.” You flash him the cover as he reads it out loud. ‘Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant.’ Hm, sounds interesting. What’s it about?”

“Uh, it’s about kids who have to learn how to deal with life after their dad abandoned their family.”

Something about the way you say that breaks his heart as his head tilts. 

“Thankfully, you have your dad, right?”

“Yeah…thankfully.” You pause as your eyes shift into the void before glancing towards his sympathy filled irises.  “Hey! Stop getting distracted! Focus, Harrington!”, you giggle, tossing your shoe lightly towards him. 

Neither man had to interact with the other but occasionally their eyes would meet as one of them would nod or turn their head in the opposite direction and you had stopped asking questions about their moment 3 years ago which they each found amusing that you no longer wanted pry. 

You three fell into an odd routine that felt seamless but you were different, they knew that. 

There was only so long monotony could be tolerated in a small town like Hawkins. Something always happened to shake up any routine and with you not being from around there, they imagined it would hit you sooner rather than later. 

After a month and a half of knowing you, it finally did.

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

Steve wasn’t immediately concerned when he showed up for class and you weren’t there making a mental note to look for you throughout the day and if he didn’t see you, to call you when he got home. 

It wasn’t until he got to lunch and noticed Eddie’s intense eyes scanning the room that he became concerned. When they found his own, relief painted the metalhead’s face but quickly disappeared when he realized you weren’t with him. 

After murmuring something to the table, he threw on his leather jacket and hastily flew out the side door, smoke leaving his mouth at his sigh in the cold air when he heard shoes crunching against the leaves that had begun to fall from behind him. 

“Fuck off, Harrington.”

“You don’t know where she is either, do you?”, he inquired, buttoning his letterman while he powerwalked to keep up with the other man’s long stride. “Should we be worried?”

“We? No, Steven, WE aren’t anything.”

“Hey!”, Steve scolds, grabbing and pulling at Eddie’s arm to make him stop. “Look, I know we aren’t fucking friends and you fucking hate me but I care about her to, ok? Let’s just find her, make sure she’s alright, and then we can go back to ignoring each other.”

“Yeah, whatever.”, the other boy grumbles, silently allow him to follow to the table to find it empty. “Shit.”

“I mean…it’s just one day right? We can call her and—”

“Do you know where she lives?”, Eddie asked a bit abruptly causing the jock to blink in surprise. 

“Um, yeah. I, um, passed by her house once—”

“You followed her home.”, he declared as he began to march back towards his van. 

“Um…”

“You think I didn’t notice you follow me home at the start of sophomore year? I live out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by people who drive their houses. A BMW stands out.”

Steve blushes in embarrassment, completely ignoring the fact that he was currently climbing into the passenger seat of Eddie Munson’s van. 

“Don’t worry. The windows are tinted so Tommy and Carol won’t see you with the freak.”

Ignoring his comment, the man folds his arms as the long-haired boy begins to drive with Steve giving him directions. 

“Why didn’t you say anything? About me following you?”

“When would I have done that? When you were ignoring me with your asshole friends or when I was consoling MY friend after Hagan punched him in the stomach with you laughing right next him?”, Eddie spat, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking matter. What I didn’t understand was why you even bothered.”

“I…I wanted to…whatever. You’re right it doesn’t matter.”

The metalhead’s eyes leave the road to glance towards the pretty boy who exhaled as he glared out the window. 

***

“Hey, may I help you?”, your father asked sweetly as he opened the door to their knock dressed in a manner that reminded Eddie of his uncle. 

“We, uh, we were wondering if Y/N was here?”

“Um, she is but she’s not really…she’s been in her room all day and…she doesn’t really seem to want any company.”

“We’re her friends, sir. I’m Steve Harrington and this is Eddie Munson—”

“Munson? Wayne’s nephew?” His entire demeanor brightens when the boy nods. “I’ve heard so much about you. Come in, come in.”, he ushers with his hand. “I’m actually about to see him. I’m…pulling some overtime tonight so… I’m sorry, son, but I don’t think I’ve meet your parents.”, he sighs after shaking his hand and turning to do the same with Steve.

“Oh no worries, sir. My father isn’t the friendly type. My mom comes and goes. They work for the Harrington Company that owns a few of the business within Indiana.”

“What are you two doing here?”

All three men turn towards the hallway at the sound of your voice and the smell hits Eddie immediately as the odor of cigarettes and weed linger on your shirt that seemed two sizes too big even on your chunky frame. 

If your father noticed, he didn’t make any indication as he beamed widely.

“Hey, baby. How are you feeling? Your friends are here to see you.”

“They aren’t my friends.”, you hiss with a monotone that has them tilting their heads. 

“What’s with the attitude, Y/N?”

“I’m tired, dad.”, you growl as he presses his fingers into his eyes. 

“Look, I don’t have time for this. I have to get to work. There’s food in the fridge and I should be home around 6am.”

“Fine. Take them with you.”

“No.”, he scolds as he pushes his hat onto his head. “You want to be rude to your guests that’s fine but I won’t. Have a good night.”

With that, he flashes them a grim smile before stomping out his front door. 

Silence fills the living room, your annoyance at their presence filling the tension to an almost suffocating degree. 

Eddie knows this game…He’s played it with his uncle a few times especially after he first moved in. 

Whoever speaks first loses. 

You hadn’t moved from your spot since you came into the room but when the metalhead took a step forward, Steve noticed your body flinch. It was subtle as if you don’t want to let on that it had happened. You didn’t appear frightened but more so prepared like someone who was at the starting point of a marathon. 

Your eyes followed him as he fully entered your living room that was currently being illuminated by the hanging light in the kitchen both men passed. Your house wasn’t big so it was perfect to show off the modest set up of the bulky television in front of an even bulkier couch. 

Pictures lined the wall that had Eddie smirking assuming the girl within was a smaller version of you. Steve detoured towards your kitchen noticing that the cupboards were relatively empty except for a few things here and there. Within the fridge was the food your father had mentioned along with a few cans of Coke, bottles of water, and a couple of packs of beer. 

Rolling your eyes, you turn to head back down the hallway and they exchange a glance before following. 

Throwing yourself on the bed, you collect the pipe near the edge and light the bowl, taking a deep inhale and blow smoke in their direction. 

“I’m surprised you two are here together with how much you hate each other.”

“Yeah well, you’re ours and we were worried since you didn’t show up for school.”

A snarky laugh leaves your lips as you theatrically throw your head back. 

“Oh wow. I was gone for one day and you both came-a-runnin’ with the person you hate. That’s so fucking funny.” 

“It really is. It’s so fucking funny especially since  apparently we aren’t friends.”, Eddie replies casually, taking off his jacket and tossing it aside. 

“Don’t take that off, you won’t be here long.”

“Jesus.”, Steve sighs as he chuckles and leans back against your dresser. “So much venom in her words today.”

“Fuck off, Steven. Jesus.”, you mime, rolling your eyes. “You small town boys fuck one city girl and you think she belongs to you.”

“Are you a city girl, Y/N? We wouldn’t know. You don’t talk about yourself.”

“Like you fucking care.”, you spit. “You’re going to leave anyway.”

At your mumbled words, Eddie stalks towards you and yanks the pipe from your hand. You don’t argue, allowing your palms to fall into your lap. 

“Why do you think that? What happened, Y/N? Did he say something to make you think we would?”

“Oh, fuck you, Munson. How do I know you didn’t?!”

“Because you’ve done it before!! Let’s not pretend you’re the good guy here! You’re a popular douchebag who bullies my friends and fucks anything with legs!”

Steve pushes off your dresser and stalks his way, placing himself chest to chest with the other boy. 

“Don’t act like you fucking know me, Eddie. You have no idea what I’ve been through these past three years. You think…” The jock cuts himself short as he shifts his gaze your way and realized your sad eyes were watching everything unfold. He recognized something within them, pain. The unraveling of a relationship that seemed so perfect but ultimately failed. “You heard from your mom didn’t you?”, he whispers.

The long-haired boy hears you sniffle as you wipe your eyes and defiantly raise your chin. 

“No. I never hear from her…My dad and I weren’t worth her time…That’s why she ran off with some twenty something preppy fucker without so much as a fucking goodbye. That’s why my dad became so depressed he lost his job because he couldn’t get out of bed. That’s why I’m stuck here in this stupid fucking town with stupid fucking men who can’t admit that they fucking care about each other.”

You rose to your feet and grabbed a crumpled piece of paper from your desk, smacking it into Eddie’s chest. 

“That’s why she sends letters to only my father saying she doesn’t have enough money to send him for me but she can go to the fucking Bahamas with her boyfriend.” Shaking your head, you climb back onto the mattress and cross your legs. “Relationships are stupid. That’s why it’s just best to be alone. You two know that better than anyone.”

Steve’s eyes flutter closed as he places his hands on his hips. 

“I wrote you a letter.” No one in the room moves or breathes… “You, Edward Munson, I wrote you a letter. That Monday morning, I slipped it into your locker and waited for you to show up. When you didn’t I went looking for you and found you with your friends…fucking laughing…I assumed at me…like ‘Can you believe Steve Harrington actually sucked me off and thought it meant anything.’”

When the jock found the courage to open them again they met the other boy’s wide confused eyes. 

“Steve, I didn’t get a letter.”

“Don’t fucking—”

“I’m not lying.”, Eddie cut him off aggressively as if the implication hurt him. “I rarely went to my locker but when I did for lunch to grab my D&D campaign my locker was empty. Fucking Principal said we had to clean them out before…shit…”, he sighed, rubbing his palms over his face at a sudden realization. “It was that mandatory six week clean out especially for certain kids like me who kept bullshit in the locker. Higgins always insisted the school had to look “presentable” and hated that papers would stick out at the bottom.”

“Fuck me. It didn’t even occur to me…I never used my locker so I was never on that list…”

Your irises bounced between them as they avoid each other’s.

“What did it say? The letter?”

“It doesn’t matter now.”

“No, it does. I hadn’t heard from you all day so on Tuesday I went looking for you and I heard you making fun of me with Tommy outside on the patio. I thought that’s why… that you decided to stick with your image…”

“No, Eddie, God, no. I…fuck…I was so upset with you and hurt. I had no one to talk to…”

“So, talk to me. Tell me what it said.”

Steve let out a breath as he shook his head, glancing your way to see that you were paying attention appearing almost…hopeful. 

“It was so long ago. I think it was something like…’Eddie, thank you for being there for me when I needed someone. Most of my life I’ve felt like I don’t really belong anywhere and I’m never enough but you showed me that isn’t true. I don’t have to be a ‘king’ or popular. I don’t have to be some asshole like my dad. I can just be Steve. 

A freak.’”

Both men laugh before his eyes fully lock with the metalhead across from him and he moves his body till his nose is inches from his own. 

“I don’t care what anyone thinks and I want to see where this relationship can take us. Hopefully far away from Hawkins where we can be happy. If you feel the same meet me in the bathroom by the gym during lunch so we can talk and I can kiss your lips. 

Steve.”

Eddie’s palms cupped his cheeks as he surged towards him crashing his mouth to his own. One of the jock’s hands clung to his face just below his ear while his other arm wrapped around his waist. 

For three years, they both thought of this moment. They craved it desperately under the anger and pain leaving the other to dream about their encounter at night. 

To Steve, Eddie still tasted the same but his kisses were bolder, driven now by experience. 

To Eddie, Steve’s tongue was better than he remembered and he lightly moaned at the feeling of being pressed against him as their cocks grazed through their jeans. 

When they finally pulled away, they didn’t go far as the pretty boy chased the metalhead’s lips before choosing to rest his forehead on Eddie’s as they tried to catch their breath. 

“I missed you…so much…That’s why I drove to the trailer park, baby. I just wanted…to see you.”

The long-haired boy exhales as he absorbs his words, words he had always desperately wanted to hear and thought he never would. 

The sound of squeaking fills their ears and the turn in time to see you curling up into a ball on your side facing your wall on the bed. 

You were so happy for them but your internal dialogue was whispering about how they wouldn’t have to be alone. They could ignore you now and focus on each other. You waited for the inevitable sounds of them walking out of your room hand in hand as you cried yourself to sleep. 

Your frame didn’t stir when you felt your comforter being pulled up over your hip and the sound of your bedroom lights being turned off. Something sounding like plastic hitting plastic had you trying to identify the noise until a soft voice followed by acoustic playing made you realize it was cassettes being moved around. 

You heard more movement, like a jacket being removed and shoes hitting the floor before your mattress dipped on both sides and you were suddenly encased in warmth. 

Eddie’s soft eyes met yours as his arm slid under your pillow below your head and he slung the other across your waist above Steve’s whose palm rested on your upper belly pulling you back towards his chest while his steady breath warmed your shoulder.

You blinked away the tears and placed your own arm on the metalhead’s hip, pushing against his lower back to urge him closer to you which he acknowledged by scooting towards you till the tip of his nose grazed yours. 

Your hand caressed the skin under his shirt as your fingers intertwined with the ones on your stomach as your eyes began to close and sleep took over. 

***

Eddie’s eyes groggily opened as the rumble of low thunder subtly shook the wall of your room. 

Now that everything was calm, he was able to take in his surroundings all be it through the minimal light illuminating from Christmas tree lights you had hung along the ceiling. 

You had so many posters of different bands and movies including one of his many Corroded Coffin banners hovering just above your desk in the corner. Along your dresser were hair products and some jewelry with a few books from school. 

Clothes lined the floor including theirs near your window next to the stereo that continued to softly play. Your sheets of course smelled like you and he couldn’t help but inhale your pillow before stretching a bit to notice a few polaroids hanging against the wall above his head. 

Pressing up onto his elbow, he took in each photo with a little smirk. One had to be one of your friends from where you moved from. You had a hug grin stretched across your face as she hugged you from behind with an equally large smile. The one beside it was your dad holding your palms when you were a child as you stood on his toes with your tiny feet. 

The next few were ones he didn’t anticipate. 

In the middle was a photo, you had taken while lying in Eddie’s bedroom at home while you both were smoking. He had been lazily strumming the guitar when you blinded him with the flash laughing so hard afterward at his reaction.

The next was you and Steve after one of his games he assumed since the boy was covered in sweat wearing his jersey. You were sitting on his lap with the camera high in the air as you barred your teeth in a growl and he stuck out his tongue behind you. 

The last photo was another image he assumed was you as a baby with a woman holding you in her arms. She was looking down at you with a wide smile that pierced the metalhead’s heart. 

“That was the last time I feel like she was happy.”, you whisper and Eddie shuffles back down to lay in front of you. “My parents fought a lot. It’s my first memory of them together…but it wasn’t always like that…some days there was a stillness…I miss that…”

The thunder that had gradually gotten louder boomed overhead causing Steve to sigh in his sleep as he instinctively pulled you tighter to him. 

“I’m sorry I was so mean. I’m not perfect, I know that and relationships scare the hell out of me but—” Eddie’s calloused palm covered your mouth to silence you, letting it linger before moving it to caress your cheek. 

Just as the rain began to tap against your window, he craned his head to give you a gentle kiss that lingered as he pulled away. 

“The first time Steve and I were together, he told me about how much he enjoyed sucking your cock; the way you tasted, your whimpers, the way you grabbed him. Maybe you should return the favor.”

Eddie blinked as his eyes flicked behind you and hovered, telling you silently that the other boy was awake and listening especially when his lips tenderly began kissing the skin along your shoulder. 

As his massive palm slid under your shirt to grab your breast, your lips connected with his while you listened to what sounded like the metalhead removing his. Rolling to face Steve, he helped pull your garment over your head before locking his mouth around your nipple eliciting a low mewl to fall while your gaze shifted to observe Eddie unbuckling the jock’s belt and pulling down his jeans with his boxers. Keeping his hand on your back, Steve moaned when he felt the other boy spit on his tip and stroke it along his hard shaft. 

The long-haired man allowed his tongue to flick along his slit and the pretty boy’s eyes rolled at the feeling as he turned his head to do the same with your nipple. Your fingers tangled in his hair as the vibration of his groans rippled through you and your hips rolled seeking friction. 

“Fuck, baby, that it.”, Steve strained as his palm settled on the back of Eddie’s head as he began to fully take him. 

“How does it feel?”, you whisper, his jaw going slack as his tip hit the back of his throat. 

“S-So fucking good. Shit. C-Come here, honey.”, he commanded, guiding you to straddle his face and his fingers move your panties aside to allow the organ between his teeth entry. 

“Steve.”, you whined, his tongue maneuvering like a mad man as it stroked up and down through you folds. 

“Aw fuck!”

At his exclamation, you turned to see Eddie still bobbing his head but you vaguely noticed his arm moving making you grin. 

“I told you his fingers feel good, Stevie. S-Stretch you out so good.”

The man underneath you lost his mind as his hands clung to your hips to a bruising degree and he pushed his face further into you making your eyes close as you grabbed hold of his hair. Grinding your waist, you covered your mouth as he sucked and slurped at your clit, smothering your scream as the ball in your belly dropped. 

Lazily lifting your leg, you collapsed on your side next to him as he continued to make little whimpers at the pleasurable feeling.

Eddie came off him with a sweet pop but continued to stroke him as he tilted towards you to kiss your lips. 

“I’m not ready.”, he murmurs giving you two pause. “I can’t…I’ve never…I’m not ready.”

The metalhead knew what he meant; Steve had his cock in a few ladies throughout his time as the King of Hawkins High but he had never experienced someone inside him nor had he tried it with another man before either. 

“I’m sorry…”

“No, hey, no reason to be sorry.”, Eddie coos as he caresses his cheek hoping to calm his worry. “Do you want me to stop? We can focus on our beautiful girl.”, he praises, beaming your way. 

“I don’t want you stop. Not yet.”

Steve watches with glassy eyes as you lean over to whisper something in the other boy’s ear eliciting a nod before positioning himself on top of him. 

“If you decide you do just tell me ok, sweetheart?”

The boy nods and Eddie grins as he pushes down his pants with his boxers that you help push to the floor. The jocks mouth waters as he takes in the metalhead’s physique, his dick twitching at every tattoo and defined muscle his honey irises passed over. 

His gorgeous, ring laced hand reached for Steve’s cock, holding it against his own loosely as he tested the waters by rolling his hips.

“Jesus.” The friction was more than delicious and he desperately needed him to do it again. “More.”

“Yeah? You like that, baby?”

The pretty boy licked his lips as he nodded and lifted his arm to wrap around you so he could pull you to his side and kiss your lips. Hearing Eddie’s soft grunts of pleasure, you pushed up onto your elbow to give him a passionate kiss that had him pressing his waist harder against Steve’s. 

“Shit.”, the metalhead breathed, releasing his grip to kiss up the other boy’s chest before his head fell beside his. “I got you, Steve.”

Both men panted heavily as Eddie found a steady pace, your nails running gently down his back giving him more motivation while Steve’s fingers petted and occasionally pulled your hair. 

“F-Faster, Eddie, baby, please.”

The long-haired boy pushed up onto his palms to honor the request and the jock took the opportunity to move some of it behind his ear while cupping his face. Steve spent years thinking about this moment. Eddie on top of him with his face scrunched in pleasure, his beautiful lips open as a grunt filled breath escaped him. 

What he didn’t realize was Eddie had dreamt of this to but more so with Steve riding him as his head fell back and he moaned with every bounce. 

Since they met you, you effortlessly slid into the equation like the final puzzle piece of the perfect landscape. Every time your palms or mouth caressed their skin, they felt almost feral and were struggling to keep it together. 

“I’m gonna…”

Eddie nodded as his lips reconnected to his and he reached back down to pump their dicks with his hand. Steve whimpered as he pushed your face into his neck, clinging to you like a child does a teddy bear as his body trembled and his seed shot out, hitting his stomach. At the sight, the other boy followed mewling loudly as his rhythm faltered and his release painted the man’s stomach beneath him. 

“Goddamn it. Fuck, Steve… you did so good, sweetheart. So fucking good.”, he murmured gently, eyes glancing around till he found a rag to clean the mess they had made. “Are you ok?”

“Yeah…yeah…need—need a minute, please.”

Eddie smiled as he placed his lips on the man’s forehead and you watched as his eyes closed at the tender action. 

“I like hearing you use manners like that.”, he teased causing Steve to lightly chuckle. Chocolate irises flicked to you as his palm reached out to smooth your hair. “How are you feeling?”

You lopsidedly grin as you scoot out of Steve hold and roll on your tummy, pushing up on your knees with your ass in the air. A wicked grin spread on his features as he maneuvered off the other man to position himself behind you and playfully spanking your behind. 

“You can take a minute if you need to.”

“Thank you for the approval, babe.”, he sasses even as he hisses while lining himself up with your entrance. “Fuck, I’ve never been this sensitive before.”

“Maybe we should do it at the same time…”, Steve suggested making you and Eddie giggle as the metalhead leaned over you, pressing his chest to your back. 

“Have you done that before? Do you feel comfortable?”

“It’s been a few months but yeah I’m comfortable. I have some lube in the…” When you gesture towards your drawer, the jock rolls over to dig through it, promptly finding what he needs while the other boy flops to his side, bringing you with him. 

After taking the bottle, you can’t help but laugh again when you hear the obnoxious squirt causing Steve to erupt in his own fit of giggles as he turns to face you. Gentle amber irises scan your features, his palm reaching out to touch your skin when your eyes flutter at the feeling of Eddie’s fingers between your cheeks.

“Fuck me, you’re so tight. I’ll go slow ok? I’m going to have to anyway or else I may fucking bust before we get going.”

As he places a steading hand on your hip, you tilt towards Steve to kiss his lips, your moans turning into subtle whimpers as you curse under your breath. 

“Everything’s ok, honey. You’re doing so good.”

Glancing behind you, you listen to Eddie’s soft mumbles of restraint as he keeps slowly thrusting his cock into you. His arm hooks under your knee, lifting your leg into the air and Steve utilizes the opportunity, licking the pads of his fingers to bring them to your clit. 

“Oh Goooood…”

“I know, baby, I know.”, he coos waiting for the metalhead to give him a signal that he’s ready which he does when their eyes meet. “Ok, are you ready for me?”

“I’ve never had two people at once.”

“Do you want to stop?”, he whispers.

“No. J-Just go slow.” 

This was completely new for them, seeing you so vulnerable. When it came to fight or flight, the latter wasn’t an option. Even when you were enjoying yourself out in the world, you had this strength that they admired. 

Since you had curled up into your bed, your vulnerability leaked through and they wanted to show you that they were there and that they cared. 

You were safe with them. 

“Of course. We got you, Y/N. We’re here for you, pretty girl.”

You nodded as Steve lined himself up with your entrance and gradually pressed into your cunt. 

A heavy breath fanned your face as he whined at the overwhelming feeling of you clinging to his overly stimulated cock. 

“Goddamn.”

Eddie had continued doing little pumps behind you, allowing you to get used to the feeling of him but as the other began to fill you, your body tensed slightly gripping him like a vice.

“F-Fuck…baby…it’s ok. T-Try—oh my God—try to relax your body.”

“Feel…feel so full…”

“I know, sweet girl. Trust me, I can feel him… we’re so fucking deep…”

While the metalhead spoke, Steve tried his best to use the distraction to his advantage pushing steadily into you till his hips connect to yours. You were sandwiched perfectly between them with Eddie’s breath warming the nape of your neck and Steve’s chest hair slightly tickling your chest. 

A few seconds pass before they both pull back and thrust into you at the same time.

“OHMAGO—!”

The metalhead’s palm firmly covers your shout and muffles the pleasure filled groan that follows. 

“Are you ok?”, he asks a bit rushed, sighing in small relief when you confirm. “You have to be quiet or else your neighbors will tell your dad.”

“I-I don’t care. Fuck…do that again…”

Placing his hand over your mouth once more, they repeat their movements and your eyes roll to the back of your skull as you loudly whimper.

Both boys find a steady rhythm, sweat and humid breaths sticking to you as you do anything you can to pull them closer. 

“Harder, Steve, PLEASE!”

As you press your face into the pillow beneath you, you hear smacking above you but you don’t need to look to know that they were kissing. 

“Give her what she needs, Stevie. Fuck her harder. O-Our girl deserves to feel good.”

“Will—fuck—will you cum with me?”

“You wanna fill her up at the same time?”

Steve nods emphatically but it’s interrupted when your pussy clenches tighter around him at their filthy words. A ringed hand moves your hair away from your face and you feel their eyes on you as Eddie murmurs praises. 

“Atta girl. Come on now. Let go for us and cum. You can do it, baby.” You scream into the pillow as you tumble over the ledge and their pace slows to give you a moment to breathe. “That’s our good girl. Shit, sweetheart, you always look so beautiful when you cum.”

One of your arms lifts to circle around Eddie’s neck behind you as you sloppily kiss him while Steve places open mouth kisses along your neck and chest. Their hips smack loudly into yours as they chase their highs before grunting against your skin as they thrust their releases inside you. 

Both men whisper soft apologies when you wince as they carefully pull out. 

“I know, Y/N. It’s alright.”, the metalhead soothes as he climbs out of your bed and you whine as he grasped your hands to bring you with him. “You have to take a shower.”

“Why do I have to?”

“Because you smell.”, Steve teases as he rounds the corner into your bathroom after you both, flashing you that signature Harrington smirk. 

“Noooo…”, Eddie clarifies, his voice echoing as he sticks his head into your shower and turns it on. “It’s because you had a very long day yesterday and now you just put your body through a lot of exertion. You need a warm shower to just…decompress.”

“A lot of exertion, huh?”

“Mhmm.”, he grins as he circles his arms around your waist and lifts you into the tub. Eddie enters right behind but realizes in that moment that the jock is lingering by the sink. “You to, Steven, get in here.”

“Oh, um, are you su—ok.” 

When he climbs in you feel squished between them once more but in a soft almost protective way. You feel Steve behind you reaching for something but you don’t know what it is until the cool shampoo touches your head and he firmly massages it in with his fingers. Glancing down, you watch as Eddie takes your bar of soap and runs it along your body, his palms trying to be as gentle as possible especially between your legs. 

When they finish cleaning you, you startle the metalhead slightly by switching places allowing him to be in the middle. Steve doesn’t say a word as he tilts his head back and allows the water to fall along his hair as he sighs. 

Taking your soap again, he runs it along the jocks stomach cleaning any remnants of his skin. 

Steve’s hand fell on the side of Eddie’s neck, his thumb caressing his jawline silently begging for him to his eyeline which he grants.

Their lips softly connect, the most tender kiss they’ve exchanged tonight. 

His grip glides slightly upward just under his ear, holding him close as Steve’s eyebrows dip before releasing his hold but is replaced with yours as you hug Eddie from behind and rest your head on his back. 

“So what happens on Monday, Munson?”

“That’s up to you, Harrington. Do you want to hang out with a freak like me?”

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

@debkk16 @myherometalhead @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @micheledawn1975 @twirls827

[patchw0rks]

Ok, reread of scum villain vol. 2 has been accomplished. Here are my thoughts and just things I wanted to note down (disclaimer: make sure to read these knowing the important context that liushen is my favorite ship lol)

I can't get over the Shen-Mu-Liu trio. Those are SQQ's BOYS and watching them interact is very fun. I also love that Mu Qingfang is medicine-pilled in the way that Shen Qingqiu is monster-pilled. Little did we know LQG is actually the most normal of the three

Shen "im just here to cause problems" Qingqiu saying "I know to get my way all i have to do is bat my pretty eyelashes at YQY and he will fold like a house of cards"

SQQ basically telling LQG that he's so strong so he must row the boat, and LQG is just absolutely FUMING because of how attracted he is to SQQ

SQQ referring to LQG as gege ah my heart

More of SQQ causing problems by trying stick Yang Yixuan onto LQG, which I love because you KNOW that in his grief post-Hua Yue City LQG went "fucking WATCH me"

Ngl I've read enough fanfic to realize that people don't really capture LQG's full personality. The usually make him so shy and tsundere that he's barely able to get a word in (Lan Zhan gets similar treatment) but no, he's just as catty as the rest of them

I need to figure out the timeline of how long Shen Yuan had been reading PIDW, it's endlessly important to me

LQG and MQF being like "our beloved little shixiong, please don't fret your pretty little head, just sit there and relax"

There really is some excellent physical comedy in SVSSS, like when SQQ is confronted by LBH and just defenestrates himself. You know that one scene in Angel Beats? Yeah it's exactly that

Qi Qingqi's eyebrows have now been brought up for a second time and it screams gender envy to me. Why are you as a "cis man" admiring a women's eyebrows so thoughtfully? So much to where it's the first thing you bring up about her appearance?

"Why?! Why were two grown men neurotically discussing a pice of clothing while surrounded by staring eyes?" never change Shen Yuan

I'm actually such a simp for Liu Qingge, i'm literally highlighting every mention of him and every word he speaks. I did not appreciate the Liuber my first time reading. He's also so incredibly tsundere "huff puff i can't believe you can't even ride your sword...get on"

Ugh I actually cried while reading the big confrontation. This did not happen my first read, but man it just got me. Also the very subtle POV switch that happens so we don't get any insight into SQQ's thoughts as he prepares to self-detonate

Mushroom Shen Qingqiu!!!! My Beloved!!!!!!! Def one of my favorite parts of the whole series. I think there are so many ways to play around with this character (hence my AU) but also there's this degree of freedom about it where even his internal dialogue is much more loose and less concerned with acting the part

Oh my...he referenced the succubus adventure...

Im sorry how did I completely black out the scene of LQG and SQQ playing hot potato with his corpse?!!?! Remember what I said about physical comedy!!

"Even a few hours ago, he genuinely wouldn't have cared where others (especially those of the same sex) touched him. They could touch wherever they liked, please go ahead" -- Things only said by straight who are 100% comfortable in their sexuality. Yeah. Totally

There are still good moments of seeing SQQ's dissociating himself from the events of the series and just treating everything and everyone as if it weren't "real," and how these thought patterns shift. Once again I think this would be a very fun thing to play around with and explore more

LIU QINGGE!!!! STOP MAKING ME SAD!!!!!!!! HE YEARNS SO MUCH

[bewitched-hours]

Forsaken | Mafioso & (His)Child!Reader (Part 3)

Go see Part 1 and Part 2 here~

Reader gets She/Her once more（-＾▽＾-）

Your pace only picked up the louder the whistling got...

You could feel your body shift and twist in uncomfortable ways.

Bones growing and deforming but not hurting you.

Even your vision was blurring and forcing you to rely on your hearing to go forward.

By the time you've reached the source of that comforting melody, you could feel yourself going limp and passing out. All the pain and exhaustion from your sudden change caught up to you in one swift move while the figure who had been whistling quickly approached in a clear panic.

Did you look bad? Maybe you looked worse than you felt...

Whichever the case, you felt much better upon awakening.

Especially when you saw the goons around you. Amongst others.

"Kid, you okay?!" One of them asked as they noticed you woke up. You felt groggy but nodded, shuffling your body towards your family as they were quick to go in for the reunion hug.

Only when you stood up did you notice you'd gotten taller. It was hard to balance at first.

You were still smaller than your dad but now were as tall as the goons. It surprised even them.

"Explaining this to your dad is gonna be tough..." One of them chuckled nervously, though you just made little happy squeaks.

You were just happy to have your family back, it allowed the Spectre to manipulate you better. Now you could safely betray the survivors without any guilt, right?

Exactly.

Watching their faces twist in horror when they first saw you in a round gave you an odd sense of pride.

You were no longer just a scared kid constantly needing help and protection. You were your father's daughter and made sure to get rid of the debt-ridden survivors to make him proud.

Which was technically already the case. Mafioso would always be proud of his kid and regardless if you won or not, you'd be rewarded with headpats and praise before being dragged off by the kids to play with them. Since you were slightly smaller than them, you loved convincing them to play hide and seek so you could find new spots where you barely fit into.

Though Mafioso wasn't exactly one to want you in danger, he could recognize that the fact you couldn't die or take real damage was an opportunity for you to have fun and learn.

Even if he was confused whenever you'd bring up being a survivor before...

I kinda enjoy child!reader, especially when they're the kid of someone else lol

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

[itzpookiepooh]

I have non stop been listening to Soda Pop for the last few days and it's eating out all of my thoughts 🙃. I CANT STOP LISTENING ITS TOO CATCHY!!!!

On that note, what would LADs be like of their MC was under the Saja Boy trance or just in general a fangirl MC who loves this boy group and is singing and dancing to their songs word for word.

Don’t hate me but I haven’t seen or heard anything from this since everyone posted about it I heard a snippet of the song last night but that was it 😅 I’ll do my best though because I know a lil some some about fangirling.

Fangirl

Rafayel would do anything to make you happy and if that meant buying merch and concert tickets so be it. You’ve been to so many Ateez concerts you lost count. Thanks to your loving boyfriend? All front row seats.

“Who’s your favorite?” He asked as you danced to their latest song.

“Mingi and Sans!” You nearly squeal at the thought of them. “I love the whole band though so don’t think I don’t.” You point at him.

“You like them more than me?” Rafayel’s jaw dropped as he watched you belt the lyrics. You stopped and turned to him.

“I’d never put them over you.” You pout and caress his head. He sighed in relief letting you pet him.

“But if either of them show up to our wedding and object? I might leave you at the alter.” You joke making him gasp and push you away.

“Not funny.” He pouts before you console him. “I’m just kidding! You’re still my favorite person in the whole universe.” You kiss his puffy cheeks.

Oh Caleb is down to fangirl with you. He is buying you matching merch for whoever you both like. You’ve bought photo cards to trade and everything. Caleb even won tickets in a raffle. Who knew he was so good at guessing how many gum ball’s were in a jar?

“I’ve been waiting for a tour forever!” You squeal as Caleb laughs at you.

“Who do you think will look best? Callum or Michael?” Caleb asked as he stuffed the tickets in his jacket pocket.

“It’s really between Callum and Luke.” You pointed out as he nodded agreeing with you.

“You’re so right.” He agreed as you both walked and talked about concert plans.

He’ll drop you off and pick you up but that’s it. It gets a bit too rowdy for him but he’ll support you on whoever you’re talking about. He will wait until your back to listen to you go on and on about how the concert went. From the moment the lights went out to the very end when they left the stage.

“I’m glad you had fun.” He’ll say as he drives and looks over it you.

“Oh definitely!” You squeal holding all your merch you bought. He just chuckles and shakes his head.

He mostly listens intently to see what he can gift you.

Plays whatever you recommend on a vinyl. He really wants to see what you’re into. He definitely doesn’t get a song stuck in his head and hums it when you aren’t around. When you do catch him you smirk like SpongeBob finding out Squidward likes Krabby Patties.

“You like them, don’t you Sylus?” You tease him as he just watches you.

“Not particularly, no.” He answers as you walk over to his record player and hold up one of the records.

“Right…” You shake your head.

He doesn’t really know what’s going on if he’s honest. He’s just happy because you’re happy so when you talk about them he just nods along with whatever you said. You explained how fast you needed to get tickets and that you had to stay up until 2am for them to drop. He just nodded his head.

“Okay so I’m aiming for Linkon or Skyhaven. I can make it to either.” You explained rapidly as you waited for the timer to go down.

Xavier just nodded as he yawned time ticking by. He waited patiently with you as you kept refreshing the page. When the timer went down Xavier moved faster than the speed of light to get the tickets just so you wouldn’t be disappointed.

“AHH! Xavier you’re the best!” You clung to him as his head leans on your cheek.

I don’t listen to any K-pop bands but I do love 5SOS, 1D, and Little Mix 🙂‍↕️ a band is a band 🫵🏾