#Branch Connection Calculations

[little-p-eng-engineering]

Unleashing the Potential of Little P.Eng. for ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services

In the ever-evolving landscape of the process piping industry, ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services stands as a paramount standard for design, inspection, and construction of process plants. As we delve into the complex world of piping engineering, we encounter Little P.Eng., an innovative engineering consulting firm pioneering the application of these industry standards.

With years of profound expertise and a cutting-edge approach, Little P.Eng. shines as the gold standard in providing ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services. This article aims to shed light on the instrumental role that Little P.Eng. plays in revolutionizing the field of process piping.

Understanding ASME B31.3 Process Piping Standards:

ASME B31.3, a prominent subsection of the American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME) B31 Code for Pressure Piping, is a comprehensive set of guidelines for process piping. It includes various aspects such as materials, fabrication, examination, testing, and much more. Given its criticality, these standards must be implemented with utmost precision and accuracy, an arena where Little P.Eng. truly excels.

Little P.Eng.: Your Reliable Partner for Piping Calculation Services:

As a recognized leader in the engineering consulting sector, Little P.Eng. is fully equipped to handle all facets of ASME B31.3 process piping calculation services. Leveraging the expertise of highly-skilled professionals, the latest technologies, and deep-rooted understanding of ASME standards, Little P.Eng. delivers innovative, accurate, and cost-effective solutions.

Little P.Eng. and Comprehensive Calculation Services:

Little P.Eng.'s range of calculation services spans from pressure design of piping components, flexibility and stress analysis, to support design and selection. Their commitment to precision, comprehensive reports, and prompt delivery, all tied to their deep-rooted understanding of ASME B31.3 standards, ensure that they stay ahead of the competition.

Embracing the Latest Technology:

Little P.Eng. makes optimal use of the latest technologies to provide unmatched ASME B31.3 process piping calculation services. Using state-of-the-art software tools, they simulate, analyze, and validate designs, leading to safe, reliable, and efficient process piping systems.

Customer Satisfaction: Little P.Eng.'s Hallmark:

With a steadfast commitment to customer satisfaction, Little P.Eng. prioritizes its clients' needs at every stage of the project. This results in services that not only adhere to ASME B31.3 standards but also align with the specific requirements of the clients.

Let's delve deeper into the pressure design calculations performed by Little P.Eng. under the ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services. Here are the key types of pressure design calculations:

Wall Thickness Calculations: One of the most crucial aspects of pressure design calculations involves determining the minimum wall thickness required for pipes to safely contain the pressure. Little P.Eng. uses sophisticated software tools to compute this accurately, factoring in variables like operating pressure, material strength, temperature, and pipe diameter.

Flange Rating Calculations: Little P.Eng. expertly handles the complexity of flange rating calculations, which involve determining the maximum pressure that flanges can handle without leaking. The process considers factors such as temperature, bolting material, gasket type, and flange material.

Branch Connection Calculations: When designing a process piping system, engineers often need to calculate the reinforcements required for branch connections. Little P.Eng. performs these calculations with precision, ensuring the integrity and safety of the piping system.

Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations: Expansion joints are vital components of process piping systems that accommodate thermal expansion or contraction. Little P.Eng. uses advanced tools to calculate the pressure thrust exerted on these joints, thus ensuring their optimal design.

Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations: Little P.Eng. also determines the reaction force exerted on safety valves when they open in response to excessive pressure. These calculations are essential for the safe and efficient operation of the process piping system.

Pipe Support Span Calculations: Pipe support span calculations are critical for ensuring that the pipe doesn't sag excessively under its weight and operating conditions. Little P.Eng. performs these calculations meticulously, keeping in mind various factors such as pipe size, material, and temperature.

High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations: For high-pressure piping systems, Little P.Eng. offers specialized calculation services that consider unique challenges such as material selection, joint design, and testing procedures, ensuring the integrity of the system even under extreme pressure conditions.

Conclusion:

The ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services can be quite challenging to navigate without the assistance of an experienced partner like Little P.Eng. Their meticulous attention to detail, robust understanding of industry standards, and unflinching commitment to quality make them an invaluable asset in the realm of process piping.

Little P.Eng.'s team of expert engineers works tirelessly to stay at the forefront of evolving industry standards, technologies, and market demands, ensuring their clients get the best of what the industry has to offer. With their forward-thinking approach, they not only provide services but also contribute to shaping the future of the process piping industry.

Keywords:

Little P.Eng., ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services, engineering consulting, process piping industry, process piping standards, pressure design, flexibility and stress analysis, support design and selection, customer satisfaction, Wall Thickness Calculations, Flange Rating Calculations, Branch Connection Calculations, Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations, Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations, Pipe Support Span Calculations, High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations.

Tags:

Little P.Eng.

engineering consulting

Expansion Joint Pressure Thrust Calculations

Safety Valve Reaction Force Calculations

High-Pressure Piping Design Calculations

ASME B31.3 Process Piping Calculation Services

process piping industry

process piping standards

pressure design

flexibility and stress analysis

support design and selection

customer satisfaction

Wall Thickness Calculations

Flange Rating Calculations

Branch Connection Calculations

Pipe Support Span Calculations

Engineering Services

Pipe Stress Analysis Services

Piping Design

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[halemerry]

So there's a lot to unpack here but I want to start by talking about the ending and specifically about the Metatron and the calculating moves made at the end of episode 6.

Every single piece of what happened there was a manipulation technique being employed against Aziraphale to an almost brilliant degree and I'm honestly a little obsessed with what this says about the Metatron in particular.

Let's go in order.

First of all. We see him order coffee. In a human body. Something sweet and sugary. He talks to Nina and asks her about her shop name. Does anyone ever ask for death? And when she tells him no they don't his response is to say "so predictable". Our introduction to him here even when everything about him reads like a sweet old man is presented to show us someone who reads the world in terms of being predictable to him.

He then shows up in the middle of Aziraphale's existence being threatened. He immediately cuts down the threat's authority (using outdated language like Az himself would favor) and reemphasizes his own connection to Heaven. When Michael doesn't recognize him and he puts her down and then directly engages Crowley. Crowley who, to Aziraphale, has for centuries at a minimum been someone he thinks is smarter, better, more Good than these other archangels. The Metatron validates these beliefs. Crowley is more Heavenly than these archangels who couldn't even recognize the voice of God when he was standing right in front of them.

The Metatron draws attention to the fact he's in a human body. The kind of body Aziraphale has been in and loved for nearly 6000 years. He then banishes the archangels, implying their morality is in a gray space, and validates Muriel someone we have seen Aziraphale react positively to and someone outside the current power structure. Look at me, he's saying. I see and validate the little guy.

He then tries to talk to Aziraphale. Aziraphale says "I've made my position quite clear." And then the Metatron offers Aziraphale the coffee. This bartering chip, consuming sustenance, is a thing that Aziraphale and Crowley have used as their connective tissue for centuries. It's an olive branch for them. It's giving Aziraphale bodily pleasure and the Metatron implies that he himself has partaken also - a thing we know that Aziraphale has struggled historically with moralizing. He is seen by the closest thing he has left to his parent and he is having old fears validated as safe and old habits being played upon to make him feel secure

He then REMOVES Aziraphale from his home turf. Not only does he remove Crowley from the equation but he takes Aziraphale from the place that has stood as a place of sanctuary throughout the entirety of the season. The shop is Safe and Aziraphale is leaving it and he is leaving the one person who might be able to smell the bullshit coming from the Metatron. The music notably turns absolutely dire here.

The next time we see them the Metatron tells Aziraphale that he doesn't need to answer instantly. He can take his time, if he likes. All the time he needs. And then tells him to go tell Crowley. Once again bringing Crowley in as a valid part of this while manufacturing a scenario where he can't possibly be.

Az ends up in a place where he's overwhelmed and confused and he wants so badly to believe what he's being told. It's an appealing thing from his perspective! He feels off kilter like he's made a mistake in judging the Metatron. He can't even fully articulate what happened to Crowley at first and he's had absolutely no real time to actually think it through. He's running on sheer reactive energy.

The Metatron starts their conversation by asking Aziraphale's opinion. Who should rule Heaven? This is once again playing into making Az feel validated and like he's a part of this decision making process. The Metatron corrects him, complimenting Aziraphale and making him feel capable and in control. He reassures Aziraphale's bafflement. And draws attention to some traits that, while true of Aziraphale around Crowley, are not his defining traits in the eyes of Heaven. You don't just tell people what they want to hear I find particularly notable in this regard given Aziraphale spent most of his time on earth actively lying to Heaven and doing just that. But it fits into the narrative Aziraphale has built around himself, especially post Apocalypse. The Metatron then says I need you (a phrase Az will use much more painfully here in a minute).

And even after all this Aziraphale says no. He says flat out he doesn't want to go back to Heaven. He says this!!! And then the Metatron sweetens the pot. He swaps tactics. Not once has this come up until Aziraphale pushes back against the idea. If the Metatron could've gotten him without using it I have no doubt he wouldn't have bothered with it. Come to Heaven and we can save Crowley. Aziraphale loves Crowley. Aziraphale thinks Crowley is better than any of the angels he's interacted with. Crowley is Good and Nice and Kind and always saving him and now he's being presented with a way to return that. He can Forgive Crowley - a thing Crowley has always presented to Aziraphale as something he struggles with. All of these things Aziraphale has watched Crowley react to in a way that belittles himself or distances them from one another. Of course he wouldn't consider that maybe what he was actually saying is "I'm unforgivable and I don't want that forgiveness."

The Metatron offers Aziraphale a Dream Offer for the pre Armageddon Aziraphale. You can keep your Crowley. You can heal him like you have always thought he deserved. You can have power and control the people who for your whole existence has beaten you down. It can go back to how it was but BETTER.

When Aziraphale leaves he still hasn't answered. He goes and has the conversation they have. It's intense and emotional and the Metatron comes in after the Moment all casual and asks how it goes, knowing fully well the shitstorm he had just set up to get created. And then he turns around and says "always did want to go his own way" which is not only true of Crowley but framed as a bad thing despite the fact that he has just spent twenty minutes or so telling Aziraphale that he's done his own thing and that is Good. He is playing both sides of this perspective as it suits him. And then he cuts down Crowley asking questions, pressuring Aziraphale to avoid doing the same. He then proceeds to ask Aziraphale not if he's made up his mind but if he's ready to get started. He is one by one closing off exit routes to this thing as Aziraphale starts to look more and more panicked and indecisive. He makes sure the bookshop is in good hands and asks Aziraphale if there's anything he needs to take with him. Letting Aziraphale have the illusion of choice while cutting down "I don't want to" as an option altogether.

And Az, as soon as the Metatron is out of shot, tries to express this. And then he falls back right on old coping methods. The Metatron pats him on the head. Reassures that he's the right one for this. That he is Good. That his particular skillset is needed here.

It is a masterstroke of manipulation. A very dark twist on what we see Crowley do time and time again with Aziraphale throughout the millennia. Familiar in a way that makes Aziraphale feel safe. Except this time this is being used to put him back in line. It's brilliant and painful and it fucking hurt and I need a season 3 to see the Metatron get what's coming to him stat.

[infamous-light]

Green With Envy

Agatha Harkness x Familiar! Reader

AO3: Green With Envy

Summary: You served as Agatha’s familiar, bound to her by magic and loyalty. As you journey together down the witches' road, Rio, another witch, begins to take an interest in you, much to Agatha's displeasure.

Word Count: 2.1K

Warnings: Possessive behavior, jealousy, suggestive themes, light dom/sub

The witches' road stretched endlessly before you, a winding, leaf-strewn path bordered by towering trees with gnarled branches that twisted overhead, creating a canopy of shadows.

Agatha walked ahead, her posture tense, shoulders rigid beneath the folds of her deep blue coat. Her gaze was razor-sharp, fixed on the road ahead, though you could sense something simmering beneath the surface. The usual confidence she exuded was strained, her energy taut like a drawn bowstring.

You followed closely behind, careful to stay within reach of her.

The bond between you and Agatha thrummed beneath your skin, a constant, unspoken connection that had always defined your role as her familiar. It wasn’t something you could easily describe; it was beyond words. It linked your soul to hers, a deep and intimate tether that allowed you to sense her energy, her thoughts, her emotions, as if they were your own. And today, they’re complicated – more complicated than usual, because of a certain green witch that had crawled out of Sharon’s grave like a ghost from the past.

Her presence unsettled Agatha, stirring up memories best left buried. You could tell she was trying to maintain her composure, but her agitation rippled through the bond, making your own pulse quicken in response.

Speaking of the green witch – Rio, if you remembered her name correctly – had started to drift closer to you, a little too close for your comfort. Her long strides matched yours, as if she were deliberately trying to invade the space between you and Agatha. Though her demeanor seemed playful, an almost carefree air surrounding her, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something far more calculated lay beneath. It was in the way her eyes, ever watchful, kept wandering toward you, their intensity impossible to ignore. And each time you met her eyes, a slow, sly smile would curl at the corners of her lips. Her interest wasn’t subtle, nor did she try to hide it. It was clear and unapologetic.

You did your best to avoid locking eyes with her, focusing on the other members of the coven or on Agatha’s form just a few steps in front of you, but Rio’s presence clung to you like a shadow.

“Quite the loyal familiar you’ve got there, Agatha.” Rio purred, her voice low and laced with amusement. Her gaze, predatory and assessing, flickered briefly toward Agatha before sliding back to you, lingering in a way that made your skin prickle with unease. “Where did you two meet?”

Agatha’s reaction was subtle but unmistakable. She stiffened ever so slightly beside you, her body becoming tense as though preparing for a confrontation. Her hand brushed against your arm as if she wanted to remind Rio – and perhaps even you – of whom you truly belonged to.

“That’s none of your business.” Agatha replied, her voice cold and cutting. Her dark eyes flashed with a dangerous edge as they fixed on Rio, daring her to test her patience any further.

But Rio only smirked, undeterred by Agatha's icy response.

“So, how’s it been, being Agatha’s... familiar?” Rio’s voice dripped with a smooth, almost silky tone. She leaned in ever so slightly, a smirk playing on her lips as her gaze lingered on you, waiting – no, daring you – to speak. “Must be quite the experience, being bound to her.”

Before you could respond, you felt a sudden shift beside you. Agatha's hand shot out, quick as lightning, gripping your wrist with a firm, almost possessive touch that sent a jolt through your entire body. Her skin was cool against yours but the strength behind her hold burned like a brand, as if she were marking her claim on you.

“Careful, Rio,” Agatha warned, her voice low and steady. “My familiar knows exactly where her loyalties lie, so don’t even try.”

The air between the two witches crackled with barely restrained energy, the tension thick enough to be felt in the pit of your stomach. Rio’s gaze continued to remain locked on yours, as though Agatha's warning was nothing more than an amusing game to her. A challenge waiting to be taken up. Rio’s lips twitched, the beginnings of laughter threatening to spill over, though she held it back just enough to let the tension stretch further. With a dramatic flair, Rio raised her hands, palms outward in a gesture of mock surrender, as if to say she meant no harm, though the smirk on her face told an entirely different story. The theatrical display only seemed to intensify Agatha's fury further before she dropped her hands back to her sides.

“So protective.” Rio’s voice came out in a soft, almost singsong tone.

In response, Agatha's grip tightened. She yanked you closer, pulling you flush against her side. She leaned in, her breath warm against the sensitive skin of your ear.

“I want you to stay away from her, understood?” Agatha murmured, her voice a low, threatening growl. “You belong to me. Don’t you forget that.”

Your heart thudded violently against your ribcage, as if trying to break free from the pressure building inside of you. The heat of both witches' gazes bore into you, and you swallowed hard, the movement painful as your throat clenched tight, dry with apprehension.

“Yes, Mistress.” The words tumbled from your lips, soft and breathless, barely more than a whisper.

Agatha’s lips curled into a smug smirk. “Good.” She cooed, the single word dripping with satisfaction.

Agatha cast a sidelong glance at Rio as she leaned in further, her lips so close to your ear that you could feel the soft brush of them. Just as her teeth were about to nip playfully at your earlobe, the moment was shattered by a loud, deliberate throat-clearing.

Startled, all three of you turned, eyes snapping to Lilia, who stood awkwardly at the edge of the scene. Her expression was as uncomfortable as her interruption. Behind her, the rest of the coven shuffled around nervously, shifting their weight from foot to foot. Their faces were a mix of concern and curiosity, eyes flickering between you, Agatha, and Rio.

“We need to get a move on.” Lilia said, clearly eager to get away from this situation.

Heat crept into your cheeks as you realized the coven had been watching this spectacle unfold. You lowered your gaze, wishing for the road to swallow you up whole, to disappear from this moment.

Agatha let out an exasperated sigh. Without uttering a single word, she tightened her grip around your wrist, her fingers firm and unyielding as she forcefully pulled you along. Rio, meanwhile, merely flipped her dark hair over her shoulder, a knowing smile still playing on her lips. It was as if the interruption hadn’t bothered her in the slightest.

As she trailed behind, you could feel Rio’s gaze lingering on your retreating form.

***

The campfire crackled softly, casting a dim orange glow on the surrounding trees. The night air was crisp, carrying the fresh scent of pine and earth. Around the fire, the others lay in deep slumber, their makeshift beds of leaves and branches scattered in a rough circle.

Agatha made sure that Rio was far from the two of you, positioning herself strategically next to you to keep a watchful eye on the witch’s every move.

The stillness of the night was almost absolute, broken only by the occasional pop of the fire. Its warmth, though faint, was the only barrier against the biting chill that threatened to seep into your bones. Lying on your side, exhaustion clung to your limbs, making your body feel heavier with each passing moment. Yet, just as sleep began to tug at your consciousness, you felt a shift – Agatha stirring beside you.

A second later, the front of her body was pressed firmly against your back. Her breath, warm and steady, caressed the nape of your neck, sending an unexpected shiver down your spine. One of her hands, soft yet deceptively strong, slipped across your abdomen, her fingers splaying out with deliberate ownership. Agatha began tracing slow, languid circles over your shirt, the movement deliberate and enticing, sending waves of heat coursing through your body despite the chilly night air.

“M-Mistress?” You stuttered quietly, the word escaping your lips in a barely audible whisper.

Agatha gently shushed you, her voice low and soothing. Then, she moved, turning you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion. Her body shifted, and suddenly she was straddling you, her legs pinning you down with a delicious weight. Your pulse raced as she loomed over you, her wild, untamed brown hair cascading around you like a curtain, enclosing you in a world that belonged to the two of you alone. The flickering firelight illuminated her face just enough to highlight the sharp angles of her features – high cheekbones, a defined jawline, and lips that curved with a tantalizing smirk. But it was her eyes that truly captivated you – dark, smoldering, and filled with an almost feral possessiveness – that drew you in with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

Her gaze held a promise, both thrilling and terrifying, as she braced her hands on either side of you, caging you in, making it clear that you were hers and hers alone.

Without warning, Agatha closed the distance between you, her lips crashing against yours with a fierce, unrestrained passion. The kiss was possessive and hungry, like she was trying to devour every ounce of you. The force of it was dizzying, leaving you breathless as her tongue teased and explored, dancing with yours in a rhythm that felt both intoxicating and primal, leaving no part of you untouched.

Agatha’s left hand reached up, her fingers curling around your jaw with a tender yet commanding grip. She turned your face to the side, and you could feel her warm breath ghosting against your skin. As she began to pepper soft kisses along the column of your throat, each gentle press of her lips felt electric, sending waves of arousal pooling between your legs. The sensation intensified with every delicate brush, heightened as Agatha’s teeth grazed your exposed neck, biting down just enough to leave a mark. Your eyelids fluttered closed, surrendering to the waves of pleasure that overcame you, and you let out a soft whimper, the sound barely escaping your lips.

After another firm nip at your pulse point, you opened your eyes once more, blinking against the encroaching haze of desire.

The breath in your throat froze, caught like a deer in the headlights, as you caught sight of Rio gazing at you from across the flickering campfire.

She lay on her side, facing your direction, propped up on one elbow. Her dark hair cascaded over the forest floor like a waterfall of silk. A sly smirk danced across her lips, amusement sparkling in her eyes. Panicked, you instinctively glanced around, worried that the others may be awake as well, but, to your relief, they were sleeping peacefully in their makeshift beds.

“Uh-Mistress, Rio, she’s-” You stammered, a rush of embarrassment flooding your cheeks.

“Let her watch.” Agatha said breathlessly, her voice a sultry whisper that sent goosebumps across your flesh.

Agatha captured your lips once more. Her kiss was a fierce declaration, filled with longing and desire. As her right hand trailed up your ribs, her fingers brushed delicately against your skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, causing another spark of arousal to settle low in your gut. Each touch was deliberate, coaxing a deep, instinctual reaction from within you.

“Please…” The word escaped your lips in a breathy whisper, laced with urgency and yearning.

Rio made a low, pleased hum at the sound of your plea. Her eyes were half-lidded, dark with lust and intrigue, as if she were savoring every second of what was unfolding before her. She shifted slightly, leaning back, her posture relaxed yet predatory. One hand rested on her thigh, her long fingers tapping slowly, deliberately, against her leg.

The heat radiating from Agatha’s body felt like molten fire against your skin, leaving you desperate as her hand slid down, resting possessively on your hip, anchoring you in place.

When Agatha finally pulled away, a soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips, your chest heaving as the cool night air rushed back into your lungs. Yet even as the distance grew, Agatha’s breath remained tantalizingly close, ragged and uneven, mingling with your own. Her gaze never wavered, locked onto yours with a deep, dark hunger swirling in its depths, consuming each one of your thoughts.

“You’re mine,” Agatha growled, her voice lower, huskier, dripping with pure possessiveness. “My pet. No one else will ever have you.”

Your body reacted instinctively as your thighs pressed together in response.

Agatha’s gaze shifted like a blade, cutting sharply toward Rio. Her eyes narrowed into a deadly glare that could have scorched the ground beneath the witch. But Rio, ever unfazed, merely chuckled, her laughter low and teasing. Without a word, she turned back around, her posture relaxed, as if unconcerned with Agatha's jealousy.

This was going to be a long, difficult journey, you realized.

[smokesandsonatas]

hc about leech famm?

I have so many, I've written about them all throughout my blog and here's some more!!

They consider giving the business operations of their "Leech Family trade" to Jade. Jade is cold and calculating, whereas Floyd is unpredictable and therefore much suited to the role of a Capo.

Their house in the coral sea, comprises a few hectares. It is so big that it makes Yuu wonder how the concept of real estate works in the sea because their house is literally a whole underwater cave.

Rich. Georgina and Papa Leech go on shopping sprees often. The allowance they give their children every month is enough to cover the living expenses of a family of five for a year.

They refuse to wear some clothes twice. Lol. Partly because Papa Leech had an instance where his pride was wounded when he "did not dress meticulously". This is why he absolutely entailed both his sons to always show their best. People might think this is not true but think about it, Floyd is effortlessly handsome and Jade is just so-professional looking.

Makes you wonder why Jade and Floyd works for Mostro Lounge right? Jade charges it to experience since Georgina and Papa expects him to run the business, what better way to learn than be a vice dorm leader to the ambitious Ashengrotto. Floyd is well, Floyd. Just tagging along because it's fun.

Georgina, right after laying her twins and many more. Left them. In the middle of the dark, and cold ocean to determine if they can survive. Her joy can't be contained once she realizes it is her favourite twins that survived. :)

The Leech Family just sticks together all the time. Sure they might claw and slash each other to death but they will kill for the sake of their family.

Papa Leech is incredibly well-connected. He’s got ties with politicians, businessmen, royalty, small shopkeepers, merfolk of all kinds—including the shady ones who work under the radar. Half of them work for him.

Leech fam are one of the actually progressive merfolks. Since they feel the opportunities under the sea are limited, and they’re quite discriminated under the sea for practicing err, cannibalism they don't practice this in the current times tho..., they’ve made it a point to branch out into land-based ventures. Georgina pushes for networking, and land-acquired influence, while Papa Leech funds initiatives that allow merfolk to "blend in" above water. They're seen as pioneers among their kind—either admired, feared, or hated depending on who you ask.

[maeintree]

first kiss statistics | s. reid

Summary: Spencer Reid can’t help but overanalyze, especially when it comes to new experiences. As the moment between you two grows more charged, he dives into a detailed breakdown of first kisses, but before he can get too far into the statistics, you decide to take matters into your own hands. Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Word Count: 1.1k Warnings: Fluff, light kissing, and suggestive sexual themes. Author's Note: jus some small fluff to get me started throughout the day! wrote this on the bus so forgive me if the writing is a 'lil ehhh. nevertheless, enjoy <3

Spencer Reid had a tendency to overanalyze, especially when it came to things like numbers, probabilities, and, as you quickly learned, emotions.

You had spent countless hours together—solving cases, sharing stories, laughing at random trivia—but the air between you two had started to shift. The way his eyes lingered a little longer on you, the quiet smiles, and how he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

It wasn’t that you didn’t know what was going on. You had been in the same boat for a while now, both dancing around the undeniable pull between you two. But Spencer being Spencer, it was only a matter of time before he tried to make sense of it all—calculated it down to the very last decimal.

And tonight, it seemed, was that night.

The two of you were sitting on the couch in his apartment, a case from the day still fresh in your mind. The distant sound of the TV playing was barely noticeable in the background.

Spencer had been rambling on about the latest book he’d read, something about quantum physics, when he suddenly quieted, his gaze shifting from the pages of his book to you. The space between you seemed impossibly small, yet neither of you moved.

You could feel the tension in the air—both of you were trying to navigate this unspoken thing, but neither of you knew where to begin. You glanced down at your lap, fingers fiddling nervously, before you felt the soft brush of Spencer’s knee against yours.

The light touch, so innocent and casual, made your heart beat a little faster.

“So,” Spencer began, his voice tentative as if he were still unsure of how to broach the topic, “have you ever heard of the psychology behind first kisses?”

You raised an eyebrow, shifting to face him fully. “Spencer, are you really going to lecture me on first kisses?”

His lips twitched in that half-smile you’d come to adore, but there was an unmistakable tension in his shoulders. “No, it’s just... well, the first kiss is crucial. There’s a whole branch of research on it—on how it affects the likelihood of long-term compatibility, how it can set the tone for the entire relationship.”

You tilted your head, already suspecting where this conversation might go. “And what does the research say, Doctor Reid?”

He paused for a moment, considering, before launching into one of his signature monologues.

“Well, according to a study from the University of Michigan, there’s a 70% correlation between a positive first kiss and the success of a relationship. That’s a pretty high percentage, considering there’s so much that could go wrong. Lip pressure, angle, timing... There’s also a study by Dr. Justin Lehmiller that suggests kissing with passion can create a chemical reaction—dopamine and oxytocin—which, in theory, should make us feel more connected to each other.”

You had to bite back a smile.

Spencer Reid. His brain working overtime, analyzing everything, even when the situation didn’t need analysis.

The more he talked, the more you could see the wheels turning behind his eyes, his expression becoming more and more absorbed in the science of it all.

“But,” he continued, completely unaware of the amused smile creeping onto your face, “there are a number of variables. For example, the timing of the kiss, the level of comfort between the partners, and—”

You couldn’t take it anymore. Spencer was too cute, too wrapped up in his own thoughts, and you needed to snap him out of it before he started bringing up the various angles and kissing techniques again. You reached out, placing your finger gently over his lips to stop his rambling.

“Spencer,” you said, your voice low but firm, “can you just... stop?”

He blinked, caught off guard by the sudden interruption. “Stop?”

“Stop thinking so much,” you said with a soft laugh. “Just for a second.”

His eyes widened, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. “I—I don’t know how to not think, matter of fact, that's impossibl—”

You interrupt him. “Then just feel.” You inched closer, your heart pounding in your chest as you closed the distance.

His eyes darted between your lips and your eyes, his breath quickening, and you could tell he was still trying to calculate the probability of what might happen next.

Before he could say anything else, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his, cutting off his analysis entirely.

At first, Spencer was frozen—his body stiff as though he couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening. But then, slowly, tentatively, his lips began to move against yours, a gentle and cautious touch that spoke of everything he hadn’t said yet.

His hand hovered beside you for a moment before gently resting against your shoulder, his fingers brushing your skin.

The kiss was everything you imagined and nothing like what you expected. It wasn’t about probabilities or perfect techniques. It was raw, unfiltered, and real. It was messy in the best possible way, with your hearts beating in sync and everything around you fading into the background.

When you finally pulled away, you could feel the heat on your cheeks. Spencer’s eyes were wide, blinking as if trying to catch up to the moment. His breath was shaky, and his lips parted slightly as though he were still processing the kiss.

“I... uh,” he stammered, trying to find his words, “I didn’t... I didn’t factor in the emotional connection, the—”

You chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Spencer, I swear to God, if you bring up another statistic right now, I’m going to kiss you again to stop you.”

His eyes widened, a flash of realization crossing his face. “Wait—what do you—”

Before he could say anything else, you stood up and, without a word, slid onto his lap. Spencer froze for a moment, eyes wide as he processed the sudden change, but then his hands instinctively settled on your waist.

His breath hitched as you leaned in, your lips meeting his once again, this time with more intensity.

You deepened the kiss, your hands threading into his hair as you pulled him closer. Spencer’s hands tightened around you, and you could feel the nervous energy melting away as he kissed you back, fully present—just the feeling of you in his arms. The kiss grew more urgent, more passionate, as though neither of you could wait any longer.

When you finally broke away, both of you were breathless, your hearts racing. Spencer’s face was flushed, his lips swollen from the kiss, and his eyes shone with a mixture of surprise and contentment.

“I guess I was right,” he whispered, his voice a little hoarse.

“About what?” you asked, still resting against him, feeling the warmth of his embrace.

“That some things... don’t need to be calculated,” he said with a smile, his hands gently caressing your back.

You grinned, pressing another soft kiss to his lips.

"Good."

hope you enjoyed this fluffy fic. writing this made me happy and i hope you reading it will too :) likes, reposts, and comments are much appreciated!

[nahoney22]

By the Willow

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❀ Secret Princess Series

❀ Tech X Female Princess

❀ word count: 7.5k

♔ Plot: When you meet a stranger at your spot of respite, you didn’t anticipate the connection the two of you have and to discover what you have been missing all your life.

♔ Warnings: Princess female reader, safe for work, strangers to friends to lovers, isolated reader, reader hides her identity, first kiss, fluff, light angst, reader wears dresses, small argument between reader and Tech.

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Peace, calmness, and an escape from reality was just what you needed right now.

The breeze was soft against your skin, playing with your loose hair. Your fingers drifted through the tall grass, petals of wildflowers brushing against your dress as you walked, the meadow offering you a brief moment of respite. Because out here, you could just be yourself.

In the distance, the familiar weeping willow came into view and a small smile touched your lips. This was your sanctuary, a place you would run away to when times got too tough; even as a child.

Though now it seemed even more of a safe haven as you could shed the weight of responsibility of being a Princess, if only for a little while. With the shade beneath its light green leaves that offered both protection and solitude, the sound of the stream nearby always helps calm your mind. Even if there was nothing to calm.

You approach with a small spring in your step, clutching a book that you decided to bring along with you by your side. But as you brush the dropping branches and long slender sleeves to the side, your heart stops when you find someone already there. In your spot.

"Who are you?" The words slipped out sharper than you intended, a flicker of alarm creeping into your tone.

All your life, it had been one of constant vigilance—surrounded by guards, attendants, and protocols. Even in the moments when you’d insisted on doing something yourself, there was always someone hovering nearby. And beyond the palace walls, you’d been taught to be wary of strangers, told that your position made you a target.

Luckily, they hadn’t clicked onto how you leave the Palace without anyone noticing just yet. And you hadn’t had a problem either, until now.

Yet, as you watched the man before you, your panic began to fade. He didn’t exude danger. Well, not in the way you’d been warned about.

The man glanced up from his seated position, his fingers adjusting the yellow-tinted goggles perched on his nose. He lowered the datapad in his lap, his gaze sweeping over as if analysing you. "I’m just exercising my mind," he said, his voice simple, almost disinterested. "I didn’t realise this spot was spoken for."

His nonchalance catches you off guard a touch but then you realised—he didn’t even recognise you or know who you were. What you are. There were no stiff formalities that made you feel awkward, no over-exaggerated bows. He just... existed. And so did you.

This was perfect. Kind of.

"I usually sit there," you replied, gesturing to where he was after you snap out of thoughts.

Your eyes began taking in his unusual appearance. His armour was unlike anything you’d seen before, and his features, though sharp, were somehow soft in the dappled light filtering through the leaves. His skin was speckled with sunlight, his wide eyes focused yet distant, as though his mind was always working, always calculating.

"I wasn’t planning on staying long," he said, his tone still casual, "but I can leave if you prefer."

A smile tugged at your lips, maybe some quiet company wouldn’t be too bad. "Actually, it's a warm day... I think I'll just sit over here, in the shade." You gestured to the other side of the tree.

He gave no response, simply returning to whatever task he had been doing before you arrived.

You watch him a moment more before you move round the large tree, resting on the ground with your legs spread outwards and your back perched comfortably against the bark.

For a moment, you listened for any movement from the man, but he remained quiet, absorbed in his own thoughts. With a soft sigh, you opened your book, allowing yourself to be drawn into its pages.

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As the hours passed, the golden light of the afternoon began to soften, and you decided it was time to head back. Closing your book, you rose to your feet, brushing the stray bits of grass and dirt from your dress.

You paused before leaving, glancing over at the man who hadn’t moved from his spot. He was still focused on his datapad, absorbed in whatever consumed him. For a moment, you debated whether to say goodbye. It felt odd—after all, you were little more than strangers who had shared barely a few words.

But something in his presence made you hesitate. Just as you were about to slip away, he lifted his head, meeting your gaze with a subtle nod. "I will be here tomorrow, too," he said, his voice steady but casual, before returning to his work.

His words caught you off guard, but not unpleasantly. There was an ease to his statement that felt more like an invitation than an expectation. You hadn’t planned on returning to the willow so soon—it was a retreat you visited only occasionally, once in a while when things got too much. But now, the thought of returning tomorrow seemed appealing.

"I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then," you replied, a quiet smile pulling at your lips.

As you walked back through the meadow, a sense of unease crept in. It was dangerous, speaking so casually with a stranger, especially someone who didn’t know who you really were. But the more you thought about it, the more you realised that perhaps, like you, he was just looking for a place to escape.

True to his word, he was there the next day, in the same spot, just as you arrived. It was oddly comforting to see him again.

"Hello again," you said softly as you approached, your book from the day before tucked under your arm.

He looked up from his datapad, and this time, there was the faintest hint of a smile on his face. It softened his otherwise serious demeanor. "I’m surprised you came."

Raising a brow, you took a small step closer, closer than you had been yesterday. "Why’s that?"

He paused, his expression thoughtful before he cleared his throat. "I didn’t expect you to, I suppose."

"Well, I see you're in my spot again," you teased lightly, the playful tone slipping easily into the air between you.

He responded with a deadpan expression. "I don’t believe this spot belongs to anyone, except perhaps the royalty who owns this land."

"And yet you’re trespassing," you countered with a grin.

"As are you," he said smoothly, his gaze steady on you. "It seems."

"Actually, this is my—" You cut yourself off abruptly, the words catching in your throat. You hadn’t meant to reveal your true identity, especially since he seemed blissfully unaware of it. The less he knew, the better.

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing the sudden shift in your tone. "Continue," he said, his voice calm but edged with curiosity. He studied you, his gaze patient yet expectant.

You shifted on your feet, feeling the damp earth beneath your shoes. "I just... work at the palace," you said, trying to keep your voice casual. "I come here for a break sometimes."

He raised a brow, clearly not entirely convinced by your vague answer. "Are you allowed to do that?"

"Yep," you replied quickly, eager to change the subject. Without waiting for him to question you further, you gestured toward the space beside him. "May I sit?"

For a moment, he didn’t respond, simply watching you with that same unreadable expression. Then, with a slight nod, he shifted, making room for you under the tree.

As you settled beside him, the quiet between you felt oddly comfortable. But curiosity got the better of you. "So... what’s your name?" you asked, glancing at him.

He looked up from his datapad what appears to be glued to his hand, barely lifting his head. "Tech," he replied flatly, as if the answer was self-explanatory.

A small laugh escaped you, catching him off guard. "Tech? That’s your name?"

"Yes, that is correct," he said, not bothering to look up this time. "Why do you find that amusing?"

"I’ve just never heard a name like that before," you explained, smiling. "What’s the origin of it?"

He finally shifted his full attention to you, adjusting his goggles with one hand. "It’s not particularly unusual if you understand the context. I am a Clone, part of a genetically engineered unit created for the Republic.” He explains, knowledge rolling off his tongue.

“Each of us was given a designation based on our individual enhancements. Mine happens to be… technical aptitude. So to speak. Hence, Tech."

You blinked, trying to process the flood of information. "Wait—clone?"

"Yes," he said as if it was obvious. Surely you’ve heard of the Clone Wars?"

"I—" you started, but the words got tangled. "No, actually… I haven’t. I’m not sure I understand."

Tech paused, clearly surprised, though his expression remained neutral. "You haven’t heard of the Clone Wars? Or clones? That’s... highly unusual. We were a critical part of the galaxy’s military efforts for years. We were created on Kamino, a planet known for its advanced cloning technology. You must be familiar with Kamino at least."

"Kamino?" you repeated, frowning slightly. "No, that doesn’t sound familiar either." Slowly, you start to feel a creeping embarrassment as you suddenly feel stupid for not knowing something that clearly is a large part of the galaxy. Then again, you were taught about your own secluded planet only and its history. Not anywhere else.

Tech blinked behind his goggles, staring at you for a beat too long. "You’ve never heard of Kamino either?" His voice was tinged with disbelief, as though the concept was nearly impossible for him to fathom. He continued with a brief description with the importance of this ‘Kamino’ and if you didn’t feel stupid before, you did now.

Embarrassed, you shook your head. "No, I really haven’t heard of it."

"Interesting," he said, more to himself than to you. "You live in a remarkably isolated environment if you’ve never encountered such basic galactic knowledge." His gaze then sharpened, scanning you almost analytically. "Have you ever even left this planet?"

You hesitated, then shook your head sheepishly. "No. But... I’d like to. One day."

"Hmm," he muttered, as if filing away that piece of information. "That explains your lack of familiarity with broader galactic events. This planet is extremely remote, sparsely populated, and largely irrelevant to the major political structures in place."

Was he always so blunt? You felt a slight pang of defensiveness at the description of your homeworld but quickly pushed it aside. "So, what is it you do?"

“I am a Soldier.”

“How come you are here?" You probe with a smile, already assuming as much that he was a soldier of some kind.

"We’re on a diplomatic mission," Tech continued, in the same detached tone, not quite meeting your enthusiasm. "We’ve been tasked with upgrading security systems at the palace. The assignment begins in a week or so."

You stiffened at the mention of the palace, your mind racing. "The palace?" you echoed, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’ll be working there?"

"Yes," he confirmed, missing the tension in your voice. "We’re to conduct a thorough analysis and enhancement of their current security protocols. Apparently, there’s a concern regarding the safety of someone of importance residing there."

Your heart skipped a beat, hands feeling a little clammy. "Have you—uh, you know— researched the royal family?"

"There isn’t much information available," he replied, adjusting his goggles again as he shows you information in his datapad. "And as I stated before, this placed is sparsely populated—fewer than a few hundred inhabitants, by my estimates. It’s not significant enough to warrant much attention in the galactic records. The royalty here is of little interest beyond local matters."

Relief and anxiety swirled inside you in equal measure. For now, it seemed your identity was still safe. "I see."

Tech glanced at you again, his gaze lingering in a way that made you feel slightly exposed. "You still haven’t told me your name," he pointed out, almost as if it were a loose end he needed to tie up.

You froze for a second, then quickly recovered, forcing a smile. "Willow," you said, the lie slipping out before you could second-guess it.

"Willow," he repeated, tilting his head slightly. "That’s an uncommon name. Does it have any particular significance?"

"It’s... just a name," you replied, keeping your tone light.

"Fascinating," he muttered, though whether he was genuinely intrigued or simply acknowledging the information, you couldn’t tell. “Also fitting.”

The conversation drifted on, with Tech providing details about his work, his unit, and the missions they’d carried out. You laughed at moments that he didn’t realise were quite amusing but you had clearly relaxed him enough to allow him to open up. And he talked… a lot. It was quite cute.

As the sky deepened into evening, you realised how much time had passed. "I should probably get going," you said, standing up and brushing off your dress. "I’ve enjoyed talking with you."

Tech glanced up, and for a brief moment, there was a flicker of something like hesitation in his eyes. "Will you be here again tomorrow?"

His question caught both of you by surprise, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he was recalibrating his own boldness.

You hesitated, then smiled softly. "We’ll see," you replied, knowing full well that you would be.

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And you did go see him.

That day, the next day, and the day after.

Each time, you found yourself more drawn to the odd charm of the man who barely glanced your way but still seemed to notice everything.

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself each time you visited. You had noticed (that although his focus rarely strayed from his datapad) the subtle shift in the air whenever you appeared—the way his posture changed, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as if he had been waiting for you. It was a good feeling.

Sitting beside him had become your routine, almost like breathing and the book you brought along served more as a prop than something to read. Your attention was inevitably pulled towards Tech and whatever he was tinkering with.

Truthfully, You were completely enamored by him. His mannerisms, the unintentional gentleness in his hands when he handled something delicate, and the way he occasionally muttered to himself, lost in his own thoughts.

Though the times he’d briefly look up, his eyes were soft with a look that felt almost... affectionate.

You didn’t want to overthink his gaze, but it gave you butterflies every time.

This day was no different. You’d settled in next to him, your book open on your lap. After several minutes of peaceful silence, your curiosity perks. You leaned slightly closer, peering at the array of circuits and small mechanical pieces strewn around him. “What are you working on today?”

Of course, he didn’t look up, but his tone warmed a fraction as he replied. “A calibrator. These,” he then gestured to the smaller parts in front of him, “are relays that modulate signal strength. It’s critical that they are adjusted to the correct tolerances—any deviation would result in unstable transmissions, or worse, complete signal loss.”

You blinked, absorbing what you could of the information, though most of it flew over your head. The palace didn’t hold such instruments and so everything he told you was brand new. “Doesn’t seem like it would fit with anything we use here,” you say.

“It doesn’t. This is from a planet called Ord Mantell. I happened upon it during a mission and kept it for study. I often collect such artifacts if they’re of unique construction.” He reached into one of his pouches of his beltand pulled out another small item—a hexagonal metal device with an intricate pattern carved into it. “For example, this is a fragment of a data chip from Naboo. It’s outdated, obsolete even, but I’m fascinated by its design and the potential for historical data retrieval.”

You stared at it, the weight of his words sinking in. He’d seen so many places you could only dream of, held pieces of those planets, moons and stars in his hands.

You smile gently, watching him with a mixture of awe and fondness as he spoke.

It did strike you how much he wanted to share all of this with you, how patient he was with his explanations, even if he sometimes forgot to ask if you understood. There was something grounding about his presence, something that made you want to listen, to learn.

Lost in thought, you didn’t realise how long you’d been staring until he glanced over, brows furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “I have a question,” he said suddenly, snapping you out of your reverie.

You blinked, then nodded eagerly. “Go ahead.”

“I’ve observed that you’ve been on the same page of your book for the past four consecutive days,” he noted bluntly. “Is there a reason for this behaviour, or have you simply found something within the text that holds your interest?”

Heat rushed to your cheeks, embarrassment flaring up as you glanced down at the page in question. It was a silly romance novel, and you hadn’t even realised you hadn’t turned the page once. “I—um, no,” you stammered, looking away. “It’s just... hard to focus on the story when I’m with you, I guess.”

Tech blinked, clearly taken aback. He tilted his head, studying you with the same clinical curiosity he reserved for complicated puzzles. “You... read the same page repeatedly so you can spend time here?”

Swallowing your nerves, you nodded, your fingers brushing over the edges of the book. “It gives me a reason to be here and see you.” Your voice was small, the admission much braver than you felt. “Otherwise, I’m not sure if I’d have the courage.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly processing. “You don’t need to bring a book if your primary intention is to converse with me,” he said after a pause, his tone as blunt and matter-of-fact as ever. “I don’t mind your presence. In fact, I’ve grown accustomed to it.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the corners of your mouth lifting. “You’re really something, you know that?”

He frowned, seeming unsure of how to interpret your reaction. “Is that meant to be complimentary?”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling. “I like being here with you. I like talking with you, you make me feel normal.”

“Do you often not feel normal?”

You pause but quietly shake your head, “Not usually.”

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts and a hint of something unnameable. For the first time, you found him staring at you, his gaze lingering as if trying to read you, to decode something unfamiliar. The air felt warmer, more intimate somehow, and you couldn’t help but notice how much closer you were than when you’d first sat down.

Tech cleared his throat abruptly, breaking the moment. “You’ve mentioned you enjoy our discussions,” he began, his voice a touch quieter. “But I still know very little about you. Your name, for instance—‘Willow.’ It doesn’t seem to align with any of the traditional names or designations I’ve encountered in my data banks.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, the question you’d been dreading surfacing at last. “Like I said, it is just a name,” you murmured, guilt gnawing at you. He still didn’t know the truth, the title you carried, or your real name. And with each passing day, the prospect of him finding out grew more daunting.

“Tech,” you started, then hesitated. You needed to tell him. Before everything got too complicated. “There’s something you should know.”

“Yes?”

The words caught in your throat, your resolve faltering the longer you looked at him. The words are on the tip of your tongue but they don’t leave. Instead, your mind completely diverts and you blurt out the next unexpected and unexplainable statement:

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.”

His eyes widened, genuine surprise flashing across his face as he dropped the gadget in his hand. It clattered to the ground, the sound startling both of you. “Ah—neither have I,” he admitted, clearing his throat as he picks it back up and dusting off the dirt. “It’s not something I’ve had much opportunity to… experiment with.”

You both sat there, frozen in the tension of the moment. You felt your pulse hammering, the soft breeze in the air suddenly chilling.

Supposedly, the thought of kissing him had slipped into your mind at some point. It was so innocent, so impossibly daring. But the moment felt right. And never had you been so certain of anything.

“Maybe…” you ventured softly, almost shyly. “Maybe we could try it together?”

For the first time, you saw Tech falter, a faint heat warming his cheeks. He blinked rapidly, as if recalibrating. “You want me to—?”

“If you’d like to,” you murmured, eyes flickering from his lips to his astonished gaze, “only if you want.”

He lets go of the gadget again, his hand reaching out tentatively, brushing against your cheek in the softest of touches and then down to your shoulder.

You held your breath as he leaned closer, his expression still unreadable but his gaze locked onto yours. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed the distance, lips hovering a fraction of an inch from yours before finally, gently, he kissed you.

The moment was brief, delicate and tentative, as if testing the waters. When he pulled back, his eyes were wide behind his goggles, his fingers still ghosting against your skin.

“That was… different,” he murmured, his voice almost breathless.

You couldn’t help but smile, “Different in a good way?”

Tech’s lips twitched, a faint smile forming as he nodded. “Yes, in a good way. Very much so.”

You watch as he lingered for a moment, his gaze unwavering, still clearly processing what had just happened. His lips parted slightly, as if tasting the memory of your touch before he finally spoke. “I believe I would… like to do that again.”

Your heart fluttered, warmth flooding your chest. Without another word, you leaned closer, letting your eyes flutter shut as you pressed your lips to his once more. This time, the kiss was different—bolder, more sure. Tech’s hands, trembling ever so slightly, slid down from your shoulders to rest at your waist. His touch was cautious but steady, pulling you closer, encouraging you to deepen the kiss.

You responded eagerly, feeling yourself melt into him, losing yourself. His lips, surprisingly soft and gentle, moved in time with yours, and his breath hitched when your fingers traced the lines of his jaw. There was a sweetness to his inexperience, a hesitancy that made your heart swell. It felt innocent, pure, and you couldn’t help but be drawn in even more by the way his hands tightened slightly at your waist, anchoring you to him beneath the willow’s cascading branches.

The world seemed to fade away, the only sound the soft rustling of leaves and the quiet, shared breaths between the two of you. He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, and a soft gasp escaped you as the intensity grew. There was something impossibly addictive about the way he kissed you—clumsy yet deliberate.

But then, the guilt struck.

Like a sudden, icy wave, the reality of it all crashed over you. You were lying to him—deceiving him with a false name and a false identity, all while he kissed you so earnestly, so honestly. He didn’t know who you truly were, didn’t know that the girl he thought was just a mere palace worker was actually the princess of this very land.

You broke away, breathless and shaken, your heart thudding loudly in your chest. “I— I’m sorry,” you stammered, forcing yourself to pull back from his embrace, ignoring the bewildered look that flashed across his face. “I— I have to go.”

“Go?” he echoed, brows drawing together in confusion. “But—”

“I just remembered, I have… something to attend to.” The excuse tumbled from your lips as you stood, weak and unconvincing even to your own ears, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him properly. Couldn’t bear to see the confusion, the hurt that might start to form as he tried to piece together why you were suddenly pulling away.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice slow, as if trying to make sense of the sudden change. “I had presumed you were comfortable.”

“I was. I mean, I am!” You stumbled over your words, taking a step back and placing a shaky hand against your forehead. “But I just— I need some time to think.”

Tech tilted his head, eyes narrowing in that analytical way of his. “Have I misstepped?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral, but the underlying uncertainty made your chest tighten. “If I have done something to make you uncomfortable, you need only inform me, and I shall correct it.”

“No, no, it’s not you,” you interrupted hastily, guilt twisting deeper inside you. “You’ve been… perfect, Tech. Really. It’s just… me.”

As you go to retreat, his voice stops you one more time: “Wait.”

You froze mid-step, eyes widening as he suddenly pushed himself to his feet. The abrupt movement caught you off guard as he had never once stood up when you were around, always preferring to remain seated.

Now, seeing him like this—standing, back straight and shoulders squared—you truly took in the stranger you’d been growing so fond of these past few days.

He was tall, no denying that. noticed was his height as he towered over you, lean and built in a way that spoke of quiet strength. “Are you,” His brow furrowed, mouth twisting into a slight frown as he searched for the right words. “Are you going to return later? Or perhaps… tomorrow?”

You blinked up at him, still processing the sight of him standing there “I…” You hesitated, the lie teetering on your lips, but it felt almost impossible to say it now, not when he was looking at you with those clear, curious eyes. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly.

A flicker of confusion passed over his face, and his head tilted ever so slightly. “Why not?” he asked, straightforward as ever, without any hint of reproach or accusation—just a genuine desire to understand. “Have I done something wrong? If there was an error in my conduct—”

“No, Tech,” you interjected, shaking your head vigorously. “It’s not that. It’s not you.” You repeat. “I’ve just—” Your voice faltered as you struggled to find the right words.

You looked up at him again, properly taking in every detail of his face. The way his lips were slightly parted in thought, the sharp line of his jaw, the soft brown of his eyes, which were surprisingly gentle despite their constant, calculating focus.

“I’ve just been dishonest,” you finally confessed, the words spilling out before you could stop them. His brows furrowed further, confusion deepening.

“Dishonest?” he echoed, voice almost clipped, like he was analysing the word itself. “In what capacity?”

Your heart ached. There was no way you could tell him the full truth—not now, not after everything. “I… I can’t really explain right now.” You took a shaky breath, feeling the familiar pressure of tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

For the first time, a flash of something like concern crossed his features, and he took a tentative step closer, his gloved hand lifting as if to reach out to you but then faltering, dropping back to his side. “Then when will you be able to explain?” he asked softly. “I would like to understand.”

His sincerity made your chest tighten painfully. You bit your lip, willing yourself to keep it together. “I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I— I have to go.”

You turned away before he could respond, afraid of what you might see if you looked back—afraid of the confusion, the hurt, or worse, the acceptance that you were walking away from him for good.

But you hadn’t even taken two steps when his voice called out again, halting you in your tracks. “You will return, correct?”

It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement of fact, as if he couldn’t conceive of an outcome where you wouldn’t. He stood there, looking almost vulnerable in his rigid stance, the datapad long forgotten at his feet.

Your mouth opened and closed, the lie so easy, so simple, yet your heart rebelled against it. “Yes,” you breathed out, hating yourself for it. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The words were a bitter promise on your tongue, and you forced yourself to keep moving before you could take them back. You didn’t dare look back, even as you felt the weight of his gaze lingering on you.

Tech stayed where he was, feet firmly planted on the ground as he processed your departure. But he didn’t call after you again. Instead, he remained still, watching you leave, the ghost of your warm kiss still lingering on his lips.

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“Are you feeling well, Your Majesty? You have been awfully quiet this morning.”

The voice of your handmaiden gently pulled you from your wandering thoughts. You gasped softly as she tightened your corset, the constricting garment pulling you uncomfortably upright. “I’m fine, just a little queasy, is all,” you replied half-heartedly.

In the mirror, you caught her frown, concern evident as your eyes met. “Would you like me to fetch the Royal Doctor?”

“No, no,” you answered quickly with a short, forced laugh. “That won’t be necessary. I am fine.” But truthfully, you were anything but fine.

For days, you had avoided seeing Tech, despite telling him you would. Guilt gnawed at you, eating away at every moment you spent replaying your last encounter. Kissing him and running away without an explanation had been cowardly, and you knew it. But you couldn’t face him—couldn’t face the confusion or possible disappointment that would come after your revelation.

Everything with Tech was new, unfamiliar but exciting. He made you feel things you never had before, things that made you want to escape from the world you’d always known. But you lied, and now the consequences of that deception were about to catch up to you.

The clones were coming. The same group Tech had mentioned, sent to assess the palace’s security. You had been informed by your advisors the night before at dinner that almost had you choking on your desert

How would he react? What would you even say to him? You’d barely slept, tossing and turning in the night, your thoughts spinning uncontrollably. To which, another handmaiden had discreetly suggested extra concealer that morning, noting the dark circles under your eyes.

You sighed softly as you clipped in a pair of jewel-encrusted earrings, slipping on an array of rings that glinted in the sunlight streaming through the curtains. Your fingers lightly touched your painted lips, the memory of his kiss still lingering.

The gown you wore was one of your more extravagant ones, designed to impress and restrict your breathing and you adorn a tiara to your head, setting it straight with slightly shaken hands.

“Have you been in the gardens lately, ma’am?” your handmaiden asked as she picked up one of your simpler dresses, the one you had worn during your secret outings. The fabric was stained with grass and dirt.

“Oh… yes, I apologise,” you muttered, glancing at the dress. “It might be tough to get that out.”

Your handmaiden, thankfully, said nothing more, simply nodding and continuing with her work. But your thoughts remained tangled. You had been careless.

Before you knew it, the time had come. Tech and his squad were arriving soon, and you were expected to greet them. Your heart pounded in your chest as you descended the grand staircase, each step feeling heavier than the last. Your gaze remained firmly planted on the polished marble floor, unwilling to look up.

The squad had already arrived by the time you reached the grand hall. They were being formally greeted by the palace guards and your advisors, who stood in a stiff line, watching the group with hawkish eyes. Your steps faltered, but you pressed on, shoulders square, as one of your advisors stepped forward and introduced you to them.

“Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal,” your advisor’s voice rang out, the weight of your title hanging in the air as they spoke your name.

Finally, you lifted your gaze, and your eyes locked immediately with Tech’s.

He stiffened, almost dropping his helmet that he had tucked under his arm. His usually calculating expression narrows into something unreadable. His intense gaze bore into you, unblinking, analysing. He looked… almost surprised, but the emotion flickered so quickly across his face you couldn’t be sure.

“This is interesting,” Tech said aloud and to your advisors and guards, out of turn.

Hunter gave Tech a sharp look, clearly catching the undercurrent in his tone. But it wasn’t just Hunter’s attention that had been caught—your advisors were staring at you now, suspicion quickly creeping into their eyes. “What do you mean by that?” one of them demanded, their voice tight with irritation.

You could feel the panic rising in your chest, your pulse quickening as words become stuck in your throat. Your advisors were already displeased, and now Tech’s cryptic statement had put you directly in the spotlight. You swallowed hard as all eyes turned to you.

“We’ve met before,” Tech said plainly before you could come up with a lie, a bad habit you find yourself repeating.

A ripple of surprise passed through the gathered group, as well as an odd glance between the rest of his squad between one another.

Your advisors exchanged sharp, incredulous looks. “You’ve… met before?” one of them asked, their tone laced with disapproval as they now look to you. “Where?”

“By the Willow Tree,” you admitted quietly. It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room as you said it as steam almost blew out of their ears.

“What were you doing there?” another advisor snapped, their gaze narrowing with judgment. “Meeting with strangers outside the palace grounds? You could have put yourself in danger!”

The blame was quick, sharp, and unyielding, and you shrank beneath the weight of their accusations.

But before things could escalate further, Hunter stepped forward, raising a hand. “We weren’t aware that Tech had already met the Princess,” he said evenly, his voice calm and authoritative as he looks to you with a kind gaze and then to the ones reprimanding you, “But there was no harm intended. I can assure you of that.”

His words seemed to take some of the heat out of the situation, but the tension still lingered. Time stretched on, and as much as you wanted to say something, anything, to diffuse the situation further, you couldn’t bring yourself to speak.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you managed to murmur, “Excuse me,” before turning and walking away, the pressure of the room suffocating.

And as you moved swiftly down the palace corridors toward the library, you risked a glance back at the clones. Your heart stops when you spot that his gaze was the only one that lingered. Your eyes silently pleaded with him for understanding, for forgiveness. But he turned away, leaving you alone with the ache of unspoken words. It was going to be a long, unbearable day.

Hours passed, the sun slowly going down, and yet you could not shake the need to speak with him. There had been moments, small chances when you crossed paths in the palace, but each time either your royal duties or his own tasks pulled you apart. Once, you almost approached him in the hallway, but one of your advisors immediately demanded your attention. Another time, Tech had been speaking with Hunter, and just as you gathered the courage to interrupt, Crosshair called him away.

It wasn’t until evening, as the clones prepared to head back to their ship, that you finally found your opportunity.

You were on your balcony, watching as the squad began walking towards the landing pad, their silhouettes growing smaller in the fading twilight. And then, without thinking, you called out his name. "Tech!"

Wrecker and Crosshair turned first, exchanging amused glances. Crosshair smirked. "Looks like you’ve got company, Tech."

Wrecker chuckled deeply. "Don’t keep her waiting!" he boomed, nudging Tech forward.

Hunter gave Tech a pointed look. "Don’t be long."

Tech blinked, adjusting his goggles, as though processing the sudden turn of events. He glanced up at your balcony, then back at his brothers. "How am I supposed to get back inside after the guards have secured the palace?" he asked.

Crosshair rolled his eyes, while Wrecker stifled another laugh. "I’m sure you’ll figure it out," Hunter said, his tone suggesting there was no real problem to be solved.

Tech looked up again, spotting a set of vines climbing up the side of the palace wall. You saw him eye them thoughtfully before he gave a small nod to himself. In one smooth motion, he started climbing.

You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Heat rose to your cheeks as you watched him ascend, the scene very familiar from the pages of a romance novel you had read far too many times. By the time he reached your balcony, your face was flushed, and your heart was racing.

When he finally stood in front of you, his expression was as composed as ever, though there was a hint of curiosity in his eyes. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Your words tangled in your throat, your heart pounding as you tried to find the right thing to say whilst twiddling your thumbs

Tech however broke the silence. "Should I bow or kneel before you, now that I know who you are?" he asked, his tone serious but laced with dry humour.

The question took you by surprise, and before you could stop yourself, you let out a soft laugh, rolling your eyes. "I feel that if you knew who I was before, you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Tech adjusted his goggles again, his head tilting slightly as he considered your response. "You may be right."

You smiled, though the weight of your earlier deceit still lingered between you. "Tech, I’m sorry for lying," you began, turning toward the edge of the balcony and leaning against the railing. You stared out at the sprawling palace gardens in bloom. "I didn’t mean to deceive you."

He stood beside you, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze analytical as ever. "I’m uncertain why you felt the need to lie in the first place."

You sighed, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the stone railing. "At first, I didn’t. It just happened. When I saw that you didn’t recognise me, it felt… perfect. For once, I didn’t have to hide behind a title or a mask. I could just be myself."

Tech was silent for a moment, processing your words. His eyes drifted over the gardens before returning to you. "I see. You valued anonymity."

You nodded, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. "It was freeing, in a way. But now… I feel like I’ve ruined everything by not telling you sooner."

He adjusted his goggles again, a familiar gesture you had come to associate with his thoughtfulness. "I don’t believe the delay in revealing your identity changes the nature of our interactions. You were still ‘yourself,’ as you put it, regardless of what title you carry."

You turn to him, surprised by the ease with which he accepted your explanation. There was no judgment in his tone, no reproach—just the simple, matter-of-fact logic that was so quintessentially him.

"I appreciate that, Tech," you said softly, feeling the tension in your chest begin to ease. But there was still a heaviness lingering. "It’s just that… with you heading back to your ship and what we…” you trailed off, unsure whether or not to address the kiss you both shared but after weighing it up, you decided not to. For now. “Well, I will miss the company. Greatly.”

"I see no reason why we cannot continue conversing, if that is what you desire. Your title changes nothing in that regard." He states, stepping closer to you.

You smile but it’s weak. To him, it was all so straightforward. But to you, it was far more complicated.

"Maybe," you murmured, though a part of you knew that your advisors would be very much against you keeping contact with him; and it’s not like you had a commlink at hand either.

You stood there for a long while in silence, watching the last of the evening light fade from the sky. It was peaceful, but at the same time, you could feel something unspoken hanging in the air between you.

“Can I ask you a question?” Tech’s voice broke the stillness.

You turned to him, nodding. “Of course.”

“Why do you allow your advisors to speak to you that way?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly behind his goggles. “They are not exactly the friendliest people I have come across. I thought you would have more authority being royal.”

His words hit you like a stone in the chest. He was right—completely right. You had never really thought about it before, not in such blunt terms, anyway.

It was just the way things were, the way you had been raised. You had no family to lean on, nobody close to guide you through the tasks of royal duties. All you had were your advisors, and over time, they had come to control much of your life. You didn’t feel like royalty; you felt more like a figurehead, a pawn they could move as they pleased.

Your silence was enough of an answer for him. Tech’s gaze softened slightly as he realised he may have hit a nerve. “I apologise if I’ve upset you,” he said, his voice quieter.

You shrugged, brushing it off with a small smile. “It’s fine, you’re right. I don’t know why I let them.” The admission felt heavier than you expected, like a truth you had been avoiding for too long.

Tech didn’t push further. He simply nodded, and for a moment, you were grateful for his straightforwardness. He wasn’t the type to overanalyse emotions or linger on feelings. He just saw things as they were, with clarity and logic.

For a while, the two of you spoke about lighter things—small talk about the palace, the gardens, and the clones' mission. But as the conversation meandered, you both became aware that time was slipping away.

“I should be going,” Tech finally said, glancing down at his wrist device. “I have some tasks to complete before we leave tomorrow.”

Your chest tightened at the thought of him leaving. You tried to hide it, forcing yourself to smile as though it didn’t bother you. But before he could turn to leave, you reached out, your hand finding his. The gesture was sudden, and you felt a wave of heat rush to your face. His skin was warm beneath your touch, and you could see the brief flash of surprise in his eyes as he looked down at your intertwined hands.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “For the time we shared by the willow tree… for everything.”

Tech blinked, clearly flustered by the contact. He opened his mouth to respond but quickly fell into one of his usual rambling explanations. “Well, it wasn’t entirely a planned event, but I suppose I could say it was… pleasant, or at least an efficient use of—”

You smiled and gently pulled him toward you, cutting off his words with a kiss. It was softer than before, but deeper, more certain. His hands instinctively moved to your waist, holding you close, and for a moment, neither of you wanted to pull away.

When you finally did, your breath was shaky, but your resolve had never been stronger. You looked up at him, your eyes searching his as a wave of determination washed over you. “Take me with you,” you whispered.

Tech blinked, visibly caught off guard. “Take you with me? To the ship?”

“To the stars,” you corrected, your voice filled with a yearning you had never felt so deeply before. “I want to see them. With you.”

He frowned, clearly uncertain. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Your advisors—”

“I don’t care about them,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “I just want to go. For once in my life, I want to see what’s out there. And I trust you.”

Tech hesitated, his mind undoubtedly running through all the potential consequences. But there was something in your eyes, something raw and sincere, that seemed to sway him. His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his expression softening as he looked at you.

“If you’re certain,” he smiles.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,”

✼　 ҉ 　✼　 ҉ ✼ ҉ ✼　 ҉ ✼

Reblog to support writers and artists 💛

♔ Part One Tech - By the Willow

♔ Part Two Crosshair - Stranger, Saviour

♔ Part Three Echo - When Stars Collide (WIP)

♔ Part Four Fives - Masquerade (WIP)

♔ Part Five Hunter - Sparks of Nobility (WIP)

♔ Part Six Wrecker - Speeding Into Love (WIP)

♔ More Clones to Follow…

Tags and those I think may be interested 🩵: @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet t @dangraccoon n @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets s @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @lamiliani @tentakelspektakel @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia a @thesith h @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @imalovernotahater @sithstrings @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @yunggoblin @photogirl894 @the-bad-batch-baroness @lulalovez @vodika-vibes @seaofsunberries @99tech99

[madhattervanessa]

Arctic Fox

(GIF Credit goes to @bastardcompany; original post here)

-

Summary: After a successful mission, you make John work for it.

Warnings: Banter, teasing an old man lmao, rough sex, sex in the snow, a little bit of dirty talk?, tiny bit of begging and mocking, a bit of praise, spitting, some other kinky stuff that I probably forgot, idk.

Words: 2096

A/N: Look, I had those gifs in my drafts bc I had an idea and today the brain worms finally spoke to me, aka, I got a minor (read, major) caffeeine high and wrote all of this in about 2 hrs. Don't ask.

Not edited yet

Masterlist - Mobile Masterlist

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It’s cold.

Freezing, actually. His breath billows as he pushes the door open again. He sighs and rolls his head until his neck creaks.

The snow is not falling anymore on his way out of the small cabin. But there is still something frigid in the air and the threat of what looms in the dark forest around him lies heavy in the air.

Nonetheless, Price steps outside of the cabin and makes his way towards the rock wall in the distance. He can already see that you aren’t there.

“Fox, come in, over.”

Silence meets him on the radio. He sighs and keeps trudging forward, until he can turn his back towards the face of the rocks.

As he takes another look around, he spots footprints in the snow. The radio connection crackles back to life in his ear.

“Got you in my sights, Captain.”

He finds comfort in your voice, that deep, almost raspy quality of it, all smoke, but the way you stomp on the radio communication rules as soon as the job is done still irks him.

“Wanna play a game?”

He lets his eyes trail over the tree line, cradling the front of his gun as he lets the words roll through his mind. 

“A game, huh?”

“Extraction is running behind. We have almost an hour until pickup.”

He sighs and squints as he scans the tree line.

“Right, then, hurry up and tell me all about it, darl.”

“So grumpy.”  You let a sigh sound through the radio and he hears the telltale creak of a branch as you keep the channel open for him to hear. “I’m close to the pickup point- Come find me.”

He is already moving, making sure to keep the footprints on the ground close as he carefully scans the treeline. Pickup is a mile away.

He is already calculating in his mind, thinking back to the brief, where you had to be to keep him in sight even now. He turns, adjusting his path to lead him deeper into the underbrush.

“What are you thinking about?”

 He huffs and adjusts his vest as he treks through the snow.

“Might have to drill some better radio etiquette into you, Sergeant.” 

Your laugh is a little breathless. More cracking and rustling sounds follow in the background.

“That a promise, Captain?”

The way you purr his title is making his cock chub up, every time. It’s why you are barely allowed in the pre-mission meetings anymore.

It’s a good thing you are on irregular rotation for the squad, only jumping in when Ghost isn’t available.

“See, I think you like having a reason to order me into your office to drill some discipline into me.”

The comment makes him smile despite himself. 

“Shame such an experienced officer needs it.”

“You know I don’t. I just like you pretending to be all gruff and diligent. Good little soldier that you are.”

“Trying to distract me won’t work, love.”

“I’m not even close to trying to distract you, John.”

This time, he can hear what you are doing outside of the channel.

The telltale sound of feet hitting the ground.

Your equipment is lighter than his by trade. But that doesn’t mean he can’t outpace you.

“Making a run for it, already?”

“Gotta make you work for it.”

He holds his gun closer to his chest and gets ready to quicken his pace, adjusting the angle of his route a little to catch you.

“You’re being cruel to an old man.”

“That’s what you like about me.”

You’re right. It’s that cocksure attitude, backed by all that skill, that had first made him glare at you. The sheer audacity.

“And I’m being nice. Giving up on seeing you climb into a tree is really fucking decent of me.”

“So merciful. Keep running, darl, if you want to give me a challenge.”

He can feel his face heating up as he falls into a pace just shy of a jog.

He can hear you. The shift of the velcro vest, the tight cargo pants you favor that are most definitely not regulation. The crack of a branch gives you away.

When he can finally see you, he puffs out a final breath and breaks into a sprint. He can see the zig-zag coming before you do it. He drops his gun before he charges, tackling you to the ground.

You laugh as you go down in his arms, full of glee, even as your knees take the brunt of your collision. It knocks the wind out of the both of you.

“Fuck, love.”

You keep wriggling underneath him while he grabs one of your wrists to pin it to the ground. He groans when you push your ass back against him, rubbing up against his hard cock, straining against his pants.

“Get your pants off. We don’t have time for this.”

“Not my fault-,” you gasp, turning to press your cheek into the snow. You push your arm underneath yourself to fiddle with your pants. He opens his in a quick, practiced motion and spits into his hand to stroke himself as you struggle to tug your pants down.

“John-”, you whine, wriggling against him.

He just tuts at you. The slick sounds behind you are driving you crazy, the knowledge that he could be inside of you already.

“Gotta earn it. Come on. Can’t even undress, love?”

You make a ragged sound and rut up against him, using him to tug your pants over the tantalizing curve of your ass.

He’s already panting. The moment you drag your underwear down enough for your pussy to glint at him, he groans. He presses a hand to your neck, pinning you down as he moves in closer. He cages your legs between his until your knees knock together. When he drags his hand back down to your ass, he crudely gropes at it until your pussy parts a little with it, too.

He uses his thumb to trace over your pussy, dipping it inside until he is knuckle deep.

You hiss in response. The cold snow your cheek is pressed into is forgotten as he plays with you. Then, a hot glob of spit splashes against your pussy.

“Say it,” he groans, before spreading his spit against the lips of your pussy. He pushes his thumb inside this time, shallowly fucking it into you.

“Need you to fuck me.” You gasp as he slaps the tip of his cock against your pussy. The wet sound seems to echo through the forest. “Please, John, please-” your words are yet again cut off by the squelching sound of the tip of his cock pushing in between your pussy lips, the fat head of his cock splitting them apart.

You gasp into the snow and furrow your brows as he shallowly rocks it back and forth, letting you feel every detail of it: The ridge of it catches against your hole as he rocks back, the way it glides in smoothly, without the slightest hint of resistance, when he rocks forward. You keep perfectly still, all of your senses focused on the feeling of him. When he lets go of your wrist, you keep it right where he had put it. He spreads your ass cheeks open and it’s like you can feel his eyes on you, staring at your pussy with that look that makes you want to bite him.

“Good girl.”

As soon as he pushes balls deep inside of you, you melt. He curls over you, crushing the magazines stuck into his vest against your back in favor of grinding his cock as deep as he can.

Without the adrenaline, it would have hurt, and you were guaranteed to be sore after, but in the moment there was nothing better than feeling him battering into your cunt like you had personally offended him.

You reach back to grab his neck. As your fingertips reach to grasp his hair, his hat falls to the ground next to you. You push yourself up on one arm, your other hand tightly gripping his hair as you moan, your breath coming out in little clouds of warmth into the cold air.

He wraps an arm around your waist and buries his nose in the skin underneath your ear.

“Feel so fucking good, love,” he growls. The only answer you manage is a breathless gasp. “Can feel you creaming on me, already.” He is panting now, too, keeping his thrusts deep and hard in a way that would make your headboard slam against the wall back home. But now there’s nothing but you taking all of the brute force he uses to fuck you. He is just about to praise you again, when his comm crackles to life on another channel.

“Extraction in 10, over. Do you copy?”

You bite down hard on your lip when he reaches up to answer.

“Copy”, he grumbles back. He makes sure you hear him click off again. When he leans back down over you, he bites at the shell of your ear, tasting metal as he sucks on your lobe. “Need you to touch yourself, love.”

You gasp, trying to process his words as he keeps pounding into you. He grabs your hand for you, pushing your fingertips into his mouth. He crudely coats them in his spit, pressing a little kiss to your fingertips before pushing them to press against your clit.

“'m not leaving until I feel you come on my cock. Don’t care if the whole squad comes to watch.”

The low growl crawls over your spine with a delicious spike of heat. You quickly start to rub firm circles into your clit. His breath is hot against your ear, rutting into you with a precision that keeps you on the verge of tears.

It takes barely any time at all for you to cum.

Price curses into your ear and presses his hand over yours on your clit, dragging your orgasm out forcefully as he keeps fucking into you.

You yelp when he presses you back down, flattening you against the ground as he grunts. Your ass audibly slaps against his stomach and he praises your perfect fucking cunt under his breath, before he cums.

You can feel him twitching inside of you as he fills you, slamming into you those last few times, before he collapses on top of you.

You’re both panting- your nipples feel sore from rubbing against your shirt and your legs are shaking as your pussy finally gets a break from the overstimulation. Sweat is making the back of your shirt cling to your back.

“Fuck,” you sigh, a smile already widening your cheeks. He grunts in agreement and presses a lingering kiss to the nape of your neck. “Gotta get off of me John, or we’ll be late.”

He groans but gets moving nonetheless. As soon as he has sat back on his haunches, you move to do the same. You’re still shaking but manage to pull your underwear back up. John rucks up your cargo pants over your thighs for you. You start fixing your hair and rubbing snow from your face as he buttons your pants. He presses another kiss to your temple before tightening your belt for you.

As you start to get up, he takes a quick glance at his watch.

“Fuck, gotta hurry,” he grunts. You faintly hear the clink of his belt before he gets up to his feet.

He quickly traces his last few steps to find his gun and strap it back to his chest. He can hear you fumbling with your own pack behind himself.

When he turns, he manages to catch you still trying to get yourself back together, rubbing at your rosy cheeks before you give up and instead just tug your scarf over your mouth and nose.

When you catch him looking, the corners of your eyes crinkle a little.

“What?”

“Come on, let’s go.”

He tugs you closer by your elbow and leans down to press his mouth close to your ear as soon as you bump against his chest. “You’re getting it soft as soon as we’re home.”

“Mh, understood, Captain,” you quip back before starting to walk off towards the pick up location. He sighs and shakes his head as he watches you take off. He picks up his boonie hat from the ground with a grunt and pushes it back on top of his head before rushing to catch up with you again.

-

Thanks for reading!

Requests are open and always appreciated

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter 5.1 | This Must Be The Place

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC) Word Count: 23.9k Requested: No | Yes Warnings: Mild language, sexual content, recreational drug use, intense emotional realizations, that moment when you know there's no going back, and two people fighting against what's becoming increasingly undeniable

A Few Quick Notes: 📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it's been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing. 📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 📌 Requests: Open

Author's Note: There are moments that divide your life into "before" and "after." Moments that change the trajectory of everything that follows.

This chapter is all about that turning point. The slow realization that this isn't just a weekend fling. That connection—the kind that hits like a train and leaves you questioning everything you thought you knew about yourself.

For Joe, whose entire life has been defined by careful planning and deliberate choices, it's about recognizing that sometimes the most important things in life are the ones you never saw coming. It's about standing in a space that feels more like home than the place he's lived for years, and confronting what that might mean.

For Riley, who embraces spontaneity and lives in vibrant color, it's something else entirely. It's about the surprising vulnerability of actually caring what someone thinks—of wanting Joe to see and appreciate the world she's built. It's the unfamiliar feeling of wanting someone to stay, when she's always been comfortable with people passing through her life.

They're opposites in so many ways: his measured calculation against her joyful chaos; his carefully constructed world against her authentic, lived-in one. Neither of them came looking for this collision of worlds. Neither expected how perfectly these differences would complement each other, creating something neither has experienced before.

This chapter explores that pivotal moment when two people from completely different worlds suddenly find themselves standing on common ground—that exhilarating, terrifying space where you realize you're falling, and it's too late to stop.

I hope you feel every tremor, every aftershock, every moment of recognition as these two realize that whatever is happening between them, it's bigger than either of them anticipated.

Your comments on the last chapter absolutely blew me away. I can't wait to hear what you think of this one. 💜✨

Happy reading! It's a long one.💛🏈

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508

Joe's stomach tightened as the plane began its descent into Louis Armstrong International Airport. He gazed out the window, watching the Mississippi River snake through the city, its muddy waters glinting in the late afternoon sun. A restless energy thrummed in his chest, unfamiliar and irritating. He didn't get nervous before playoff games—so why did the thought of seeing Riley again have him checking his phone every five minutes?

As the driver pulled away from the airport, Joe took in the city's transformation. Mardi Gras had claimed every surface—purple, green, and gold banners draped from balconies, beads dangled from tree branches, and storefronts glowed with festive lights.

"You picked quite a time to visit," the driver commented, maneuvering around a barricade.

Joe smirked. "Yeah. I came down a few times in college, but it's been a while."

Back then, New Orleans had been a blur—teammates, booze, Bourbon Street, bad decisions. A weekend of chaos, gone by Monday. This already felt different.

By the time they reached his hotel in the Quarter, Joe understood why his agent had pulled strings to get him a room here. The streets were packed with people staking out spots along the parade route, the city already pulsing with energy.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the car and saw the historic mansion-style hotel—balconies wrapped in twinkling lights, right in the thick of it—that it hit him.

His assistant had booked the Quarter.

Joe exhaled slowly, rubbing his jaw. He'd told Mark and Bill he wasn't staying anywhere this public, wasn't taking that risk. He could already hear their reactions in his head.

Not a smart move, man. Too many cameras. Too much chaos.

He could've called, had her switch him to a quieter spot Uptown. But instead, he just grabbed his bag and walked inside.

Maybe he was being reckless. Maybe a small part of him liked that.

The manager greeted him with a broad smile, all Southern charm and warm hospitality.

"Mr. Burrow, we're delighted to have you with us," he said knowingly. "We've upgraded you to our finest suite—balcony overlooking the parade route."

Joe accepted the ornate key with a nod. "Appreciate that."

The manager lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Between us, we're booked solid. But when we heard you were coming…" He shrugged. "We made it work."

Joe huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Yeah, I bet you did.

Upstairs, he stepped onto the balcony, inhaling the thick, sweet air. The hum of a streetcar rumbled in the distance, the faint strains of brass instruments floating up from somewhere nearby. The scent of powdered sugar and fried dough curled through the breeze.

He pulled out his phone.

Joe QB: Just landed. City looks wild.

Her response came almost immediately.

Riley: Wait till you see it with me. Still good for dinner tonight?

Joe QB: Absolutely. Can't wait to see you.

Riley: Rest up. You'll need your energy for this weekend!

Joe smirked, fingers hovering over the keyboard before he typed again.

Joe QB: Forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. You okay with eating at my hotel? The restaurant here looks solid.

Riley: Yeah, it's pretty crazy out right now. I've been out all day and just got home—something quieter sounds perfect.

Joe exhaled, relieved. She got it without him having to explain. Another thing about her that just fit.

Riley paced her small back porch, her fingers trailing along the worn wooden railing. She’d spent the morning out with friends, then had lunch with Egan and Marcus at their spot in the Bywater—a proper New Orleans day before the full-on Carnival chaos set in. Now, finally home, she had time to breathe. To think.

The afternoon air held that particular New Orleans quality—humid and heavy with the scent of magnolias and something sweet from the corner store down the street. Her wind chimes, a gift from her mom, tinkled softly in the light breeze, nearly drowned out by the distant sounds of Carnival—brass bands tuning up, voices calling back and forth, the occasional burst of laughter from neighbors already deep in the spirit of the season.

Joe was coming. Today.

After weeks—no, just a couple of weeks—of texts and late-night calls that had quickly become the best part of her day, he was actually going to be here. In her city. In her world.

She exhaled, trying to shake off the restless energy buzzing under her skin.

THE DOLLS 👯‍♀️🍷

Laura: So lover boy lands today, huh?

Riley rolled her eyes, though there was no one to see it.

Riley: Shut up.

Haley: You’re nervous. I can feel it from here.

Riley: I’m not nervous. It’s just dinner.

Laura: Sure, sure. Just dinner with the guy you’ve been talking to every night for like two and a half weeks. The guy who cleared his schedule to come see you during Mardi Gras, no less—when the city is packed. Totally casual.

Haley: I need details. What are you wearing?

Riley: I hate both of you. I’ll send you pics later.

Laura: Love you too. Call us tomorrow with ALL the details.

Haley: And I mean ALL of them 👀

Riley set her phone down, shaking her head. They weren’t wrong.

She was nervous—which was ridiculous.

Riley Carter didn’t get nervous about men.

She’d been on stage in front of thousands, done live TV performances without breaking a sweat. But something about Joe Burrow made her feel off-balance in a way she wasn’t used to.

She tried to focus on work, flipping through pages of song lyrics for their new album. She should be working—there were still lyrics to refine, melodies to play with. But her mind kept drifting.

Would dinner be awkward after all this time talking but not seeing each other? Would the chemistry they’d felt in New York still be there?

She glanced at the notebook beside her, pages filled with scribbled phrases, half-finished verses. She wasn’t writing about him. Not directly. But maybe, in the margins of late-night thoughts, in the quiet lines she hadn’t shared yet, he was there anyway.

By the time evening arrived, Riley had changed outfits three times before finally settling on a vintage-inspired black dress with a dramatic slit up one side. The cinched belt at her waist added just enough structure, while the fringed shawl draped over her shoulders softened the look. She layered on gold necklaces that caught the light when she moved, the perfect touch of bohemian flair.

As she slid the vintage dress over her head, Riley felt the familiar calm settle over her. This was her element—creating a first impression, a visual story. The nervousness from earlier faded with each deliberate choice, replaced by the quiet certainty that had carried her through a hundred performances.

With each discarded outfit and final selection, Riley felt herself shift from the woman who'd been pacing her porch to the one who commanded stages. Dressing had always been her armor, her ritual, her way back to herself.

She snapped a quick mirror selfie and sent it to THE DOLLS  group chat.

Riley: Final verdict?

Laura: Holy. Shit.

Haley: 10/10. You look insane.

Laura: He’s gonna lose his mind.

Riley smirked, tucking her phone away.

She pulled her hair into a loose updo, leaving a few tendrils framing her face. It was that perfect balance—effortless but intentional. Exactly what she wanted.

She had just swiped on the final touch of lipstick when her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB: Can’t wait to see you.

A slow warmth spread through her chest.

Of course, he couldn’t.

She smiled, tucking her phone into her small crossbody bag, then grabbed her keys and headed out.

Joe's hotel suite was spacious and elegant, with high ceilings, antique furnishings, and tall windows that overlooked the lively streets below. He'd ordered dinner from room service well in advance, arranging for it to be set up on a small table near the windows, complete with candles and a bottle of wine. If they weren't going out, he still wanted the night to feel special.

He'd spent more time than he'd ever admit choosing his outfit—finally landing on a black button-down with a subtle texture, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, paired with light-wash jeans. Clean, simple. Put-together without trying too hard. He wanted to look good for Riley but not like he was overthinking it.

He was nursing an Old Fashioned when a knock sounded at the door, and his pulse quickened. He'd spent the flight mentally preparing for this moment, reminding himself to play it cool—to not be as obviously affected by her as he'd been on Fallon. But all that preparation vanished the second he opened the door.

Riley stood in the hallway, and his breath caught.

Even after picturing this moment a dozen times, the sight of her still hit him like a perfect spiral to the chest.

She moved with easy confidence, her black dress dramatic yet effortless, the slit offering glimpses of long, toned legs as she walked. The fringed shawl draped around her shoulders gave her a bohemian flair that was uniquely Riley—a woman who didn't follow fashion rules but created her own. But it was her smile, warm and genuine, that had his mouth going dry.

"Hi," he said, his voice steady despite the effect she had on him.

Riley stepped in first, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his mouth, her hand resting briefly on his chest. "Hi yourself," she said, her voice warm. She glanced around the suite, taking in the details. "This place is gorgeous. Nice move with the room service."

Joe's eyes followed her as she moved further into the suite. "Glad you made it through that crowd out there," he said, stepping forward to pour her a glass of wine. His movements were deliberate, unhurried. "Red okay?"

Riley's smile widened. "Perfect. And it was worth braving the chaos to see you."

"You look amazing," he said, his tone appreciative but matter-of-fact as he handed her the glass.

"Thank you. I'm not even going to tell you how many outfits I tried on tonight, but I'm glad it was noticed."

Joe raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. "Worth every minute you spent on it."

A slight flush touched her cheeks, something that rarely happened to Riley Carter. She covered it with a quick smile, her eyes lingering on his for a moment before she gestured toward the elegantly set table by the window.

"I really do appreciate this, by the way," Riley said, gesturing toward the elegantly set table by the window. "Eating in. It's crazy out there tonight."

Joe nodded, moving toward the table himself. "I forgot how packed the city gets during Mardi Gras. Didn't want to risk dinner turning into a meet-and-greet."

Riley laughed, following him. "Yeah, nothing kills the vibe like someone asking you to sign their baby in the middle of a meal."

Joe smirked, pulling out her chair. "Has that happened to you?"

"Actually, yes," Riley admitted, settling into the seat he offered. "I was two drinks in and signed the poor kid's onesie before my manager could stop me. Mom was thrilled, though."

Joe let out a real laugh, shaking his head. "That's insane. Please tell me there's a picture."

Riley smirked, picking up her drink. "Somewhere out there, I'm sure there is. Probably framed in that kid's nursery."

Whatever lingering awkwardness melted as they settled into the easy rhythm they'd built over weeks of late-night calls and teasing texts.

The food was incredible—blackened redfish for him, shrimp and grits for her, and shared appetizers of boudin balls that reminded Joe of his LSU days. As they ate, Riley told him about her life in New Orleans—the house she'd renovated almost entirely by herself during COVID, how their recording sessions had moved to the city, her eccentric neighbor who practiced trumpet at odd hours but made up for it with homemade desserts.

"I love my neighborhood," she said with a laugh, eyes bright as she sipped her drink. "Especially during Carnival. The parades don't run through my street, but we're close enough to catch them on Magazine. And I'm taking you to Muses tomorrow night."

Joe's fork paused midway to his mouth. His expression shifted, Mark and Bill's warnings already echoing in his head.

"I wasn't really planning on hitting the parades," he admitted, setting his fork down. "The crowds, the visibility—"

"Which is exactly why I asked for your shirt size the other day," Riley cut in, eyes glinting with mischief. "I've got the perfect disguise planned. Trust me, no one's going to recognize Joe Burrow in the middle of Mardi Gras when I'm done with you."

Joe raised an eyebrow. "A disguise?"

"Oh, you're in for it. And the parade's worth it—huge floats, incredible energy, and the best part? It's an all-female krewe, so the throws are next-level. You have to catch a shoe."

"A shoe?"

"Hand-decorated high heels. It's a thing," she explained, grinning. "They're coveted."

Joe shook his head, amused. "My Mardi Gras experience is mostly a blur of Bourbon Street and bad decisions."

Riley smirked. "A couple of drunken college weekends?"

"Pretty much."

"Well, tomorrow you're getting the real experience," she promised. "And seriously, don't worry about being recognized—I've got you covered."

Joe exhaled, still uncertain. He'd always been careful about situations like this—anywhere with too many cameras, too many variables. It wasn't that he minded being seen with Riley, but the thought of losing control of the night, of getting caught up in something messy, had his guard up.

Still, when he looked at her, at the easy confidence in her smile, the anticipation in her voice, he found himself making a decision.

"Okay," he said finally, leaning back in his chair. "I trust you."

Riley's lips twitched. "You shouldn't," she teased.

As the meal progressed, Joe felt himself unwinding in a way he rarely did. Conversation flowed easily between them—her bandmates' antics in the studio, his superstitions in the locker room. She made him laugh, really laugh, and it struck him how much he'd missed that. How much he'd missed this—talking to someone who didn't expect anything from him beyond being himself.

Riley took a sip of her drink, then leaned in slightly. "I'm really happy you rearranged your schedule to come here. I know it was probably a headache. You must be booked solid even in the off-season."

Joe grinned, brushing it off. "I wanted to see you again."

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "That easy, huh?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. It was an easy choice."

She lifted an eyebrow, like she was waiting for him to elaborate.

Joe leaned back in his chair, gaze steady. "Doesn't matter how crazy things are—if I want something, I make time for it."

Something flickered in her expression—surprise, maybe. Or something softer.

"You haven't even been here a full day," Riley pointed out, her voice quieter now. "And during the craziest time of year, no less."

"Doesn't matter," Joe said simply. He held her gaze, unwavering. "Already worth it."

A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, and Joe felt a quiet satisfaction settle in his chest.

They lingered over dessert—warm bread pudding drizzled with bourbon sauce—but Joe found himself more interested in Riley than the food. The animated way she spoke with her hands, the slight crinkle at the corners of her eyes when she laughed, the thoughtful pause before she answered his more serious questions.

"What?" Riley asked, catching him staring.

"Nothing," Joe said, smiling. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how different you are from what people assume," he admitted.

Riley tilted her head, intrigued. "Different how?"

Joe hesitated. "In interviews and on stage, you're this larger-than-life personality. But when we're together, you're…"

"Less?" Riley suggested, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her tone.

Joe shook his head. “No. More. More real. More you.”

The tension in her shoulders eased.

"It's nice," she admitted. "Not having to be 'on.'"

Joe nodded. "Same."

He glanced toward the balcony doors. "Want to step outside? The view's pretty incredible."

Riley smiled. "I'd like that."

The balcony was small but perfect, with a wrought iron railing and an unobstructed view of the oak-lined street below. The scene was quintessential New Orleans—streetcars rumbling past, people strolling with go-cups in hand, the occasional burst of music drifting up from somewhere nearby. With Mardi Gras in full swing, the energy was heightened—revelers in costumes, masks and beads catching the light as they passed.

"This is gorgeous," Riley said, leaning against the railing while Joe poured them each a drink from the room's well-stocked bar.

“It is,” he agreed, handing her a glass of bourbon before joining her. “There’s just something about the architecture here. It’s different—has a kind of charm you don’t see in newer cities. These old houses have so much character.”

Riley took a sip, her gaze drifting across the historic homes. "Me too. When I bought my place, I could've gone for something brand new—modern, sleek, no history—but that just didn't feel like me. I wanted something with soul."

Joe studied her in the dim light, struck by how effortlessly she belonged here. She didn't just live in this city—she was part of it, woven into its rhythm.

"I can't wait for you to show me tomorrow," he said.

Riley turned to face him, warmth flickering in her expression. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She hesitated for just a moment, then seemed to make a decision. "Come back with me tonight."

Joe raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Not to stay—unless you want to. Or not. Whatever," she added quickly, suddenly flustered.

Joe chuckled, shaking his head. "That was impressively awkward."

"Yeah, well, you know what I meant," she huffed.

"I do," he said, still grinning. "And yeah, I'd like that."

They finished their drinks in easy silence, the hum of the city filling the spaces between them. When Riley set her empty glass on the small table, Joe knew she was ready to go.

"Let me grab my stuff," he said, stepping back inside.

While Joe packed, Riley arranged for a car. Ten minutes later, they were settled in the backseat of a sleek black sedan, the city lights blurring past the windows as they headed toward her neighborhood.

Joe glanced at her, noticing how she twisted the rings on her fingers. “Having second thoughts?”

Riley turned to him, moonlight casting soft shadows across her face. “No, just… wondering if this is your kind of scene.”

Joe shook his head, voice warm but firm. “Riley, I grew up in Athens, Ohio. Trust me, I’m not used to anything fancy.”

That earned him a real laugh, her shoulders relaxing. “Fair enough. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

When the car pulled up in front of a narrow shotgun house painted periwinkle with coral trim, Joe felt a rush of curiosity. The ornate woodwork along the porch, the tall windows framed by salmon-colored shutters, the intricate details that stood out even in the dim glow of the streetlights—it was unlike any place he’d ever been, but somehow, it suited Riley perfectly.

The wide front porch had a welcoming, lived-in feel, with wicker chairs, a porch swing, and potted plants spilling over their containers. A soft glow shone through lace-curtained windows, and the whole place had an effortless charm, like it had been here forever, belonging to the city as much as the city belonged to it.

“This is me,” Riley said as she thanked the driver, her voice light but laced with something vulnerable.

Joe followed, taking in the street around them. Lush gardens spilled onto sidewalks, and other shotgun houses—each painted in its own distinctive colors—stood proudly, their porches strung with Carnival lights or decorated with hanging ferns. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, and a couple across the way waved to Riley as they rocked on their porch swing, plastic cups in hand.

Joe glanced back at the house. “I love it.” And he meant it.

Riley smiled, pleased as she led him up the steps. “It’s a work in progress, but it’s mine.” 

When she opened the door, Joe stepped into another world entirely. The narrow shotgun layout revealed itself as he looked down the hallway that ran the length of the house, rooms connected directly to each other, but it was the décor that caught him by surprise.

The walls were painted a deep, rich emerald green that somehow made the small space feel larger, more enveloping rather than confined. A massive ornate gold mirror dominated one wall, reflecting the warm light from vintage lamps and string lights draped across the ceiling. Everywhere he looked, there were plants—hanging from macramé holders, perched on windowsills, sprawling across bookshelves. The furniture was a collection of vintage pieces that shouldn't have worked together but somehow did—a burgundy velvet sofa covered in patterned pillows, carved wooden tables that might have come from different continents, chairs that looked like they'd been rescued from elegant homes of another era.

For Mardi Gras, she'd added purple, green, and gold accents throughout—a garland draping over the mirror, a small Mardi Gras mask display on a shelf, and a bowl filled with vintage glass beads on the coffee table. It wasn't tacky or overdone, just enough to acknowledge the season in her own stylish way.

And yet, despite all the bold colors and eclectic details, the place didn't feel overwhelming. It felt warm. Lived-in. Familiar in a way that didn't make sense.

Joe had spent years living in spaces that never felt fully his—team hotels, his modern, almost impersonal apartment in Cincinnati, the house he'd just bought but hadn't had time to make his own, the home he grew up in that hadn't felt like home since he left for college. Places that held him, but never quite held onto him.

But standing here in Riley's home, something shifted inside him—a tectonic plate of emotion he hadn't known existed suddenly moving. It wasn't just that her space was beautiful or interesting. It was that every corner of it seemed to breathe with her presence, to tell her story without a single word being spoken. Nothing was there by accident. Nothing was just for show.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there."

The lyric surfaced in his mind with such clarity it was as if someone had spoken it aloud. This Must Be the Place. His dad used to play that song on Sunday mornings, vinyl crackling on the old turntable while pancakes sizzled on the stove. The song that had been playing in the background of his life's happiest, most ordinary moments—yet he hadn't thought about it in years.

Something tightened in his chest, a physical sensation to match the emotional realization washing over him. He took a deep breath, feeling strangely like he might cry, though he couldn't have explained why.

What really captured his attention was the art. Every wall was a carefully curated gallery of framed pieces—antique portraits, botanical illustrations, butterfly specimens under glass, and what looked like vintage medical drawings, all housed in ornate gold frames of different sizes and styles. The effect was both chaotic and harmonious, like walking into the home of an eccentric collector who had gathered treasures from across time and space.

"Wow," Joe said, unable to hide his genuine amazement, grateful for the chance to focus on something concrete rather than the tide of emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "This is… incredible."

Riley watched his reaction carefully, a hint of vulnerability in her posture. "It's a bit much for some people."

Joe wanted to tell her everything—that he just walked in and already felt more at home than in places he'd lived for years, that something in her careful curation of this space spoke to a part of him he'd been ignoring, that in just thirty seconds she'd managed to upend everything he thought he knew about himself and what he wanted.

But how did you say something like that without sounding unhinged? Instead, he let his eyes move over the space again, taking in the warmth, the layers of history, the unmistakable her in every detail.

"It's perfect," he said, turning to her with a smile that must have conveyed some fraction of what he was feeling, because her shoulders relaxed immediately. "It's so completely you."

And in that moment, though he couldn't have articulated it yet, something fundamental changed in him—as if entering her world had revealed a version of himself he hadn't known was possible.

"Tour?" Riley asked, gesturing down the hallway, unaware of the revelation still reverberating through him.

"Absolutely," Joe replied, his voice steadier than he felt.

She led him through the house—past the living room with its velvet sofa and record player in the corner, through a small dining area dominated by an antique table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Each room was another chapter of her story, and Joe found himself cataloging details he'd normally never notice—the worn spot on the arm of the sofa that spoke of hours spent reading there, the collection of vinyl records organized not alphabetically but in what must be some deeply personal system, the bowl of guitar picks on a side table.

Then they stepped into the kitchen, and something in Joe shifted again.

Unlike the dramatic dark walls of the living spaces, the kitchen was painted a soft sage green with open shelving displaying a collection of glassware and ceramics. A wooden dish rack sat beside the farmhouse sink beneath a window lined with small potted herbs and dried flowers hanging upside down. A linen curtain hung beneath the counter instead of cabinet doors, and an old wooden table with four simple chairs sat in the center of the room.

It wasn't just a kitchen—it was a sanctuary. The heart of this house that somehow already felt like it contained a piece of him.

His own kitchen in Cincinnati—sleek, modern, barely used—flashed through his mind. Takeout containers and protein shake bottles. A space designed for efficiency, not living. Not this... whatever this was that made his chest ache with a strange mixture of longing and recognition.

"This countertop was my one big splurge," Riley said, running a hand over the butcher block, oblivious to his internal earthquake. "Everything else I did myself, but I couldn't cheap out on this."

Joe leaned against the doorframe, steadying himself. "It's nice." An understatement. "I can see why you cook so much when you're here."

"Yeah," she shrugged, "after months on the road, I need a real kitchen."

He looked at her hands as they traced the grain of the wood—hands that wrote songs and played instruments, but also hands that had built this space from nothing. Hands that created home. The contrast with his own life—where other people arranged everything, where convenience trumped connection—felt suddenly, painfully stark.

"So, can we try cooking something in here tomorrow?" he asked, surprising himself with the question.

Riley smirked, crossing her arms. “You wanna help me?”

“Absolutely,” Joe said, stepping closer. “I don’t mind taking direction.”

"Is that right?" Riley's voice dipped slightly, a slow smile playing at her lips. "Then I guess we're cooking breakfast tomorrow. And by breakfast, I mean brunch, because I'm not getting up before nine."

"I'll adjust my schedule," Joe replied, expression serious, eyes teasing, while inside, a voice whispered that he'd adjust far more than his schedule for this woman if she asked.

The air shifted, the space between them shrinking, charged with something beyond mere attraction. It was recognition. Understanding. A terrifying sense of potential.

Riley took a step toward him, eliminating the distance between them. "I should probably tell you," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper, "I've been thinking about kissing you again since New York."

Joe's pulse quickened, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips. The honesty in her admission—the vulnerability of wanting something and simply saying so—struck him with unexpected force. His world was full of strategy, calculation, never showing your hand. Yet here she was, laying her cards on the table without hesitation.

"That so?" he managed.

"Mmm," Riley nodded, her hands sliding up to rest on his chest. "I've got a pretty good imagination, but I'm curious if the reality measures up."

Joe's grip tightened at her waist, pulling her closer. A lifetime of careful restraint, of measured responses, and yet with her, everything felt inevitable. "Yeah? Only one way to find out."

The first touch was electric, not just a physical spark but something deeper—as if kissing her was another form of coming home, of recognizing something essential. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her fully against him. Riley made a soft sound of approval, her hands sliding up to tangle in his hair as she deepened the kiss. She tasted like the bourbon they'd shared on his balcony, and something uniquely her that made his head swim.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder, Riley rested her forehead against his, a smile playing at her lips.

"I'd say the reality holds up pretty well," she murmured.

Joe laughed softly, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. What he wanted to say was that nothing in his imagination could have prepared him for this—not just the kiss, but this entire night, this feeling of stumbling into something that might alter the entire course of his carefully planned life.

"I'd have to agree," he said instead, the understatement of the century.

Riley stepped back, taking his hand and leading him toward the back of the house. "Come on, I want to show you my favorite spot."

He followed, like he suspected he might follow her anywhere now, this woman who had somehow, in the space of a single evening, made him question everything he thought he knew about what he wanted from life.

The back porch was as charming as the rest of the house—string lights crisscrossed overhead, providing a soft glow, and an outdoor loveseat faced a small yard where an ancient oak tree stood sentinel, its branches adorned with a few strands of Carnival beads that caught the light like stars fallen to earth. The tree had been there long before the house, before any of them, its roots deep and certain in ways Joe had never allowed himself to be.

They sat side by side, Riley with a glass of bourbon and Joe with a local beer she'd insisted he try. The night wrapped around them, the distant hum of the city mingling with the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. After a few minutes, Riley shifted closer, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand settling on her waist with a rightness that startled him—as if they'd done this a hundred times before, as if his body remembered something his mind was just discovering.

"This is nice," Joe said, feeling a kind of peace he hadn't known in years—maybe ever. A peace that had nothing to do with winning or achievement or the constant forward momentum that had defined his life. "Really nice."

"It is," Riley agreed, her voice soft in the darkness. "Sometimes I forget how much I miss it when I'm in LA. Everything there is so…"

"Polished?" Joe suggested, thinking of his own carefully constructed public image, the way he'd learned to sand down his edges, to present only what was expected.

"Exactly," Riley nodded, her hair brushing against his neck. "Here, things aren't perfect. They're real."

Joe studied her profile in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the slight upturn of her nose, the way shadows played across her face. He was struck again by how at ease she seemed here, how she fit so effortlessly into this eccentric, beautiful neighborhood—not trying to stand out or fit in, just existing as herself. It reminded him of the feeling he'd had earlier, stepping into her house—that seismic shift inside him, that recognition of something he'd been missing without knowing he was missing it.

The constant pressure to be Joe Burrow—franchise quarterback, leader, role model—it fell away here in this quiet backyard with this woman who saw through all of that to something more essential. Something he was just rediscovering himself.

"I can see why you love it," he said, the words inadequate for the revelation behind them. "It's nothing like Cincinnati."

Riley turned to face him, a smile playing at her lips, eyes searching his. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Joe didn't even have to think about it. "Good," he said, his voice sure in a way that surprised even him. "It’s good."

The moment stretched between them, comfortable and charged all at once. When Riley leaned in to kiss him again, it felt natural, inevitable, like the resolution of a chord that had been building since they first met. This kiss was different—slower, deeper, with a sense of exploration rather than urgency. Joe's hand came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing along her jawline as her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

There was no performance in it, no calculated move, no awareness of anything beyond this moment, this connection. For someone whose entire life had been mapped out in plays and strategies, the simple act of being present—fully, completely present—felt like its own revelation.

They stayed like that for a while, trading kisses that ranged from gentle to breathtaking, talking in between about everything and nothing. The hours slipped away unnoticed, the city quieting around them as the night deepened, as if the world was giving them this pocket of time outside its usual demands.

When their last drinks were finished, the conversation naturally turned to the day ahead.

"So what exactly is this disguise you have planned for me tomorrow?" Joe asked, curious but also aware of the familiar weight of caution returning—the reminder that outside this sanctuary, he was still Joe Burrow, with all the visibility that entailed.

Riley's eyes lit up with mischief, the soft porch light catching gold flecks in her irises. "It's Mardi Gras, baby. Nobody looks twice at anything. I'm thinking a hat, maybe some sunglasses, definitely a bandana. And beads. Lots of beads."

Joe raised an eyebrow, skeptical but feeling a new willingness to trust her, to step outside the careful boundaries he normally maintained. "You really think that'll work?"

"It will," Riley assured him, her confidence infectious. "Look, people are expecting Joe Burrow. They're not expecting some guy in aviators with a bandana over his face, looking like a tourist who's been day-drinking since noon."

Joe laughed, shaking his head, imagining himself transformed, anonymous in a way he rarely got to be anymore. "When you put it that way…"

"Trust me," Riley said, squeezing his hand, her fingers warm against his. "I know this city. And I know how to blend in when needed."

She yawned then, failing to stifle it behind her hand, and Joe glanced at his watch, surprised to find it was well past midnight. Time had become elastic, hours passing in what felt like minutes.

"Bedtime?" he asked, his voice softer now in the quiet night air, aware of a new intimacy in the simple question. 

"Yeah." Riley stretched her arms above her head, her movements slow and unhurried, comfortable in a way that spoke of absolute trust. "Today caught up with me."

Looking at her in this moment—relaxed, unguarded, beautiful in the most honest way—Joe felt that certainty again, that sense that he'd stumbled across something precious and rare. Something that might ask him to be more than he'd ever allowed himself to be, something that might require him to dismantle the careful walls he'd built around his life.

Riley stood from her chair, leading the way inside. Joe followed, still struck by how natural this all felt—being here in her space, the warmth of her presence wrapped around him like a second skin. His overnight bag was already by her bedroom door, where he'd left it earlier. The way she'd invited him had been so casual, so typically Riley, that any potential awkwardness had never even had the chance to exist.

 They moved through the house together, Riley turning off lights as they went. In her bedroom, the emerald-green walls glowed softly under the warm light of a bedside lamp. Like the rest of the house, the space was layered and lived-in—a vintage bed with an ornately carved headboard, mismatched pillows piled high, plants hanging near the window, framed art covering every inch of available wall space. It wasn't just decorated; it was curated. Every piece told a story. Every corner felt like her.

 And unlike his own bedroom—functional, minimal, a place for sleeping and nothing more—this room felt alive with meaning. He realized suddenly that he had always approached his living spaces as temporary, even after buying his house. Always waiting for the next contract, the next move, the next phase. Never fully inhabiting the present.

Riley nodded toward the far door. "Bathroom's all yours if you want to change first."

 Joe grabbed his bag and disappeared inside. When he returned, now in a T-shirt and sweatpants, Riley had already changed into sleep shorts and an oversized band tee, her hair piled into a loose bun.

The casual intimacy of it all settled over him like a revelation. This wasn't the practiced intimacy of hookups with women who wanted Joe Burrow in their bed. This was something else entirely—something honest, something that asked nothing of him but his presence.

No pretense. No expectations. Just this quiet, uncomplicated moment between them. 

When they finally crawled into bed, Riley curled into his side without hesitation, her head resting on his chest like they'd done this a hundred times before. Joe's arm wrapped around her, his hand instinctively trailing through her hair.

“This is nice,” Riley murmured, her voice already heavy with sleep.

“Very nice,” Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

The understatement nearly made him laugh. "Nice" didn't begin to cover the profound shift happening inside him—as if after years of living according to carefully constructed plans and expectations, he was discovering what it meant to simply exist in a moment without analyzing it, optimizing it, or preparing for what came next.

As her breathing evened out, Joe lay awake for a little while longer, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the city outside the open window. He hadn't realized how long it had been since he felt this settled. Not just comfortable—but right.

 The thought hit him the same way it had earlier, standing in her living room, that old song playing in the back of his mind.

“Maybe I come home, she lifted up her wings. I guess that this must be the place.”

The lyrics felt like prophecy now, as if they'd been waiting for this moment to reveal their meaning to him. Talking Heads couldn't have known about a quarterback from Ohio or a singer from New Orleans, and yet somehow they'd written the perfect words for this night, this feeling.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he didn't set an alarm. Didn't think about practice schedules or media obligations or what came next.

He just held Riley closer, let his eyes slip shut, and let himself be. In this bed, in this house, with this woman—that felt like more than enough.

Joe woke to sunlight filtering softly through lace curtains and the distant sound of a saxophone drifting lazily from somewhere down the street. For a second, confusion hit—the unfamiliar ceiling above him, the warmth of someone tucked comfortably against his side. Then it all slid neatly into place: Riley. Her house. Falling asleep with her pressed softly against him.

He relaxed immediately, letting himself sink into the pillow, enjoying the rare, unhurried peace of the morning. There was no alarm ringing, no film study, no training session demanding his attention—just this moment, quiet and perfectly calm.

He glanced at his phone: 9:26 AM. Later than he'd slept in months, maybe longer, and somehow, he felt no rush to get up.

Riley stirred slightly, tightening her arm around his waist, pressing her face sleepily into his chest. Her hair was everywhere, tangled across her pillow, partially obscuring her face. Joe watched her quietly, noticing small details he hadn't gotten close enough to see the night before—the delicate tattoo behind her ear, the faint scatter of freckles over her nose. She looked peaceful, unguarded, completely different from anyone he'd ever known—nothing rehearsed or controlled, just effortlessly herself.

Her eyes fluttered slowly open, hazy and unfocused. "Morning," he murmured softly, brushing a stray strand of hair gently away from her cheek.

She made a muffled, sleepy noise against him. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine-thirty."

Riley groaned, pressing her face deeper against his chest. "Too early."

Joe chuckled quietly, sliding his fingers lazily through her hair. "Thought you said nine was acceptable?"

She sighed dramatically, voice muffled by his skin. "Nine is just the earliest acceptable hour. Not the one I prefer."

Despite her complaints, she didn't pull away—instead, she settled closer, relaxing comfortably against him. Her eyes opened again, softer this time, gaze steady on his face. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Best I have in forever," he admitted honestly, surprising himself with how easy it was to tell her something true.

Riley stretched lazily, catlike and comfortable, and Joe's attention sharpened instantly. His eyes drifted along the curves of her body, catching on the way her thin t-shirt had ridden up to expose a strip of smooth skin at her waist. He felt warmth spreading through him, slow and steady.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging playfully at her lips. "See something interesting?"

Instead of answering, Joe reached out deliberately, his hand sliding across that exposed skin with confident purpose. Riley's breath hitched audibly, her eyes suddenly fully alert.

"I've been waiting on you to make a move since New York, my guy," she said, the bluntness sending a thrill through him.

"Have you now?" Joe murmured, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Without hesitation, he shifted over her in one fluid motion, his weight pressing her into the mattress with deliberate pressure. His eyes locked with hers, taking in her surprised expression with quiet satisfaction.

"About damn time," Riley breathed, her hands immediately sliding up his back, pulling him closer.

Joe dipped his head, claiming her mouth with the same decisive confidence he brought to everything that mattered. No hesitation, no uncertainty - just clear intent. Riley responded immediately, arching beneath him, a small sound of approval escaping her.

He broke away just enough to see the challenge and desire flickering in her eyes. "Better late than never, right?"

"Just shut up and kiss me again," Riley laughed softly, tugging at his shirt impatiently.

Joe grinned and kissed her again, deeper this time, lingering until he felt her melt beneath him. When she tugged at the hem of his shirt again, he sat back just long enough to strip it off, tossing it aside with casual confidence.

Her eyes widened appreciatively as she took him in, openly admiring. "Jesus Christ, you're hot," she breathed, fingers immediately tracing the contours of his chest without hesitation.

Joe laughed under his breath, genuinely flattered by her candor. She wasn't shy, wasn't careful—just honest in a way that felt incredibly refreshing after years of carefully managed interactions.

He dipped his head again, kissing along her neck, letting his teeth graze her skin in a way that made her gasp. His hands found the hem of her shirt, and he looked at her with quiet intent. Riley immediately lifted her arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

He sat back slightly, just looking at her—no clever remarks or practiced compliments, just taking her in. Riley flushed slightly under his gaze but made no move to hide herself, bold and confident even now. When she reached up to touch him again, Joe caught her wrists, pinning them gently but firmly above her head, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

"Not yet," he murmured softly, feeling her pulse quicken beneath his fingertips.

Riley bit her lip, looking up at him with eyes full of playful defiance. "Okay, baby," she teased softly, testing his grip slightly. "You're in charge."

His free hand traced a deliberate path down her throat, between her breasts, across her stomach, watching her reactions with focused attention. Riley was unlike anyone he'd been with before - completely unfiltered in her responses, every reaction genuine and unguarded.

When he finally released her wrists, Riley immediately reached for him, running her fingers appreciatively down his chest. Joe leaned down, kissing her deeply before trailing his mouth lower, following the path his hands had taken. Her hands slid into his hair, guiding him with a directness he found incredibly arousing.

"Joe—shit," she whispered sharply, urgency rising in her voice. "Stop fucking teasing me, please."

He glanced up, meeting her eyes with a slight smirk. Without breaking eye contact, he hooked his fingers into her shorts, slowly pulling them down her legs. Riley lifted her hips to help, kicking them off impatiently once they reached her ankles.

She was completely bare beneath him, her breathing uneven, body fully open and unguarded in a way that set his blood on fire. Rather than asking permission, Joe simply read her reactions, confident in his ability to understand what she wanted.

He pressed kisses up her inner thighs, feeling her muscles tense with anticipation. When he finally tasted her, Riley's breath caught sharply, her hips arching off the bed, fingers gripping his hair to guide him exactly where she wanted.

"Oh my god," she gasped breathlessly, completely unrestrained in her pleasure, pulling him deeper into the moment with her honesty. "Right there, don't stop."

He had no intention of stopping. The way she responded to him, open and vocal about exactly what she wanted, was unlike anything he'd experienced before.

"Fuck," she whispered raggedly, voice breaking slightly as she tugged urgently at his hair. "Joe— right now."

He moved back up her body, eyes meeting hers. Riley reached blindly for the nightstand, knocking something aside before finding what she needed, pressing a condom urgently into his palm.

"These need to go first," she said, tugging impatiently at his sweatpants.

He shifted, trying to pull them off without breaking contact, but they caught around his ankle. After a brief struggle, he kicked them free, nearly toppling off the edge of the bed in the process. Riley's soft laugh made him smile despite himself.

"Smooth," she teased, laughing softly.

"Shut up," he murmured, kissing her quickly to silence the laugh, though he loved the sound of it.

Joe positioned himself above her, one hand braced beside her head, the other guiding himself to her entrance. "Look at me," he said, his voice low with desire but steady with certainty.

Their gazes locked as he pushed into her slowly, groaning softly as pleasure shot through him. Riley's breath caught sharply, legs wrapping around his waist, nails digging into his back as she adjusted to him.

"You good?" he asked, his voice rough but controlled.

"So fucking good," Riley gasped, matching his intensity effortlessly. "Don't you dare stop."

Joe began to move with deliberate, deep thrusts, quickly finding a rhythm that had Riley gasping beneath him. He could feel her getting close, feel the way she tightened around him, and he wanted nothing more than to watch her come apart.

"Fuck," he groaned roughly, his own control slipping. "Come for me—I got you."

She came apart instantly, body shuddering as she cried out his name, her complete surrender pulling him over the edge right after. He buried his face against her neck as his own release overwhelmed him, feeling a connection that went beyond the physical.

Afterward, they lay tangled together, breathing ragged, slowly settling back into themselves. Joe pulled her against his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns across her back.

"Well, shit," Riley finally murmured breathlessly, smiling up at him. "Worth the wait."

Joe laughed softly, feeling completely relaxed. "Glad you approve."

She tilted her head up, eyes bright and playful. "Definitely five-star review—though you might want to work on stamina."

Joe groaned dramatically, shaking his head. "Annnnnnddd she's already talkin' shit."

She laughed warmly, pressing a gentle kiss to his chest. "Can't let you get cocky. Besides, we have plenty of time to practice."

Joe smiled, pulling her closer. "Guess I'd better clear my schedule."

"Maybe your schedule could use a little chaos," she said softly.

He pressed a gentle kiss against her forehead, breathing her in. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "Maybe it could."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at him. The amusement in her expression remained, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability that made his chest tighten.

 "Just so you know," she said, her voice quieter now, "I don't usually do this."

Joe arched a brow, unable to resist teasing her just a little. "What, sleep with guys you just met?"

Riley rolled her eyes. "Not the part you wanna focus on, dumbass. This." She gestured vaguely around the room, then at herself—bare, open, here in her most private space.

 And Joe understood immediately. It wasn't about the sex. It was about the fact that she'd let him in—into her home, her sanctuary, into parts of herself she didn't share easily.

"Riley," he said, his hand finding her face, thumb tracing along her cheekbone with a gentleness that surprised even him. "I know what this means. And I'm not taking it lightly." His voice was steady, certain in a way few things in his life had ever been. "This is..." He exhaled, searching for words adequate to the feeling expanding in his chest. "Fuck, I don't even know how to explain it. But it's not just a hookup for me either."

She held his gaze, and he could see her usual guardedness flickering—like she wanted to believe him but wasn't used to letting herself. He wondered how many people had failed to see the real Riley beneath the stage presence, how many had treated her as less than the remarkable person he was discovering.

Then, finally, she smiled.

Not the practiced, camera-ready one. Not the confident, teasing one.

A real smile. Just for him. And in that moment, Joe knew he was in trouble of the very best kind.

Through the window, they could hear the distant sounds of the city waking up—people laughing, music starting, the rhythm of Carnival day beginning. But here in her bed, wrapped in each other, they existed in their own world, one where footballs and microphones and public personas had no place.

Joe turned his head toward her, letting his eyes move over her face, her lips, the wicked little gleam returning to her eye. Then, smirking, he said, "I'd say we should probably run that back later. Just for confirmation purposes."

Riley burst out laughing. "Confirmation purposes?"

"Scientific method," he said with a straight face. "Need multiple trials to verify results."

Riley shoved at his chest, still laughing. "Wow. Who says romance is dead?"

And as her laughter filled the room, Joe realized he'd never felt so completely himself with anyone—no calculation, no performance, no carefully constructed image. Just Joe and Riley, finding something unexpected and precious in each other.

Joe woke again later to the warmth of mid-morning sun streaming through the lace curtains and the enticing scent of coffee drifting from somewhere in the house. He blinked, disoriented for a moment by the emerald walls and unfamiliar ceiling. The space beside him was empty, the sheets still carrying Riley's scent.

A glance at his phone confirmed what the quality of light suggested—it was nearly noon. He smiled, remembering Riley's insistence that she wouldn't be up before nine. Apparently, she'd meant it.

He stretched, feeling pleasantly relaxed in a way that had nothing to do with sleep, then pulled on his sweatpants and t-shirt before following the twin lures of coffee and Riley toward the kitchen.

The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the house, bathed in golden light that filled the space with a honeyed glow. Outside, the sounds of Carnival celebrations were in full swing—music from a few streets over, the occasional burst of laughter, the distant thump of drums. Joe paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Riley moving around the space with practiced ease, filling an old-fashioned percolator with coffee grounds.

She wore his Bengals t-shirt—the one he'd pulled from his overnight bag last night—the hem hitting mid-thigh. Her hair was piled into a messy bun, tendrils escaping to frame her face. She looked like she'd been awake for maybe fifteen minutes, still soft around the edges, and something tugged in Joe's chest at the simple intimacy of catching her in this in-between state.

"Breakfast for lunch?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe.

Riley glanced up, a slow smile spreading across her face when she saw him. "Breakfast is a state of mind," she replied, her voice still rough with sleep. 

"Hey, babe, can you grab some mugs?" she asked, the term of endearment slipping out so naturally neither of them commented on it, though Joe felt a quiet thrill at the sound of it on her lips.

He pushed off the doorframe and reached for the open shelving. He pulled down two mismatched mugs—one with a delicate floral design, the other an old Mardi Gras souvenir with faded purple and gold lettering.

"These work?" he asked, setting them on the counter beside her.

Riley glanced over and grinned. "Perfect." She poured the coffee, handing him one before hopping up onto the counter, her legs swinging slightly beneath the hem of his t-shirt as she took a careful sip.

Joe leaned against the opposite counter, watching her. There was something almost surreal about being here in this kitchen with this woman, as if he'd stepped into someone else's life—a life with more color, more texture, more spontaneity than his own carefully managed existence. And yet it didn't feel foreign. It felt like discovering a room in a house he'd lived in for years but somehow never noticed.

"So, about that breakfast you promised me…" he said, his voice teasing.

Riley held up a finger, eyes closed as she took another slow sip of coffee. "Let me get through a couple of sips first, and then we'll get started."

Joe huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Not a morning person, huh?"

Riley cracked one eye open. "Not even a little bit. And it's technically afternoon, which just proves my point."

He watched her morning ritual with fascination—the way she cupped the mug with both hands, the small sigh of contentment after each sip, how her entire body seemed to wake up gradually, bit by bit. It was nothing like his usual mornings of alarm clocks, protein shakes, and immediate workouts. This slow unfolding of a day was something he'd forgotten how to do, if he'd ever known at all.

"Alright, I'm ready," Riley finally declared, setting her mug down with purpose.

She hopped down from the counter and moved to an old record player in the corner of the kitchen. After flipping through a stack of vinyl, she pulled out a weathered Allen Toussaint album, a small smile playing on her lips. "Perfect breakfast music," she declared, setting the needle down carefully.

The warm, crackling sound of New Orleans funk filled the kitchen, and Riley swayed slightly, her body instinctively finding the rhythm. Joe marveled at how music seemed to flow through her, as natural as breathing. She moved to the refrigerator, hips still swaying subtly to the beat.

"What're you in the mood for?" she asked, peering inside. "Traditional breakfast or something more fitting for Mardi Gras?"

"Whatever you've got," Joe said, moving to stand behind her, his hands settling lightly on her hips, drawn to her like gravity.

Riley looked over her shoulder at him, smirking. "Not an answer, Burrow." There was something about the way she said his last name—half teasing, half intimate—that made his skin warm.

"What's fitting for Mardi Gras?" he asked, genuinely curious, wanting to learn her world.

"Well," she said, turning in his arms to face him, "we could make king cake. Traditional Mardi Gras breakfast. Or we could do biscuits and gravy like my Papa used to make."

"King cake sounds interesting," Joe said. "But I'm guessing that takes a while?"

"Good guess." Riley ducked under his arm and opened a lower cabinet, pulling out a mixing bowl. "Let's do Papa's biscuits. They're quick, and they go great with coffee after a... busy morning." The slight blush on her cheeks made Joe smirk, memories of their earlier activities sending a pleasant warmth through him.

She began gathering ingredients—flour, butter, buttermilk, salt—lining them up on the counter with practiced efficiency. Joe watched her hands, fascinated by their sure movements, the same hands that had traced patterns on his skin just hours before.

"My grandfather taught me this recipe," she explained, measuring flour into the bowl. "Said no one should leave his house without knowing how to make a proper biscuit."

"Was he a chef?" Joe asked, genuinely interested in the pieces of her history she was sharing.

"No, just a man who believes food is love," Riley said, a softness in her voice that spoke of deep affection. "He said anyone could follow a recipe, but it took heart to make something worth remembering."

Joe nodded, thinking of his own grandfather's lessons about football—not just the mechanics, but the heart behind the game. "I get that."

He watched as she cut cold butter into the flour with two knives, her movements quick and confident. "Can I help?"

"Sure," Riley said, sliding the bowl toward him. "Just finish cutting this butter in until it looks like coarse crumbs."

Joe took over, mimicking her technique with a natural precision that surprised them both.

"Not bad, mister," Riley nodded approvingly as she finished. "Now we add the buttermilk."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley stepped aside. "You mix while I get the bacon started."

Their shoulders brushed as they traded places, the small kitchen bringing them into constant contact. Joe took over the biscuit mixture, studying the consistency of the dough as Riley moved to start the bacon.

"Gentle with it," she instructed, glancing back at him while arranging strips in the cast-iron skillet. "Biscuits need a light touch. Just fold it together—don't knead it like bread."

Joe nodded, his hands moving with surprising confidence as he applied her advice. His fingers worked the dough with measured precision rather than the heavy-handed approach most beginners used.

Riley turned from the stove to check his progress, ready to offer more guidance. But as she watched his careful movements, her expression shifted to surprise. "Wow. You're actually... perfect at this. First try?"

Joe shrugged, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "I pick things up quickly." His movements remained deliberate, handling the dough with the same focused attention he might give to studying game film. "It's all about touch, right? Knowing exactly how much pressure to apply."

When the dough was finally ready, Riley showed him how to pat it out and cut perfect circles with a juice glass. The biscuits went into the oven, and they moved on to the eggs.

“How do you want your eggs?” Riley asked.

“Mmm, I don’t care,” he replied, shrugging.

Riley glanced up at him with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not an answer. Most people have pretty strong opinions about their eggs.”

Joe shrugged, eyeing the ingredients she had laid out. "Everything else you're making looks so good, I'm pretty sure I'll be happy with however those eggs turn out."

"Scrambled it is," she agreed, whisking the eggs with vigor. "Can you grab the cheese from the fridge? And the hot sauce?"

They moved around each other in a seamless dance—Joe reaching for ingredients while Riley manned the stove, their bodies constantly finding excuses to touch. Riley bumped her hip against his as she reached for plates; Joe's hand rested briefly on the small of her back as he passed behind her; fingers brushed as they transferred items from counter to table. It was choreography they were creating together, learning each other's rhythms in real time.

"Papa always said you could tell if a relationship had potential by how well you cooked together," Riley said, grating cheese into the eggs as they began to set in the pan.

The casual mention of "relationship" hung in the air between them, neither acknowledging it directly, but both aware of its weight.

"And how are we doing?" Joe asked, flipping the bacon one final time.

Riley glanced up at him, a smile playing at her lips. "Not bad, Burrow. Not bad at all."

The song changed to a more upbeat track, and Riley's hips swayed to the rhythm as she stirred the eggs. Without thinking, Joe slipped his arm around her waist, pulling her into a gentle sway that matched the music.

Riley laughed, but she didn't pull away, instead leaning back against him as she continued cooking. "Careful there, mister. I might burn breakfast."

"Worth the risk," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear, realizing he meant it in ways that extended far beyond breakfast.

By the time they finished, the kitchen counter was laden with perfect golden biscuits, crispy bacon, fluffy scrambled eggs laced with melted cheese, and sliced fresh fruit that Riley had produced from the refrigerator at the last minute.

"This might be the best breakfast I've ever made," Riley declared, surveying their handiwork as she pulled two plates from the cabinet.

"We make a good team," Joe observed, the simple truth of it settling comfortably between them, carrying implications neither was quite ready to voice.

They loaded their plates and settled at the small kitchen table, knees touching beneath it. The first bite of a biscuit—still warm, slathered with butter and honey—had Joe groaning in appreciation.

"Told you," Riley said with obvious satisfaction. "Papa's recipe never fails."

"These are incredible," Joe agreed, reaching for another. "Better than any restaurant."

"Of course they are," Riley said with mock offense. "You think I'd serve you mediocre biscuits after this this morning?"

Joe nearly choked on his coffee, but recovered with a laugh. "Definitely raised the bar."

Riley propped her bare feet up on the empty chair, comfortable in the silence that settled between them. Then she nodded toward the bacon on his plate. "You gonna eat that?"

Joe pushed the plate toward her. "Go for it."

She snagged the piece, taking a bite with obvious satisfaction. There was something disarming about her straightforwardness, her lack of pretense. She simply asked for what she wanted—whether it was his bacon or his presence in her bed—with a refreshing directness that he found both foreign and appealing.

"So what was college Joe Burrow like?" she asked suddenly. "Same perfect poster boy, or did you ever actually get wild?"

Joe raised an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"Obviously," Riley said, leaning forward, her eyes bright with curiosity that seemed genuine rather than performative.

"Let's just say I wasn't always this..." He gestured vaguely at himself, searching for the right word.

"Buttoned-up?" Riley suggested.

"Careful," Joe corrected, the distinction important somehow. "There was this one time after we beat Oklahoma in the playoffs. The whole team ended up at this bar in Athens. I climbed on top of the bar, did some kind of victory dance that ended with me falling into a table of drinks."

Riley's eyes widened with delight. "No way. Please tell me there's video."

"If there is, my agent's buried it deep," Joe said with a grin.

"I think there's more college Joe hiding in there than you let on," Riley teased.

Joe smiled, thinking briefly of his more structured days with Olivia, how different things had been then versus his more recent casual encounters. "The wild nights were definitely there, just... selective. Reserved for big wins and bigger losses." He shrugged. "What about you? Any embarrassing stories you'd rather keep off social media?"

Riley laughed. "You want embarrassing? Just YouTube 'Riley Carter stage fall compilation.' It's a tragic collection of my greatest hits—and by hits, I mean me hitting the floor."

"There's a compilation?" Joe asked, already reaching for his phone.

"Oh yeah," Riley nodded, wincing. "Chicago, I thought there was one more step than there actually was. Seattle, I tripped over a monitor. Nashville, someone threw a bra that I stepped on and went down like I'd been shot." She counted them off on her fingers. "My personal favorite is Denver, where I actually fell into the drum kit. Pete never lets me forget that one."

"And there's video of all of these?" Joe asked incredulously.

Riley groaned, putting her hand over his phone. "Unfortunately, yes. Multiple angles. The Denver one is particularly cinematic—you can actually see the moment I realize I'm going down. The look on my face..." She shook her head. "Pure terror, followed by the cymbal crash heard 'round the world."

Joe laughed, genuine and unreserved. The sound filled the small kitchen, and Riley found herself smiling too, even at her own expense. It struck him that he rarely laughed like this anymore—without calculation, without awareness of how it might be perceived.

"But seriously," Riley said, pushing her empty plate aside after they'd both stopped laughing, "if you want to hear about my real adventures, we had this van when we first started touring. Complete death trap. No AC, exhaust leaking into the cabin, and the passenger door would only open if you kicked it in exactly the right spot."

"You named it, didn't you?" Joe asked, somehow knowing this about her already.

Riley grinned. "The Beast. Spray-painted it on the side ourselves. That thing survived two full tours somehow, held together by duct tape and prayers."

"Where'd it finally die?"

"Middle of nowhere, Wyoming," Riley said, shaking her head at the memory. "Three in the morning, all of us sleeping in shifts because we couldn't afford hotel rooms. Pete was driving, hit a pothole, and the whole undercarriage just... gave up. We had to wait six hours for a tow, sitting on the side of the road passing a bottle of Jack back and forth to stay warm."

"Sounds miserable," Joe said, but his eyes were bright with interest, captivated by this glimpse into her journey, so different from his own carefully managed ascent.

Riley shrugged. "It was, but also kind of perfect? Like, we were broke as hell, but it was the four of us against the world. And somehow people still showed up to those gigs, even though nobody knew who we were."

Joe nodded, understanding what she meant. Some of his best memories were from before the fame, when it was just about the game and the team, not the brand or the expectations.

"So," she said, reaching for her coffee, her tone shifting slightly, "the band's touring again this summer. We're starting with some smaller intimate venues across the West Coast."

Joe nodded, his expression shifting as reality began to intrude on their bubble. "How long?"

"About two months for the smaller dates," Riley said, watching his reaction carefully. "We wanted to do these more intimate venues first - kind of a treat for the core fans who've been with us from the beginning. Just clubs and theaters, keeping it raw."

"Cincinnati's not exactly on the way to anywhere," Joe said, his tone light but the question underneath obvious.

Riley tilted her head, studying him. "I've heard they have these things called airplanes now. Revolutionary technology."

Joe smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Training camp starts in July."

"Look at us," Riley said, leaning back in her chair. "Already trying to figure out the logistics."

"Is that bad?" Joe asked, something vulnerable in the question.

Riley considered this, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "No," she said finally. "This is just... unexpected."

The word hung between them—unexpected. This connection, this comfort, this sense of rightness in each other's presence. None of it had been planned, none of it fit neatly into their separate lives, and yet here they were, sharing biscuits and bacon and something neither was quite ready to name.

Riley took a final sip of her coffee, eyes meeting his over the rim of her mug. "So, what do you want to do with the rest of our day? The parades don't start until later, but I could show you around my neighborhood if you want. There's this amazing record store a few blocks over, and the best po' boy shop in the city."

Joe smiled, but she caught the slight hesitation in his eyes. "That sounds great, but..."

"You're worried about being recognized," Riley finished for him, understanding immediately.

He nodded. "Yeah. Especially here." He didn't need to elaborate—they both knew his LSU history made him practically royalty in Louisiana.

"Fair enough," she acknowledged. "But we can keep it low-key." She stood and moved to a drawer, pulling out a plain dark bandana. "This and some sunglasses should help for a quick neighborhood walk. Nothing suspicious about a guy covering his face during Mardi Gras. Basic tourist move."

Joe took the bandana from her, considering it. "This enough, you think?"

"For a walk around the neighborhood? Should be," Riley said, though her tone carried a hint of uncertainty. "We'll save the full disguises for the parades tonight. For now, keep your head down, avoid purple and gold anything, and let me do any talking if someone approaches."

Joe nodded, his expression still cautious but willing to try. "I'd like that—seeing your neighborhood through your eyes."

"Good," Riley said with a decisive nod. "Let me just get changed, and we can head out. The record store owner keeps a stash of rare vinyl behind the counter for me, and I want to see if he's got anything new."

The simple prospect of walking through her neighborhood streets, just the two of them experiencing ordinary moments together, felt unexpectedly appealing—even with the risk. No cameras, no expectations—just Joe and Riley, discovering each other's worlds one small piece at a time.

"Put that on," Riley said, nodding toward the bandana as she headed toward her bedroom. "And maybe lose the Bengals shirt too. We're going for anonymous here."

Joe grabbed the bandana from the counter and eyed it skeptically before folding it diagonally. He slipped off his Bengals shirt, replacing it with a plain gray tee from his suitcase.

"Better?" he asked, tying the bandana around his neck, ready to pull up when needed.

Riley emerged from her bedroom in green and white striped wide-leg pants and a vintage black Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked beneath a plain black cap. Her gingham tote bag hung from her shoulder, and gold rings glinted on her fingers as she assessed him with a critical eye, head tilted slightly.

"Almost." She reached up to adjust the bandana, her fingers brushing against his neck. "There. Now you just look like a tourist trying too hard to blend in, which is perfect. That's exactly what we want."

"That's not exactly a compliment," Joe said with a wry smile.

"It wasn't meant to be." Riley grinned, adjusting her tote bag. "Ready for the Riley Carter exclusive neighborhood tour? Limited time offer, far superior to those overpriced French Quarter walking tours."

Outside, the day had bloomed into perfect New Orleans weather—warm but not yet stifling, the air thick with moisture and the scent of magnolias from a neighbor's yard. The street was quiet compared to the bustle of the Quarter, though Carnival energy hummed just beneath the surface. Beads draped from tree branches caught sunlight as they swayed in the light breeze, and the distant thump of drums suggested a small second line forming somewhere nearby.

Joe pulled the bandana up over his nose as they passed a group of neighbors drinking coffee on their porch. They waved at Riley, curious eyes lingering on Joe for just a moment before returning to their conversation.

"See? Easy," Riley said, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Nobody cares who you are here. They're too busy living their own lives."

As they turned the corner, an older woman with silver locs piled atop her head called out from her porch.

"Riley Carter! Where've you been hiding, girl?"

Riley's face lit up as she changed course, pulling Joe toward the mint-green shotgun house. "Ms. Josephine! Just busy with the album. How are you?"

The woman's keen eyes shifted to Joe, not missing how Riley's hand was still linked with his. "Can't complain. And who's this?"

"This is Joe," Riley said simply. "He's visiting for Carnival."

Ms. Josephine's eyes narrowed slightly, then widened with recognition that made Joe tense. But instead of saying anything about football, she just smiled knowingly.

"Well, any friend of Riley's is welcome here." She gestured toward the house. "Antoine was just asking about that Bill Withers record he lent you."

"Tell him I've got it safe," Riley assured her. "I'll bring it by before I head to LA."

"You coming to Sunday's gumbo gathering?" Ms. Josephine asked. "Antoine's making his famous file gumbo."

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley said, though Joe noticed the subtle acknowledgment in her eyes that he'd be gone by then. Their weekend together had a clear expiration date that neither wanted to mention.

They walked a bit further down the street, with Riley occasionally pointing out neighborhood landmarks—the corner store where the owner still kept a tab for regulars, the tiny coffee shop that served the best chicory blend in the city, the house where a famous jazz musician had lived in the 1950s.

"And that's Ms. Bellamy's place," Riley said, gesturing to a butter-yellow house with elaborate gingerbread trim. "She's been here since before Katrina, knows everyone's business, and makes a praline so good it'll make you cry."

As if summoned by her name, the statuesque woman appeared on her porch, arranging Carnival decorations with mathematical precision. She spotted Riley and gave a small nod of acknowledgment, her eyes scanning Joe with unmistakable curiosity before returning to her task without comment.

"That's basically a hug from Ms. Bellamy," Riley whispered with a smile. "She doesn't waste words on just anyone."

"You know all your neighbors?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. In Cincinnati, he knew his security guard by name and occasionally nodded to the couple down the hall, but that was the extent of his community.

"Not all, but many," Riley said. "It's different here. People sit on their porches, talk across fences. It's how I stay grounded when everything else gets crazy. These people don't care about streaming numbers or tour dates—they care if I remembered to bring back their casserole dish or if I'm taking care of that rose bush Edith gave me."

Joe watched her as she talked, her face animated with genuine affection for this place and its people. He tried to imagine a version of his life with this kind of community, this sense of belonging to something beyond the team and his career. It was both foreign and strangely appealing.

"What?" Riley asked, catching his contemplative look.

"Nothing," Joe said, then reconsidered. "Actually, it's just... this isn't what I'm used to. Where I live, privacy means isolation. Here, it seems like privacy and community coexist somehow."

Riley nodded thoughtfully. "That's it exactly. People here respect boundaries, but they also show up when it matters." She pointed to a bright turquoise house across the street. "When Katrina hit, Mr. Jerome there took in seven neighbors and their pets. Nobody had to ask—he just did it. That's New Orleans."

They rounded a corner, and the quiet residential street gave way to a small commercial strip—a neighborhood bar with its doors already open, a plant shop spilling greenery onto the sidewalk, and at the end of the block, a weathered storefront with "RESURRECTION RECORDS" painted in faded red letters above the door.

"Fair warning," Riley said as they approached the record store. "Elvin is a character. Local legend, played with Buddy Guy back in the day. He's going to tell you at least three outrageous stories that are probably true, offer you something to drink that's definitely illegal to serve without a license, and try to sell you records you didn't know you wanted."

"Sounds like my kind of place," Joe said, genuinely intrigued. This was as far from the sterile, corporate music stores he occasionally visited as he could imagine.

Riley's hand found his, fingers intertwining naturally. "Just remember, follow my lead. And whatever happens, do not—under any circumstances—mention LSU."

Before Joe could ask why, she was pulling him through the door, a bell jingling overhead as they stepped into another world entirely.

The bell jingled as they stepped inside Resurrection Records, and Joe's senses were immediately overwhelmed. The store was smaller than it looked from outside, every inch of space utilized to the point of controlled chaos. Vinyl records filled wooden crates that lined the walls and created narrow aisles throughout the shop. The air smelled of dust, incense, and vinyl – a combination that was somehow comforting despite being entirely foreign to Joe's usual environments.

From behind a counter cluttered with vintage audio equipment, a tall man with salt-and-pepper dreadlocks tied back in a loose ponytail looked up. His weathered face broke into a wide grin when he spotted Riley.

"Well, if it isn't the prodigal daughter herself!" His voice was deep and gravelly, the kind that only decades of whiskey and cigarettes could produce. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about your old friend Elvin."

"Never," Riley said, making her way through the cramped space to give him a quick hug over the counter. "Just been in the studio cave. You know how it goes."

"That I do," Elvin nodded, then shifted his attention to Joe, eyes narrowing with open curiosity. "And who's the stranger?"

"This is Joe," Riley said casually. "Joe, this is Elvin Baptiste, legend of the New Orleans blues scene and keeper of vinyl treasures."

Joe stepped forward, hand extended. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Elvin studied him for a moment, taking in the bandana and sunglasses with obvious amusement before shaking his hand. "Any friend of Riley's..." he began, then paused, his grip tightening slightly on Joe's hand. "Wait a minute. I know you from somewhere."

Joe felt the familiar tension seize his shoulders. Riley shot him a quick, reassuring glance before turning back to Elvin.

"He just has one of those faces," she said smoothly. "Joe, why don't you look around while Elvin shows me what he's been holding for me?"

Understanding the escape route she was offering, Joe nodded and drifted toward the nearest bin of records. Behind him, he could hear Elvin's voice drop as he leaned in to speak to Riley.

"That's not just some guy, is it?" he whispered, though not quietly enough.

"Elvin," Riley's tone carried a gentle warning. "Not today, okay?"

There was a pause, then Elvin's laugh. "Your secret's safe with me, Riley-girl. Now, about those imports I promised you..."

Their voices faded into the background as Joe began flipping through albums, relaxing into the anonymity of the task. He moved methodically through the bins, not really searching for anything specific but enjoying the tactile experience of thumbing through the cardboard sleeves, studying the artwork of bands he recognized and many he didn't.

Near the front of the store, he noticed a small section labeled "STAFF PICKS" in hand-painted letters. Curious about what kind of music the eccentric Elvin might recommend, Joe wandered over. The collection was eclectic—everything from obscure jazz recordings to punk albums to what appeared to be world music from regions Joe couldn't even identify.

And there, propped front and center, was Talking Heads' "Speaking in Tongues."

Joe's entire body went still. The exact album. The exact song.

With hands that suddenly felt clumsy, he pulled the record from its place of honor. The sleeve was worn at the edges, but the album itself was clearly well-preserved. He flipped it over, and his eyes immediately found what they were searching for in the track listing: "This Must Be The Place (Naive Melody)."

The room seemed to recede around him, the chatter and clattering of vinyl fading to a distant hum as he stared at those words. It wasn't just any Talking Heads album. It was the album. The one with the song that had materialized in his mind the moment he stepped into Riley's house, the one his father had played on those Sunday mornings when everything felt right with the world.

"Home is where I want to be, but I guess I'm already there..."

The coincidence was too perfect, too precise to be random. Joe wasn't superstitious—his entire career was built on practice and preparation, not luck or fate—yet standing here, holding this specific record in this specific store in this specific city with this specific woman... it felt like the universe was trying to tell him something.

He glanced over at Riley, still deeply engaged with Elvin at the counter, completely unaware of the cosmic joke or profound message or whatever the hell this was that had just landed in Joe's hands.

The intensity of his reaction frightened him. This wasn't how Joe Burrow operated. He didn't assign mystical significance to old records. He didn't experience emotional earthquakes in dusty shops. He didn't believe in signs from the universe.

And yet.

Everything about his time with Riley had been peeling back layers he hadn't known existed. The way her house had instantly felt more like home than his own carefully designed apartment. The way her chaotic, vibrant life made his structured existence seem hollow by comparison. The way she filled spaces—physical and emotional—with meaning and history and warmth.

He'd been haunted by that damn song since he walked into her house. And now here it was, literally in his hands, as if it had been waiting for him.

Joe tried to rationalize it away. Talking Heads was a popular band. This was probably one of their most famous albums. Of course it would be in a record store. Of course Elvin might select it as a staff pick. There was nothing supernatural about it.

But the explanation did nothing to quell the tremor that ran through him, the sense that something fundamental was shifting in the bedrock of his carefully constructed life.

Even with Olivia—who he'd genuinely loved during those years together—he'd maintained the walls that separated Joe Burrow the quarterback from Joe the person. She'd ended things not because they didn't love each other, but because she'd wanted more of him than he'd been willing to give, more than football allowed him to give. Or at least, that's what he'd told himself at the time. Looking back now, he wondered if it had been his choice all along—football hadn't built those walls; he had.

He'd spent years building those defenses around himself—the disciplined quarterback, the calculated public figure, the man who left nothing to chance. But in less than twenty-four hours, Riley had somehow slipped past all his defenses, not by force but by simply showing him a different way of being. A life full of color and history and connection. A life where things didn't have to be perfect to be meaningful.

And here was this record, this physical manifestation of the feeling that had overwhelmed him in her living room. This tangible proof that the earthquake he'd experienced wasn't just in his imagination.

Joe became aware that his heart was racing, his palms sweaty against the cardboard sleeve. He felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he'd accidentally revealed something deeply private in public. Glancing around, he was relieved to find that no one was paying him any attention—he was just another customer browsing records.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. This reaction was irrational, disproportionate. It was just a record. Just a song. Just a coincidence.

Except he knew it wasn't. Not really.

This moment, this discovery, was crystallizing something he'd been feeling since he first walked into Riley's world—a longing for something he hadn't known he was missing. A recognition that the life he'd built, for all its success and discipline and achievement, lacked the very thing Riley seemed to create effortlessly around her: a sense of belonging. Of home.

The realization was devastating in its simplicity. He, Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback with the carefully curated public image and meticulously organized life, was homesick for a place he'd never been. For a feeling he'd only experienced in fragments—in his childhood home on those Sunday mornings, and now, inexplicably, with Riley.

It wasn't just that he was attracted to her. It wasn't just that he enjoyed her company or admired her talent or found her intriguing. It was that being with her felt like remembering something essential he'd forgotten. Something about who he could be, who he maybe was supposed to be, beyond the uniform and the expectations and the constant performance.

Joe looked down at the album in his hands, realizing his grip had tightened to the point where he might damage the sleeve. He forced himself to relax, to breathe normally, to appear outwardly calm even as his internal landscape was being completely reconstructed.

He had to buy this record. It didn't matter that he didn't own a turntable. It didn't matter that he had no practical use for it. It didn't matter that bringing this physical manifestation of his emotional revelation back to Cincinnati would be like carrying a live grenade into his carefully ordered existence.

He had to have it. If only to remind himself, when he inevitably returned to his real life, that this place, this feeling, this possibility existed.

"Hey, find something good?"

Joe nearly jumped at the sound of Riley's voice beside him. She was looking at him curiously, her head tilted in that way he was already beginning to recognize as her trying to read him.

"Yeah," he said, holding up the album with a certainty that contrasted with his internal turmoil. "This one."

Riley's eyes dropped to the album in his hands, and for a heart-stopping moment, Joe thought she would somehow see everything—the connection to the song that had played in his head in her house, the seismic shift happening inside him, the terrifying vulnerability he suddenly felt.

Instead, she just smiled. "Talking Heads, huh? Solid pick. That one's a staple."

The comment landed harder than it should have. Of course it was.

"I don't even have a record player," Joe admitted, keeping his tone even.

Riley lowered her sunglasses slightly, studying him. "So why buy something you can't even play?"

Joe looked down at the album, thumb tracing the edge of the sleeve. He considered what to say, but some revelations weren't meant for sharing. Not yet.

"Just feels right," he said simply, with the quiet confidence that came naturally to him on the field but rarely off it. "I'll figure out the rest later."

Riley held his gaze like she wanted to push for more, but after a beat, she just nodded. "Fair enough."

With a grin, she nudged him toward the counter. “Come on, Elvin’s pouring us a drink while we settle up. But take it easy—one’s plenty. Any more, and we’ll be on our asses before the parade even starts.”

Joe followed her to the counter, the record clutched in his hand like a talisman. He'd come to New Orleans expecting a brief escape from his routine, a pleasant weekend with a woman who intrigued him. He hadn't expected to find himself contemplating the fundamental architecture of his life, questioning choices he'd made so automatically he hadn't even recognized them as choices.

And he certainly hadn't expected to find himself holding a physical manifestation of that questioning in the form of a decades-old record.

As Elvin poured them each a finger of amber liquid in mismatched glasses, Joe stole another glance at Riley—her easy confidence, the way she belonged so naturally in this cluttered, chaotic space. The way she seemed to belong everywhere she went, not because she blended in but because she carried her sense of self so completely.

That was what he wanted, he realized. Not just her, though he wanted that too with an intensity that surprised him. But what he truly coveted was her rootedness, her ability to be fully present in her life, to create meaning and connection wherever she went.

The record in his hand was a promise to himself. A reminder that another way of living was possible. That somewhere beneath the carefully constructed edifice of Joe Burrow, NFL quarterback, there was just Joe—a person capable of feeling at home, of belonging, of recognizing when something mattered beyond all reason or practicality.

But as he placed it on the counter and reached for his wallet, there was no hesitation in his movements. Whatever this meant, whatever shift was happening inside him, he was embracing it head-on.

He'd come to New Orleans to visit Riley, but he was discovering himself in the process. And that revelation, more than any Talking Heads album or cosmic coincidence, was what truly shook the foundations of his world.

After leaving the record store, Riley suggested they grab a drink before heading back to get ready for the evening's festivities. For now, Joe was keeping a low profile with just the essentials—mirrored aviators and a bandana he could pull up if needed. His head was still buzzing slightly from Elvin's homemade bourbon, a potent concoction the old man had insisted they sample before making their purchases.

"A little liquid courage for the record collector," Elvin had called it, winking at Joe as he'd carefully wrapped the Talking Heads album.

Riley was still in her green and white striped wide-leg pants and vintage Misfits t-shirt, her hair tucked up in a messy bun under a plain black cap. Her black sandals clicked against the pavement as they walked, the gingham tote bag now containing their record store haul swinging at her side. The gold rings on her fingers caught the afternoon sunlight as she gestured down a side street.

"There's a place around the corner," she said, tugging him away from the more crowded streets. "Little dive bar that tourists never find."

They weaved through growing crowds of revelers, many of whom were already in various stages of costume despite the early hour. The energy in the Quarter was building steadily, street performers setting up on corners, vendors arranging displays of masks and beads, the scent of food and alcohol mingling in the humid air.

Joe was still processing what had happened in the record store, the strange convergence of past and present that had left him feeling both unmoored and somehow more grounded than he'd been in years. He found himself gripping the small paper bag containing the Talking Heads album a little too tightly and consciously relaxed his hand.

"Here," Riley said, stopping in front of an unassuming door tucked between a voodoo shop and a vintage clothing store. The weathered sign simply read "The Jimson Weed" in faded paint.

Inside, the bar was dim and cool compared to the increasingly humid afternoon. Old cypress beams crossed the ceiling, and the walls were covered in local art and faded photographs of musicians who'd played there over the decades. A small stage in the back corner suggested live music happened regularly, though at the moment only a Blues playlist filled the air.

The crowd was sparse—a few locals at the bar nursing drinks, a table of what looked like visiting college students, and an older couple in the corner sharing a plate of something that smelled delicious.

Riley slid onto a barstool, and Joe took the one beside her, careful to keep his profile turned away from the door. The edge of Elvin's bourbon was beginning to wear off, leaving behind a pleasant warmth and a slight loosening of the constant vigilance he maintained in public places.

A tattooed bartender with a shaved head approached, his face breaking into a genuine smile when he spotted Riley. "Well damn. Riley Carter emerging from hibernation."

"Hey, Marcus," Riley said, leaning across the bar to bump fists with him. "You know I can't stay away from your Sazeracs forever."

Marcus's eyes shifted to Joe, curious but not intrusive. Joe tensed slightly, waiting for the flash of recognition, but it never came. Instead, Marcus just extended his hand. "Any friend of Riley's is welcome here."

"Thanks," Joe said, shaking it firmly. "Joe."

"You caught Elvin's special reserve, huh?" Marcus asked, noticing the record store bag. "Man's been bottling that stuff since before I was born. Still haven't figured out what's in it."

"Pretty sure it's at least 90 proof," Riley said. "Joe here needs something to take the edge off."

"Say no more," Marcus nodded, already reaching for glasses. "Two Sazeracs coming up."

As he moved away to prepare their drinks, Riley turned slightly toward Joe, her knee bumping his under the bar. "You've been quiet since the record store," she said softly. "You okay?"

Joe met her eyes, momentarily thrown by her perceptiveness. "Yeah, just... processing. The record thing. It was unexpected."

"The vinyl bug bites hard," Riley said, clearly misinterpreting his introspection. "First it's one album, then suddenly you're installing custom shelving to hold your collection."

Joe nodded, grateful she hadn't somehow intuited the deeper significance. "I'll have to borrow your turntable sometime," he said, the suggestion carrying more weight than he'd intended.

"Anytime," Riley replied, something flickering briefly in her expression that made his chest tighten.

Marcus returned with their drinks—amber liquid in rocks glasses, each garnished with a twist of lemon peel. As he set them down, his eyes flickered to Joe's face, recognition dawning in them.

"Enjoy," he said simply, then paused before moving away. He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Hey man, my cousin's a huge Bengals fan. Just wanted to say that playoff run was something else."

Joe tensed, his fingers tightening on the edge of the bar.

Marcus seemed to read his discomfort immediately. "Don't worry," he said with a casual shrug. "We get musicians, actors, all kinds through here. House rule is everybody gets to drink in peace."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly as he reached for his glass.

Riley shot Marcus a grateful look as he moved away to help another customer. "Told you," she said quietly. "Marcus is good people."

Joe took a sip of his drink, the flavor complex and strong—rye whiskey, bitters, and something sweet with a hint of licorice that cut through the lingering taste of Elvin's moonshine. "Damn, that's good."

"Told you," Riley said, taking a sip of her own. "Man's a wizard."

"You hitting Muses tonight?" Marcus called from further down the bar where he was pouring a beer.

"Wouldn't miss it," Riley replied. "Got a spot near Napoleon and St. Charles."

"Smart," Marcus nodded. "Garden District's gonna be a nightmare this year. Heard they're expecting record crowds."

Joe watched as Riley surveyed the room, seemingly relaxed but with a constant awareness that he recognized from his own experiences with fame. Even in minimal disguise, she was careful—monitoring exits, tracking who entered, keeping her back to the wall. It was subtle, probably unconscious, but he noticed because he did the same things.

"So how long have you been coming here?" he asked, genuinely curious about this piece of her history.

Riley traced the rim of her glass with one finger, smiling at some private memory. "Since before anyone knew who I was. This place is special—one of the last real local spots that hasn't been completely overrun. Marcus has owned it for twenty years, keeps the tourists out by never advertising and charging too much for domestic beer."

"Smart strategy," Joe nodded, respecting the intentionality behind it.

"The band played our first real gig here," Riley continued, her voice softer now. "First place that ever paid us actual money instead of just free drinks."

"How'd that go?" Joe asked.

Riley laughed, the sound warm and unreserved. "Complete disaster. We were so nervous, Pete broke two strings in the first song, Andy was late because his car broke down, and I forgot the lyrics to our opener—just stood there humming until the second verse." She shook her head at the memory. "But the crowd was drunk enough not to care, and Marcus kept booking us anyway."

Her expression turned thoughtful, and she glanced toward the small stage. "He saw something in us before anyone else did. Before we even saw it in ourselves, really."

There was something about the way she said it—a quiet gratitude, a recognition of how far she'd come—that made Joe want to know everything about her journey. Not the version in press releases or interviews, but the real story, with all its struggles and triumphs.

"Your turn," Riley said, nudging his arm. "Tell me something about Joe Burrow that isn't in the ESPN highlight reel."

Joe took another sip of his drink, buying himself a moment. What exactly did he share with her? The Talking Heads album was still weighing on his mind—This must be the place. If he wanted to be known, truly known by her, he needed to offer something real, not the carefully curated anecdotes he saved for media days.

Home is where I want to be...

The lyric circled in his head, reminding him of what had drawn him to Riley in the first place—her authenticity, her ability to be fully present in her life. She'd been honest with him, sharing stories of her early struggles without polish or pretense. Maybe he owed her the same.

"I worry sometimes," he said finally, his voice quieter but steady. "About how long I can keep doing this. The knee, the appendix..." He looked down at his drink, turning the glass slowly between his fingers. "Every time I come back, I tell everyone I'm not thinking about it. That I'm just focused on the next game, the next season. But sometimes, late at night, I do think about it."

Riley watched him, not rushing to fill the silence, giving his words the space they deserved.

"Football's all I've ever wanted," Joe continued. "But lately I've been wondering what comes after. What I'm going to be when I can't be that anymore." He shook his head slightly. "Sorry, that got pretty heavy for afternoon drinks."

"Don't apologize," Riley said, her expression serious but warm. "That's real. Every performer thinks about the shelf life of what we do. My voice won't sound like this forever. Your body won't move like that forever. It's normal to wonder what's on the other side."

Joe nodded, relieved by her understanding. "Yeah, exactly. Most people think we're crazy to worry when we're at the top of our game. But that's exactly when it hits you—knowing it can't last forever."

"So what's the answer?" Riley asked. "What does Joe Burrow do when he hangs up the cleats?"

He laughed softly. "That's the million-dollar question. Coaching, broadcasting—those are the expected routes. But I don't know if that's me."

"What about something completely different?" Riley suggested. "You strike me as someone who could excel at just about anything you set your mind to."

"Maybe," Joe said thoughtfully. "Wouldn't that be something? To completely reinvent myself?" He straightened, shaking off the momentary weight of contemplation. "Anyway, that's probably more than you bargained for when you asked for a fun fact about me."

Riley shook her head, her eyes holding his. "No, it's exactly what I wanted to know. The real stuff." She raised her glass. "To second acts and new beginnings—whenever we need them."

Joe clinked his glass against hers, feeling a strange lightness. He'd never spoken those fears aloud, not even to teammates who shared the same unspoken anxieties. Yet here in this dim bar, with a woman he'd known for barely a day, he'd found the words.

"Enough about uncertain futures," he said with a smile. "Tell me about this parade you keep promising will change my life."

Riley's eyes lit up, and as she launched into a detailed explanation of the Muses parade traditions, Joe found himself simply watching her—the animation in her gestures, the genuine enthusiasm in her voice. In her presence, even his deepest worries seemed less daunting, more like challenges to be met than shadows to be feared.

After their second drink, Riley checked her phone and straightened. "We should probably head back soon," she said. "I still need to get ready, and you haven't even seen your parade disguise yet."

"On a scale of one to complete transformation, how extreme are we talking?" Joe asked.

Riley's smile turned mischievous as she slid off her stool. She dropped several bills on the bar—far more than their drinks cost, Joe noticed—and gave Marcus a quick hug. "That should cover us and a little extra for the tip jar," she said.

Marcus shook his head with a smile. "Always too generous, Carter."

"Consider it an investment in my future drinking," she replied with a wink.

Joe observed this small interaction with interest. Another glimpse of her character—the casual generosity, the way she treated service workers not as invisible background characters but as important parts of her story.

As they stepped back into the late afternoon sunlight, the streets were noticeably more crowded than before. Joe pulled his bandana up as a precaution. The energy had shifted—more costumes appearing, music louder, the atmosphere charged with anticipation for the evening ahead.

The two Sazeracs had left a pleasant warmth in Joe's chest, just enough to lower his usual guard. As they navigated through clusters of tourists already adorned with beads and masks, he found himself walking closer to Riley, their hands occasionally brushing until she finally caught his with her own, intertwining their fingers naturally.

"I'm good," he said, squeezing her hand. "Just forgot how hard a Sazerac hits. And whatever the hell Elvin gave us probably didn't help."

"Not used to real drinks, huh? Too busy chugging protein shakes?" She bumped her hip against his.

Joe scoffed, his free hand landing on her waist. "Please. I could outdrink you and still wake up for a workout before you even thought about getting out of bed."

Riley raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh, is that right?" She squeezed his hand, tilting her head. "Don't play with me, sir. You do not want that smoke."

The casual touches, her fingers linked with his, the easy banter—it all felt at once new and strangely familiar, as if they'd known each other much longer than a handful of hours.

As they turned onto Riley's street, the residential area slightly calmer than the main drags, Joe found himself surprisingly eager for what came next. His thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand as they walked, a gesture so natural he didn't even realize he was doing it until he felt her respond with a gentle squeeze.

"Alright," he said as they climbed her porch steps, reluctantly releasing her hand so she could unlock the door. "Transform me."

Inside, the late afternoon light filtered through the lace curtains, creating patterns across the wooden floors. The record from the store sat on her coffee table, a physical reminder of his earlier revelation. Joe found himself staring at it, almost disbelieving of how much had shifted within him in just one day.

"Make yourself comfortable," Riley called over her shoulder as she disappeared into her bedroom. "This might take me a few minutes."

She paused at the doorway, turning back to catch his eye. "No passing out on my couch, mister."

"No promises," Joe replied with a lazy smile, though he was far from actually drunk—just comfortable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

He settled onto her couch, the worn velvet somehow more inviting than his own pristine furniture back home. The combination of Elvin's bourbon and Marcus's Sazeracs had left him pleasantly buzzed, his usual hyperawareness softened around the edges.

He closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself simply exist in this space—this house that had somehow felt like home from the moment he'd stepped inside. The distant sounds of Carnival filtered through the open windows, but in here, in Riley's world, there was a stillness that felt sacred somehow.

"Ta-da!" Riley's voice broke through his reverie.

Joe looked up and froze. She'd completely transformed in the thirty minutes she'd disappeared into her room. A light purple wig framed her face—not a vibrant electric color, but a softer lavender that somehow looked surprisingly natural despite being obviously fake. Her face glittered with gold and purple sparkles concentrated around her eyes and cheekbones, making her features shimmer in the light. But it was the outfit that really caught his attention—a black crop top that exposed just enough skin to be interesting without being too revealing, paired with sequined shorts in alternating bands of purple, gold, and green that caught the light with her every movement. She'd paired the look with her black high-top Converse, a leather jacket slung over her arm.

"Damn," was all Joe could manage.

Riley grinned, giving a theatrical twirl. "Now you."

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into her bedroom, where she'd laid out his disguise on the bed—a purple snapback with a fleur-de-lis embroidered on it, mirrored aviators, and a bandana in Mardi Gras colors. There were beads too, lots of them, and a white t-shirt with "Laissez Les Bon Temps Rouler" printed across the front.

"Subtle," Joe said dryly.

"The beauty of Carnival," Riley said, handing him the shirt, "is that nobody looks at faces. Everyone's staring at costumes, masks, floats. The more you blend in with tourists, the more invisible you become."

Joe changed quickly, pulling the shirt over his head. Riley stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the hat on his head. Her fingers brushed his temple as she worked, warm against his skin. They stood close enough that he could smell her perfume mingling with the faint scent of the bourbon they'd shared. He found himself fighting the urge to pull her closer, to close the small distance between them.

"There," she said, her hands lingering at the sides of his face as she stepped back slightly to examine her work. "How's it feel?"

Joe looked at himself in her full-length mirror, hyper-aware of her standing just behind him, her reflection meeting his eyes in the glass. Between the hat pulled low, the aviators, and the bandana that he could pull up when needed, he was essentially anonymous. He looked like every other out-of-towner in the city for Carnival.

"Weird," he admitted. "But good weird."

"Perfect. Egan texted—they're already at her place with drinks flowing. Six, maybe seven people."

Joe hesitated, something tightening in his chest. "They all know who I am?"

"I may have mentioned I was bringing someone," Riley said with a casual shrug. "And Egan may have figured out who you are. She's smart like that."

Joe felt his shoulders tense. So much for anonymity. Mark and Bill's warnings from their last conversation replayed in his head.

"Look, we're not trying to kill your vibe here," Mark had said, that forced casual tone he used when he was actually concerned. "But it's Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Joe. The whole city is one giant party, and Riley Carter isn't exactly known for taking it easy."

Bill hadn't even attempted to be subtle. "Her world is different, man. We've all seen her Instagram. Those afterparties go until sunrise. That crowd lives for that shit. One video of you getting wild with her friends, and suddenly we're not talking about your comeback season anymore—we're explaining why you're doing tequila shots at 3 AM."

Joe had brushed them off then, but their words hit differently now. The Riley he'd spent the morning with—cooking breakfast, showing him her neighborhood—seemed miles away from the party girl they'd described. But maybe he was about to see that other side of her, the rock star who thrived in chaos and crowds.

"So much for anonymity," he finally said, his tone more resigned than angry.

"Hey," Riley said, stepping closer, her eyes clear and confident. "These are my people. They've had my back through everything. They know how to keep things quiet."

Joe nodded, but couldn't shake the uneasiness. Every new person who recognized him was another potential leak, another possible viral moment. And if things did get wild tonight—well, Mark and Bill would have a field day with the I-told-you-so's.

"We don't have to go," Riley offered, reading his expression. "We can head straight to the parade spot."

"No," Joe said, making a decision. "I want to meet your friends. Just..."

"Just be prepared to slip out if it gets weird," Riley finished for him. "I get it. We'll have an escape plan."

Twenty minutes later, they were walking through streets that had transformed completely from earlier in the day. The energy was electric now, people in various states of costume filling the sidewalks, music pouring from every direction, the air thick with the mingled scents of food, alcohol, and anticipation.

Joe had the bandana pulled up over his nose and mouth, the hat low over his eyes. He looked like dozens of other revelers—anonymous and unremarkable in the sea of Carnival preparations. But beneath the disguise, his mind was racing. These were Riley's people. Her world. And he was about to walk right into it.

"Nervous?" Riley asked, glancing at him as they turned down a side street away from the main crowd.

"A little," Joe admitted. There was something about her that made it easy to be honest when he'd normally deflect. "I'm not great with new people to begin with. Add in the whole..." he gestured vaguely at himself, "...this thing, and yeah. A little nervous."

"If it helps, they're more nervous about meeting you," Riley said, a hint of amusement in her voice. "Egan's been texting me non-stop. 'What's he like? Is he cool? What should I not mention?'"

Joe raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "What did you tell her?"

"That you're just a regular guy who happens to throw a football really well. And that if anyone says anything about the Kansas City game, I'll personally remove them from the balcony."

That got a real laugh out of him, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. "Appreciate that."

As they approached a faded blue double shotgun with a wide front porch already filled with people, the bass of music thumped from inside. Bottles clinked, laughter erupted, and Joe caught the unmistakable scent of something that definitely wasn't tobacco. He inhaled slightly, a small smile playing at his lips. Off-season had its perks, after all, and it's not like he was getting drug tested tomorrow. Still, Mark's voice nagged in his head: Just be smart about it, man. No phones, people you trust, no exceptions.

Riley seemed to sense his hesitation, her hand finding his and giving it a quick squeeze. "Two hours, max," she promised. "Then we hit the parade. And if you want to leave sooner, just say the word."

Joe nodded, squeezing her hand back before reluctantly letting go. In Cincinnati, nobody touched him casually like that. He was already missing the contact.

They climbed the steps, and a woman with a short undercut and colorful tattoos spotted them immediately, breaking away from a conversation to rush over, drink sloshing precariously in her hand.

"Finally!" she exclaimed, hugging Riley tightly. She pulled back to examine the wig, nodding with approval. "Love this color on you. Different vibe from last year's blue situation."

"Thought I'd change it up," Riley said, adjusting the wig slightly. She turned to Joe with a look that said ready? "Egan, this is Joe. Joe, Egan—my oldest friend in New Orleans."

"Hey," Joe said, keeping his voice casual pulling the bandanna down. He'd perfected the art of the neutral greeting after years of meeting strangers who already knew everything about him.

Egan's eyes sparkled with recognition, but she played it cool, leaning in to give him a quick hug that caught him off guard. "Nice to meet you," she said at a normal volume, then lowered her voice to add, "Your secret's safe here, promise. We're not the type to blast stuff on social media."

"Appreciate that," Joe said, relaxing slightly at her obvious discretion. Maybe this wouldn't be the disaster his team had predicted.

"Come on," Egan said, leading them toward the door. "Everyone's inside. Fair warning—Tomas brought his infamous punch, and Jeremy is already three drinks in and talking about the Saints' defensive line, so maybe steer clear unless you want to debate NFL strategy all night."

Riley shot Joe an apologetic look, but he just shrugged. "I can talk defense with the best of them."

"That's what I was afraid of," Egan said with a laugh. "Get ready for the football interrogation of your life. He's been preparing his takes all day since I told him you were coming."

Joe couldn't help but smile at that. At least he'd be on familiar territory talking football, even if everything else about this night was uncharted waters.

As they stepped into the crowded house, the door closing behind them, Joe instinctively pulled the bandana down from his face. Out there, in the streets of New Orleans, he needed to be anonymous. But in here, among Riley's trusted circle, he could just be Joe. The air was warm, thick with conversation and music—the rich aroma of good bourbon mingling with something savory cooking in the kitchen, the subtle notes of perfume and cologne, and the unmistakable sweet scent of good flower hanging in the air. This was a long way from his quiet place in Cincinnati, and somewhere between terrifying and exhilarating.

A tall guy with long hair pulled into a messy bun spotted them from the kitchen doorway and called out over the music. "Carter! Get over here! The jungle juice is going fast!"

"That's Tomas," Riley explained, tugging Joe toward the kitchen. "His jungle juice is legendary, but I've seen it take down people twice your size."

As they navigated through the crowd, Joe felt the weight of curious glances but was surprised by how normal it felt. No one was making a big deal of his presence. No phones appeared, no one asked for selfies. Riley's friends greeted him with casual nods or quick introductions—like he was just another friend she'd brought along.

In the kitchen, Tomas was pouring something purple from a massive crystal bowl into mismatched cups. The sweet, fruity smell barely masked what had to be at least three different kinds of liquor.

"The man of the hour," Tomas said, looking up at Joe with an easy grin. He extended his hand. "Good to meet you, man. I'm Tomas."

"Joe," he replied, shaking the offered hand. "That looks intense."

"Family recipe," Tomas said proudly, ladling two cups. "Great-grandfather was a bootlegger during Prohibition. So, that fourth-quarter conversion against Baltimore? Man, that was something else. The way you read that defense—"

"Right?" Joe replied, immediately animated. "They showed blitz but I could tell by the safety's position they were dropping into coverage. It was all about that pre-snap read."

Riley gave Tomas a look that said now you've done it, but she was smiling. Joe took a long sip of the jungle juice, the sweetness barely concealing the serious kick of alcohol.

A guy in a Saints cap who'd been listening from the edge of the kitchen stepped forward eagerly. "So that's how you knew? I've been arguing with my buddies about that play for weeks."

"You must be Jeremy," Joe said, extending his hand. "Egan mentioned you're the Saints expert around here."

"Guilty," Jeremy admitted with a grin, shaking Joe's hand firmly. "Been obsessing over our defensive schemes all season."

"Actually, your coordinator's making some interesting adjustments," Joe said, comfortably leaning against the counter. "That Tampa-2 variation he ran against the Rams was pretty innovative."

Jeremy's eyes lit up. "You noticed that? Most people missed it completely. The way he disguised the coverage pre-snap was brilliant."

"Damn, that's good," he said, genuinely impressed.

"Told you," Riley said, nudging him with her shoulder. "Tomas makes it once a year, just for Mardi Gras."

A woman with long braids appeared at Riley's side, nudging her with an elbow. "You gonna introduce us, or what?"

"Joe, this is Jen," Riley said. "We went to music school together before she abandoned me for law school."

"Best decision I ever made," Jen said, her eyes moving to Joe with open curiosity. "Your girl's a nightmare to tour with."

“Okay, rude,” Riley said, taking a sip of her drink. “I am a delight to tour with.

Jen snorted. “Sure. If your definition of delight includes panic-packing and losing your phone daily.”

Joe turned to Riley, amused. “That sounds… about right.”

Riley just shrugged. “I like a little chaos.”

The guy in a beanie passed by, already smoking. He paused, offering it to Riley with a casual nod.

Riley took it smoothly, inhaling and holding for a moment before passing it to Joe without comment or question. No big deal.

Joe took it with the same casual confidence he brought to everything else. Off-season had its perks, after all. He inhaled with practiced ease, the familiar routine more muscle memory than conscious thought. The tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying in his shoulders melted away as he exhaled low and slow.

He passed it back to Riley, who took another pull before returning it to its original owner. The entire exchange happened with the ease of people comfortable in their choices – no hesitation, no side glances for permission or approval. Just adults making their own decisions.

The conversation around them hadn't even skipped a beat, Jeremy still deep into breaking down some defensive formation with the same enthusiasm as before.

Joe settled back, feeling the pleasant warmth beginning to spread through him. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't calculating risks or considering optics. He was just... here. Present. And it felt good.

Joe felt himself settle.

Maybe it was the jungle juice, maybe the weed, maybe just the hum of the night, but for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t thinking about who might be watching.

He wasn’t thinking about the headlines, or the cameras, or Mark and Bill’s warnings.

"So Joe," Jeremy said, leaning forward, "what are you guys looking at in the draft this year? Our mock drafts have you taking that offensive lineman from Alabama."

"Oh God," Riley groaned. "Please talk about something else besides football. We'll never make it to the parade."

But Joe was already engaged, comfortably settling into the topic. "We definitely need to strengthen a few positions," he said, casually confident in his standing with the organization. "I've been watching film on some of the top receiving prospects. Our front office knows I have thoughts."

Jeremy leaned forward, clearly impressed. "They actually let you weigh in on draft picks?"

Joe shrugged, but there was a quiet assurance in the gesture. "It's my offense. They want to make sure whoever they bring in fits what we're building. I was in the draft room last year."

"That's how it should be," Jeremy said, clearly thrilled with this insider perspective. "When you've got a franchise quarterback, you build around what works for him."

Joe gave a slight nod, taking a sip of his drink. "And honestly, that Alabama lineman you mentioned? Wouldn't hate that pick."

As they were preparing to leave for the parade, Joe found himself in a final conversation with Jeremy and Tomas. The three had moved from defensive schemes to debating the league's best venues, finding common ground despite their team loyalties.

"Man, I still haven't made it to a game in Cincinnati," Tomas admitted, finishing his drink. "The atmosphere looks incredible on TV though."

"You should come out next season," Joe said without hesitation, pulling out his phone. "Here, put your numbers in. I'll set you guys up with tickets."

Jeremy's eyes widened. "Seriously? That would be insane."

"Absolutely," Joe nodded, his tone matter-of-fact as he handed his phone to Tomas. "Good seats too, not nosebleeds. And I can get you both field passes before the game."

"That's... damn, thanks man," Tomas said, clearly surprised by the genuine offer as he typed in his number and passed the phone to Jeremy.

"Riley's friends are my friends," Joe said with an easy confidence. "Just let me know which game works for you."

Riley, returning from saying goodbye to Jen, caught the end of the exchange. The pleased surprise on her face told Joe everything he needed to know - he'd just breezed through an important test he hadn't known he was taking.

"Already stealing my people, Burrow?" she teased, sliding her arm through his.

"Can't help it if they have excellent taste in football," he replied with a half-smile, tucking his phone away.

Twenty minutes later, Egan clapped her hands over the music. "Alright, parade time! Muses waits for no one!"

A flurry of movement followed—jackets thrown on, drinks drained, beads tossed over heads, masks adjusted. Someone passed Riley a silver sequined mask, and she slid it into place effortlessly, her eyes flashing behind it.

"We better move," Jeremy said, downing the last of his drink. "Last year Egan left me behind when I took too long."

"She's not joking about the parade waiting for no one," Joe observed, already on his feet and adjusting his bandana. He pulled his cap lower, ready for what came next.

Riley appeared at his side, eyes bright with excitement. "You ready, babes?"

Joe looked at her, taking in the way she vibrated with energy. The way the city felt alive around her, like it moved in sync with her heartbeat. He nodded, already moving toward the door. "Let's go."

As the group spilled onto the porch, the night swallowed them whole—music spilling from open doors, the distant wail of a brass band tuning up, strangers laughing like old friends. Joe stepped confidently into the current, making his way through the crowd with Riley's hand in his, no longer feeling like a visitor but like someone who belonged in this moment.

The parade route was already packed three-deep when they arrived, but Egan navigated with confidence toward a small section that had been impossibly preserved amid the chaos.

"Trahan family real estate," Riley explained, catching Joe's questioning look. "Egan's family has been claiming this exact spot for generations. I've been watching Muses with them since we were in high school."

A cluster of people waved as they approached—a mix of ages and styles that somehow fit together seamlessly, like most things in New Orleans. Joe recognized the easy familiarity of a group that had history together, the kind of connections that ran deeper than occasional meetups.

"Finally!" called a woman who had to be Egan's mother, their features mirroring each other. "We've been fighting off spot-stealers for an hour!"

"Worth the wait though," Riley called back. "We brought reinforcements."

The introductions were casual, unforced. Val and her husband Marco, Egan's parents Marie and Louis, a couple of cousins whose names blurred together. Nobody made a big deal about who Joe was, though he caught the flash of recognition in their eyes. Here, he was just Riley's guy, which felt both strange and surprisingly comfortable.

"So you survived Tomas's jungle juice," Val said, handing Joe a red Solo cup filled with something that smelled like whiskey and fruit juice. "That alone earns you parade privileges."

"It was touch and go for a minute," Joe admitted, taking a sip. Good bourbon, not the cheap stuff.

Marco appeared with a flask, topping off Joe's cup. "Insurance against the wait," he explained with a wink. "Muses runs on New Orleans time."

Riley slipped her arm through Joe's, leaning into him. "Marco's family has been in the Quarter for four generations. His grandmother used to tell us stories about the prohibition-era tunnels under his building."

"Some of them are still there," Marco said proudly. "Though now they're mostly full of old Mardi Gras props and my aunt's preserves."

Joe found himself drawn into their easy conversation, the kind that flowed without the weight of expectation. Nobody asked him about football strategy or his rehab progress. Nobody treated him like Joe Burrow, franchise quarterback. He was just another body in the crowd, anonymous behind his bandana, free to soak in the moment without performing for anyone.

A roar went up from further down the route, and the energy of the crowd instantly shifted, people pressing forward in anticipation.

The energy in the crowd was electric, the anticipation crackling through the streets like a live wire. Riley's grip on Joe's hand tightened, her eyes locked on the approaching float.

"Here we go," she said, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet. She glanced up at him, noticing his bandana had slipped slightly. Without a word, she reached up and adjusted it, making sure it covered his features properly. Then, with a quick smile, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss against the fabric over his lips.

Joe blinked in surprise, feeling the warmth of her lips even through the bandana.

Joe glanced down at her, the excitement in her expression making his chest feel weirdly tight. He'd never seen anything like this—felt anything like this. He wasn't just watching Mardi Gras; he was in it, part of it, woven into the chaos like he belonged.

When the float got closer, Riley waved, calling up to one of the masked riders. Beads flew in every direction, but Joe could tell she was tracking something else entirely—the real prize.

"Every year since I was a kid," she said, voice raised over the noise, "I've made it my mission to catch a shoe."

Joe glanced down at her, amused. "And how's that been going for you?"

She shot him a look. "I have a collection, thank you very much."

Still, he could tell she wanted this one.

And when a glittering shoe sailed just out of her reach, Joe didn't hesitate. "Getting you a shoe," he said decisively, gripping the backs of her thighs before she could protest and lifting her onto his shoulders in one smooth motion.

Riley let out a surprised laugh that turned into a whoop of delight as she settled her weight against him. Her thighs tightened around his neck, her hands bracing on his head for balance.

Joe planted his feet wider, holding steady as the next float rolled up. The women onboard were throwing wildly now, and he could feel Riley's excitement vibrating through her legs.

"Hey!" she yelled, waving both arms. "Right here!"

One of the masked riders spotted her, held up a glittering purple shoe, and sent it flying in a perfect arc.

Riley reached up and snatched it out of the air like she'd been waiting for that exact moment her whole life.

Her triumphant scream was loud enough to make Joe's ears ring, but he couldn't stop smiling as she pumped the shoe in the air like a championship trophy.

"We got one!" she shouted, and the people around them cheered, caught up in her infectious joy.

Joe shook his head, grinning. "That was all you."

She didn't hesitate before throwing her arms around his neck.

Neither did he before pulling her in.

As the parade continued, the crowd surged and compressed around them. Joe maintained his position with the same calm awareness he showed in a collapsing pocket, creating a small space for Riley without seeming to exert effort. His hand rested comfortably at the small of her back, guiding her through the masses with subtle, assured movements.

Joe scanned the crowd, quickly spotted a better viewing angle for the next float, and guided Riley toward it with a light touch at her back - decisive but never controlling. They arrived just in time to catch the front of the next procession.

When a flask made its way through their group, Joe took measured sips - enjoying himself but maintaining his characteristic control, even in celebration. Riley tucked herself against his side when the crowd pressed in closer, and Joe's arm draped over her shoulders as they swayed to a brass band.

The parade energy built as floats continued to pass. Joe caught several strands of beads tossed his way with the same easy precision he showed on the field - one-handed catches that drew appreciative cheers from nearby revelers. He draped them casually around his neck, collecting quite a collection as the night went on.

At one point, Riley reached up and selected one particularly vibrant strand of purple beads from his collection. With deliberate slowness, she removed it from around his neck and then looped it back, her fingers lingering at his collar, a touch that said more than words could. Their eyes met briefly in the carnival lights, a moment of connection amid the chaos.

The night continued to unfold around them, and Joe moved through it with the same quiet confidence he brought to everything else - present, engaged, and completely at ease in this new experience.

A hand appeared in his peripheral vision, offering him a flask. He took it, nodding in thanks before taking another swig.

"You surviving?" Tomas asked, grinning as Joe handed it back.

Joe followed his gaze to Riley, who was still showing off the shoe to Egan, her whole face lit up. He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Something like that."

Tomas smirked, tipping the flask toward him in a lazy salute. "Good. Would've been a shame if we had to carry you out."

Joe huffed a laugh, tapping his cup against Tomas's flask before the other man wandered off. Something warm settled in his chest—something weightless.

When Riley reappeared at his side, still clutching the shoe like it was made of gold, she looked up at him, her hand sliding into his like it had been there all along. "You good?"

Joe took in the music, the crowd, the easy way she fit against him.

"Yeah," he said, meaning it completely. "I really am."

The parade's final float disappeared around the corner, leaving behind streets littered with beads, empty cups, and the lingering notes of brass bands. Riley's friends were already making plans, voices overlapping in the post-parade high.

"Egan's cousin knows the bartender at Vaughan's," Val announced, waving her phone. "Says he can get us in the back door, skip the line."

"Definitely hitting that," Tomas agreed, slinging an arm around Marco's shoulders. "You two coming? The night is still young!"

Riley glanced at Joe, her eyes slightly unfocused from the bourbon they'd been passing around. She leaned into him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his ear.

"What do you think? After-party at Vaughan's? Or..." she trailed off, the unspoken alternative hanging between them.

Joe felt the pleasant buzz of alcohol in his system, his inhibitions softened just enough to be dangerous. He looked down at her, at the way the streetlights caught in her eyes, at the purple beads still looped around her neck.

"I'll do whatever you want," he said, meaning it completely.

Riley studied him for a beat, then turned back to the group. "I think we're gonna pass," she announced. "It's been a big day for the out-of-towner."

Egan's eyebrows shot up, a knowing smile spreading across her face. "I bet it has."

"Text me tomorrow," Val called as Riley grabbed Joe's hand, tugging him away from the group. "Details required!"

"No promises!" Riley shouted back, already pulling Joe down a side street that would take them toward her neighborhood.

They made it half a block before Riley stumbled on a broken piece of sidewalk, pitching forward with a surprised laugh. Joe caught her around the waist, his own balance not exactly steady.

"Whoa there," he said, overcorrecting and nearly sending them both into a parked car. "I think we might be a little drunk."

"A little?" Riley snorted, leaning heavily against him. "I passed 'a little' somewhere between Tomas's jungle juice and Val's flask."

Joe steadied them both, one arm firmly around her waist. "Maybe I should carry you."

"You absolutely should not," Riley said, poking him in the chest. "You're as drunk as I am. We'd both end up in the gutter."

"I'm a professional athlete," Joe protested, puffing out his chest dramatically. "My balance is impeccable."

To demonstrate, he attempted to walk a straight line down the sidewalk and immediately almost veered into a streetlamp.

Riley doubled over, laughter echoing off the old buildings. "Oh yeah, very impressive, Burrow. Gold medal performance."

Joe straightened up, flashing a sheepish grin. “In my defense, that lamppost came out of nowhere.”

"Clearly," Riley agreed, rejoining him and slipping her arm through his. "Maybe we should support each other. Safety in numbers."

"Teamwork," Joe nodded seriously. "Smart."

They made it another block like that, weaving slightly but mostly upright, exchanging snippets of conversation that dissolved into laughter. Joe couldn't remember the last time he'd been this relaxed, this unconcerned with who might be watching or what tomorrow's headlines might say.

Riley stopped suddenly, almost toppling them both. "Wait. Important question."

"Hit me," Joe said, steadying himself against a wrought-iron fence.

"Are you hungry? Because I'm suddenly starving, and there's this place that makes the best drunk food in the city just around the corner."

Joe realized he hadn't eaten anything substantial since before the parade. "I could definitely eat."

"Follow me," Riley said, tugging him down another street. "But fair warning—I'm about to ruin all other late-night food forever."

Three blocks and several near-falls later, they stumbled up to a tiny window built into the side of a brick building. A handwritten sign advertised "NOLA's Best 2AM Eats" despite it being nowhere near 2AM.

The man working the window nodded at Riley like he saw her every weekend. "The usual, Carter?"

"Times two," Riley confirmed, leaning heavily against the counter.

Five minutes later, they were walking again, this time with paper boats filled with what Joe could only describe as the most perfect drunk food he'd ever seen—crispy fries smothered in a spicy crawfish sauce and melted cheese.

"Oh my god," Joe mumbled around a mouthful. "This is incredible."

"Told you," Riley said, looking smug as she popped a sauce-covered fry into her mouth. "Local secret. Tourists never find this place."

They ate as they walked, pausing occasionally to steady themselves or to savor a particularly good bite. At one point, Riley reached over with her thumb to wipe a spot of sauce from the corner of Joe's mouth, the casual intimacy of the gesture making his heart stutter.

"You know what's nice?" Riley asked as they turned onto her street, their food long finished. "This. Just walking home like regular people. No cars, no security, no schedule. Just...wandering."

Joe understood what she meant. For people like them, spontaneity was usually the first casualty of fame. "It's been a minute since I've just wandered anywhere."

"Me too," Riley admitted, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Tour life is hyper-scheduled. Every minute accounted for."

"Same with the season," Joe said. "Even the 'free time' isn't really free."

Riley hummed in agreement. They walked in comfortable silence for a moment, the connection between them needing no words.

"We're here," she announced eventually, stopping in front of her house. She fumbled with her keys, dropping them once before successfully unlocking the door.

The door to Riley's house flung open with excessive force, followed by the sound of her laughter bouncing off the walls. Joe stumbled in behind her, catching the doorframe to steady himself as he kicked the door closed with his foot.

This time when their lips met, there was no bandana between them.

The kiss was clumsy at first—both of them still unsteady from the night's revelry, finding new equilibrium in each other's arms. But what they lacked in coordination, they made up for in enthusiasm. Joe backed Riley against the wall, nearly knocking over a small table in the process. They broke apart, laughing.

"Maybe we should slow down," Riley suggested, her words slightly slurred. "Before we break something valuable."

"Good plan," Joe agreed, though his hands remained firmly on her waist. "Responsible. Smart."

Riley pressed her palms against his chest, gently pushing him back. "Stay right here. Don't move."

"Not going anywhere," Joe promised, swaying slightly as he watched her navigate the dimly lit hallway with exaggerated care.

Riley returned with two glasses of water, pressing one into his hand. "Drink this. Future you will thank present you."

"Future me is a smart guy," Joe agreed, downing the water in several long gulps.

Riley watched him over the rim of her own glass, eyes bright with mischief and something warmer. "Today was fun."

"Mmm," Joe hummed in agreement, setting his empty glass on a nearby table. "Best parade ever."

"Told you," Riley said, a hint of pride in her voice. "Muses is special."

Joe stepped closer, crowding her against the wall, his hands finding her waist again. "You're special," he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

Riley's breath caught, her eyes darkening as she looked up at him. "That's the bourbon talking and other stuff."

"Nope," Joe said, popping the 'p' sound. "That's just me talking. Bourbon's just making it easier to say."

Riley laughed softly, setting her water aside to loop her arms around his neck. "Is that right?"

Joe nodded solemnly, his face close enough that she could smell the sweet, woody scent of bourbon on his breath. "I've been wanting to tell you all day. You look... incredible. Like something out of a dream."

Riley’s fingers played with the hair at the nape of his neck, her expression softening. “Look at you, with the smooth talk,” she murmured, but the way her eyes softened gave away how his words affected her.

Joe’s lips curved into a small, almost hesitant smile as his hand slid up her back. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Riley breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t felt this way in… maybe ever.”

Something shifted in Joe’s gaze, the teasing edge giving way to something deeper. He searched her eyes, his own more serious now. “Me neither,” he admitted, his tone low and honest. “Not even close.

”Their mouths met in a kiss that tasted like bourbon and desire, sweet and hot and demanding. Riley pressed closer, her body arching into his. The Muses shoe she'd been clutching all night finally fell forgotten to the floor as her hands found better things to hold onto.

"Too many clothes," she complained, tugging at the buttons of his costume jacket.

"Agreed," Joe murmured against her neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "This outfit is... complicated."

Riley laughed breathlessly, pushing him back slightly. "Come on."

They stumbled down the hallway, shedding pieces of their costumes as they went—his jacket in the hall, her skirt pooling at the doorway, his shirt somewhere near the foot of the bed. By the time they fell onto the mattress, they were both down to their underwear, skin flushed with alcohol and desire.

Joe hovered over her, his eyes taking in the sight of her against the tangled sheets, hair splayed around her like a golden halo. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, the words slipping out before he could think.

Riley's eyes softened, her hands coming up to frame his face. "So are you," she whispered.

Their lips met again, the kiss deeper, slower, full of something neither was quite ready to name. Joe's hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, fingers hooking in the waistband of her underwear. Riley arched into his touch, a soft sound escaping her throat.

"Joe," she breathed, the single syllable holding a question and an answer all at once.

"Right here," he replied, understanding perfectly.

The rest of the world fell away—the sounds of distant revelry filtering through the window, the scattered pieces of their costumes marking a trail to the bed, the knowledge that tomorrow would bring complications and distance. For now, there was only this—her body against his, the taste of her on his tongue, the way she said his name like it was the only word worth saying.

Later—much later— they lay tangled together, bodies cooling in the night air. Joe pressed lazy kisses along Riley’s shoulder, missing once and landing on the pillow instead.

She giggled, rolling toward him. “We should get some water.”

“Probably,” Joe agreed, but made no move to get up. His arm flopped dramatically over her waist. “My legs don’t work.”

Riley poked him in the ribs. “It’s my house. Guest gets the water.”

“I just ran a marathon,” he countered, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “Need electrolytes.”

She snorted. “Three minutes is not a marathon, Burrow.”

“Felt like one,” he mumbled into her hair, already half-asleep. The bourbon, the parade, and their enthusiastic—if chaotic—activities had finally caught up with him.

Riley sighed, giving in as she slipped out from under his arm. “Fine, lazy. I’ll get the water. Future us will thank me.”

“Future us are suckers,” he muttered, still mostly out of it.

She just smiled, shaking her head as she padded toward the kitchen, already imagining him half-asleep when she got back.

The last thing he remembered before sleep claimed him was Riley shifting closer, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her body fitting against his like a missing puzzle piece.

Home, he thought hazily as consciousness slipped away. This feels like home.

[sweeta1ice]

contents: 18+, M/F, black girl as main character, imagined to be dark skinned (not relevant to plot), NSFW, religious mentions, sooo many pet names, daddy kink (duh?!) from the author, ass kink from Remmick, ignore grammar issues (I typed all of this one hand, iykwim), oral (f and m receiving, more detailed on the m sorry!), p in v, implied death, mc is a virgin, pubic hair mentioned, spit, specific age is not mentioned, mentions of middle/elementary school mc, Mississippi-specific  AAVE so don’t freak out, lines from Sinners used, if i missed any let me know

a/n: hey, ya'll! This is my first time writing smut since freshman year COVID, and I'm 19 now! I hope y'all enjoy and as a Mississippi gal myself, most of the pet names used by Remmick I've been called my whole life so pls don't think I'm just being horny, they make sense to me haha! ;)

Wc: 2.9k

Bred, Bitten and Bound 𖤓

The midnight wind of the Delta swayed in the trees, dancing between the long branches. The juke joint was alive just beyond the trees, it’s opening night, pulsing with joy and blues guitar licks that shook the Mississippi soil. They decided they needed some fresh air. The firelight flickered, casting orange shadows on swaying hips and liquor-soaked lips. Girls in their Bible study dresses now hung low on the shoulder. Boys with their Sunday best on letting the alcohol possess them so wild. It was a night warned by their preacher, a night of ecstasy. 

Alice sat on a log, rocking ever so lightly to the laughter of her friends and the tunes echoing from the juke joint. Her friends were linked by the mouth and connected by the body. It gave her a familiar aching pain. They passed around a flask she did not touch. 

“I’ll be right back, y'all”, Alice sighed, forcing a smile. The sight of her friends being so… united, so wanted, made her chest ache. She stepped away from the lustful heat, deeper into the pines. Her kitten heels sank into the dirt. The crackled of the fire faded behind her, replaced with the hush of the night-  odd for this time of year in Mississippi. Alice lifted her face towards the sky to see the stars prancing and the trees sway like dancers. Her eyes drifted back down to earth and met him. He leaned back against the tree. Pale skin mimicking the moonlight, shirt unbuttoned flaunting a gold chain and white undershirt, slacks being held up by suspenders that cling to wide, strong shoulders. A cigarette glowed between his fingers. He didn’t move, didn’t blink.

Just watched her. 

Her steps faltered.

A white man. Far from home. Too far. He was older than her, but not old. Taller, but not tall. Just stone. Her eyes met his. Blue. His lips curved just a touch, and he brought the cigarette to his mouth. A drag. Calculated. Slow. He spoke, voice smooth as molasses dripping off a spoon on a cool Sunday morning before church.

“Y’all havin fun o’er there, pretty lady?”

Alice’s voice caught in her throat. Her two toned lips parted as the wind gyrated through her coils. He didn’t look like any man she’d ever seen in that Magnolia County. Not like the men in church. He was still, like he’d been carved from granite. Her fingers curled into the hem of her coral-colored dress. 

“I… I reckon”, she said, voice small, almost unsure of itself.

“Lookin’ for some fresh air, or..?” He trailed. She shook her head gently, taking her full bottom lip between her teeth, earning a subtle smile from the man. 

“Yeah, I understand that,” he continued. “Sometimes it gets a little hot, hmm? Folks all pressed together, dancin’, kissin’, sweatin’ like it’s Judgement Day.” Alice swallowed hard. Her almond eyes dropping to the ground, then flicking back up. He hadn’t moved an inch, just watched her. 

Studied her. 

“You got a name, honeybee?” he asked.

She hesitated, then gave it to him softly. “Alice.”

“Alice”, he echoed,like a scripture from a cracked pulpit. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

Her stomach tightened at his words. Her weight shifted as she twiddled still with the hem of her dress. The wind curled through her hair again, lifting her dress just enough to kiss her knees. 

“ Yours?” She asked, barely above a whisper. 

“Remmick”, he smiled. She nodded once again like a shy girl on the first day of school.

“I didn’t see you at the juke joint. It had a couple white folk in there,” she said quietly. He chuckled low. It was like a bass line of a blues record- deep,rough and lazy. 

“No, ma’am. Crowds ain’t for me.”

“ So you’re just… waitin’ out here for someone?”

“Yeah, mama,” he took another drag of his cigarette. “You could say that.” His eyes, hooded and intense, travelled down to her body with a slowness that made her breath hitch. He took in the plumpness of her lips, slick with gloss. The stray coils that had slipped from her pinned-up hair, now sticking to her neck with sweat. The way her coral dress clung to her hips- sensual without meaning to be.Tempting without knowing it.  The hem  stopped right above her calves, leaving just enough to the imagination. He ran his tongue across his bottom lip. He pushed himself with his heel off of the tree. He stalked slowly towards her, like a lion with its prey. “You always wander off by your lonesome at night, babydoll’?”

She shook her head, chest rising with each shallow breath. “Atta’ gal,” he murmured.  “Wouldn’t dream of havin’ somethin’ awful happen to a sweet thing like you,” he remarked, voice laced with mockery-but soft, almost playful. That stormy blue in his eyes was overtaken with a red- not the red of rage, or the red of heat.

Blood-red.

Remmick didn’t speak for a moment. Just…moved. One slow step at a time. He circled her, lazy-like. Unhurried. Like a vulture gliding above a stretch of a Mississippi highway– patient, certain. She didn’t dare turn her head to follow him. Just felt him. His presence slid against her like smoke– brushing her neck,her shoulders, her spine. Then, she felt his hand. Cold as ice. He slipped it beneath her hair, adjusting the collar of her cardigan where it had slouched off her shoulder. 

“There,” he muttered near her ear, voice low and velvety. “Didn’t want you catchin’ cold.”

His fingers lingered just a second longer than ncessary. The chill of his skin burned a path down her back. Alice shivered, and, my God did he noticed. He moved again- around her other side now- his boots making barely a sound on the pine needle-covered earth. 

“You came with them, didn’t you?” he asked. “Those friends of yours…all tangled up at the fire like they forgot what shame feels like.” Alice’s throat tightened. “I could feel it from here,”He drawled.”That lust. Hunger. I tell ya, sugar, it rolls off drunk bodies like sweat.” He stopped in front of her again, tilting his head just so. Those eyes weren’t blue anymore, she was sure of it. There was something darker laced in the center. Somethting ancient, red and starved.

Alice didn’t breathe. Couldn’t. Remmick stood in front of her, his broad chest rising slow under the white undershirt clinging to his body. That red glow still flickered in his eyes. His gaze dropped. It followed the line of her throat, down to where her cardigan hung open,framing the plump curve of her breasts straining beneath her coral dress. 

“Lord have mercy,” he muttered, voice more growl than words.”You’re just so… soft, huh?” Alice bit her lip, shifitng where she stood. Her thighs brushed, sticky with her heat, shame, and something sweeter. Remmick stepped close–close enough that she could feel the heat off his body, close enough to taste the cigarette and hunger on his breath. He reached out again,rough fingers ghosting down her arm until he gripped her wrist gently, then brought it to his mouth. He listen to the sound of her pulse beating through her veins then kissed it. 

He let out a low moan. “Can hear your heart from here, little lamb. She’s gallopin’. Cryin’ out for Daddy, ain’t she?” The word made her knees buckle. He caught her with a hand low on her waist– his palm splayed across the curve of her ass. She gasped. He grinned. “That’s it, pretty baby. Go on an’ let Daddy hear them pretty ole sounds. Don’t hold back now.” Alice whimpered, her head tipping back, breath catching on the humid night. He leaned down,and his nose brushed her neck. Inhaled. Slow. Deep, Nasty. Like he’d been waiting lifetimes to smell her. 

“You smell like sin drippin’ off a Sunday girl,” he rasped. “Gotta know… is it that sweet between your thighs, too?” She trembled. And Remmick – God help her– sank to his knees in the dirt like he was worshiping. “Lemme find out.” He pushed up the hem of her dress, slow, reverent, his eyes never leaving hers. When his hands got high enough, Alice tried closing her legs on instinct– but his strong hands gripped her thighs. 

“Aht, aht, now,”he cooed, “Don’t be shy. Daddy’s starvin’, and I know you are too.” He pressed his nose between her thighs. Sniffed deep and shuddered. “Fuck. That’s the sweest thing I ever smelled,” he groaned, voice damn near wrecked. Alice moaned loud- head thrown back, hands tangled in his hair,thighs quivering. Her moans echoed through the pines like gospel gone wicked. Then- his tounge. One slow, sinful lick. She cried out, grinding thoughtless on his mouth and he let her. Encouraged her. Growled into her. 

“That’s it, mama. Ride Daddy’s tongue. So fuckin’ pretty like this.” She fell apart, hands clutching his hair, sobbing his name into the mossy night. But he wasn’t done. Not by a long shot. He rose to his feet, mouth covered in her slick and his spit. He smiled a toothy smile. 

“Gotta make you messy, babydoll. Can’t help myself. You’re too damn sweet. You did so good for me,baby,” fingers ghosting her jaw. ”Sounded like heaven fuckin’ my face like that.”

She couldn’t speak yet– just nodded. Dumb and dizzy. “Still with me, honeybee?” he asked, tilting her chin up with two fingers. “Need you to be right here with Daddy.” 

“I-I wanna please you,” she whispered. “Please…” He jolted. That soft,shy girl he met by the tree was still there.. But now she looked at him like she’d burn for him. The soft, needy voice calling sent electrcity down his spine. 

“Then get on your knees, sugar,” he murmured, voice hoarse now. “Be a good girl for Daddy.” She dropped to her knees slowly, like kneeling at the altar. He undid his slacks with a flick already hard, thick, throbbing a candy-like shade of pink, standing proud in the moonlight. Veins like the roots of some ancient tree. Her breath caught. “You see what you do to me?” he rasped. “Just sittin there lookin so fuckin sweet in your little church dress. Got me achin’, baby. Hurtin for you.” She reached for him with trembling fingers. He grabbed a handful of her hair- gentle, but possessive- and groaned when her lips brushed his tip. “Open real wide, pretty girl. Be real good for me now.” She obeyed– wet mouth parting, tongue slick and eager. 

That first taste had Remmick growling. His head dropped back, hips twitching foward. “Shit,girl…look at you,” he hissed. “So fuckin’ eager to please. You like it, huh? Like bein’ used like this?” Alice moaned around him, eyes fluttering closed, spit already dripping from the corners of her mouth as she bobbed her head. Remmick watched her,  jaws clenched, hands tight around her hair. “So messy… God damn it girl, look at that mouth– you’re disgusting, huh? All sweet an shy but this mouth filthy.” He pulled out with a wet pop, string of spit connecting them. 

“Stick out your tongue,” he said voice dark. The line of thick drool dripping from his mouth travelled all the way down to her tongue. “Swallow it.” She did without hesitation, like it was second nature. 

“You keep that up, babydoll, and Daddy’s gonna fill that mouth real soon.” He let her take him again, slow at first, then rougher- his whimpers and moans echoing through the Delta forest. Her hands gripped his thighs, nail digging into him as he thrust mercilessly, chasing his high. “That’s it, darlin’. You look so damn good like this. On your knees, takin’ it real fine. This the reason you were created, weren’t you?” She moan around his length. That completely undid him. He released in the back of her throat, covering her mouth in his warm love. He pulled her up by the armpits and shoved his tongue into her mouth, tasting himself on her tongue like he was claming it. 

“Turned around,” he growled. “Bend over, gotta see that pretty ass while I ruin you.” 

The trees watched. The stars blinked. The Delta held its breath. And Alice did what she was told– she bent for him, hands clutched on an aged stump. The coral dress bunched around her waist, her coils completely out in all its glory. She trembled, didn’t speak. She just panted, waiting. 

“Good Lord above,” Remmick whistled. “Best view in all the Delta.” His hands roamed her– greedy and worshipful. He took the slick that dripped down her thighs with his two fingers and painted it into the short and curly hair that sat in front of him. Alice whimpered at the contact. He continued kneading her ass with his left hand and pumping himself with his right.

“Look at you, all messy and needy,” he rasped. “Never seen nothin like this, Alice.” He lined himself up with her entrance, enticing her as he slid up and down. “And baby, i’ve seen a lot.”

He slowly entered himself into her, earning a painful gasp from Alice. Her legs went numb. Before she could fall onto the Mississippi mud, a calloused hand caught her. “ ‘s okay, beloved, Daddy’s gotcha, Daddy’s gotcha.” He nipped at her ear before shoving himself into her. They both cried out, he in euphoria and her in pain. He wrapped his hands around her neck, pulling her back completely flush with his chest. With one hand on her neck holding her up and one pressing onto her stomach so he could feel himself, he went in and out of her, howling in ear. 

“Son of a bitch, girl, you gon’ make me lose my damn mind,” he whined in her ear. His breath hot against her neck causing her to weep the same. “So damn tight I can barely fuck.” His choking became tighter on her neck, causing tears to shed and her vision to blur. He took his hand off her stomach and grabbed hers which was holding onto his thigh. He took two of Alice’s fingers, collected two tears off of her hot cheeks, and drug it down to her pearl. With his two fingers covering hers, they both circled her clit with a devouring speed. Alice screamed out, tightening around him, making them both so weak and jelly-like that they just fell to the ground. 

Babbling tender nothings in her ear, Remmick’s fangs poked out. His claws digging into ground. “You belong to me now, sugar. Only me.” His hands released hers and cralwed up to her heart. “You gon let me have it, pretty? Huh? You gon give Daddy what he came for? Let me have it.” With her high catching up to her and his alike, she shook her head violently. Tears streaming. 

That forbidden and Godforsaken feeling bubbled inside of her, the one that is whispered about and shunned. Her moans became animalistic. He pulled those coils to the side, took his fangs and graced her neck like a feral non-human. She released onto him as he shortly followed, her vision blurring a white. Blood painted his mouth as his final thrusts came and went. He drank her, engufling the moments of her life. The time in youth bible study learning about the beatitudes, the time in middle school when she first got her menstrual cycle. Her first kiss. The junior year memory of her learning to masturbate, taking a pillow between her thighs. The unity from the juke joint that night. The need she felt when she first saw him. Remmick. Her Remmick. 

They lied there a while, basking in each other’s warmth. The moon hung low and heavy, casting a silver glow over the trees. Alice walked back to the bonfire. Her soft, shy and unsure steps were long gone. She now moved like water, honey running over hot cornbread for supper. Her once warm almond brown eyes now shimmered red, more sultry than before. Her puffy lips covered in the remains of the last blood-heavy kiss from Remmick. Her hair, half-fallen from its updo, blew like a halo of shadows around her face. Behind her, Remmick trailed like a ghost in human skin. Shirt unbuttoned. Suspenders loose on his waist. He watched with the same hell-red eyes as his creation in front of him. 

“That’s my girl,” he said, giving her ass a nice smack and grab. “Go on, bring us somethin’ to eat.”  

The bonfire crackled in the clearing just ahead, glowing warm and full of life like she left it. Laughter echoed. Drunken. Lustful. Doomed.

“Alice!” one of them called, spotting her silhouette. “Chile, we thought yo ass done travelled up north!” She stepped into the light. Her coral dress covered in Remmick and her’s sinful sweetness and tender blood. Her neck missing a chunk and her eyes looked as though they were part of the flame. The sight sobered them up.

“Al?” one croaked. “Y-you okay, girl?” 

“Never been better,” Alice chirped, eyes not meeting the innocence of her voice.

Out from the darkness came out that white man with the same malevolent look as Alice. The flame casted a shadow on the groups’ petrified faces. 

“Well,” Remmick chimed. “I hope y’all had as much fun as we did.” He looked around the bonfire at their faces, satisfied. Fear always has a more savory taste in the blood. “Cause we hungry as dogs.” 

Alice giggled at his comment. Leaning into him as if it was only them out in the woods.Her giggles turned into a sinister cackle, jolting fear in her friends’ bodies. With a big bloody smile and a new found life, Alice sighed contempt. 

“We gon’ kill every last one of yall.”

[sanjoongie]

Bloody Belladonna~ 2

The Choi Brothers

ღPairing: Choi Jongho x Choi San x Reader (f) x Park Seonghwa x Jeong Yunho

ღGenre: smut with very little plot

ღRated: 18+ MINORS DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT

ღAu: Mafia (boss! Reader, husband!seonghwa, husband!yunho, husband! san, husband! jongho)

ღTrope: s2l, arranged marriage, poly

ღWord Count: 6,731 {mother fucker almost got a third smut scene, i had to cut it because WHEW}

ღWarnings: ⚠️FREE USE⚠️threesome, voyeurism, tied up, denied orgasm, mxm, dom! Yunho, switch! Hwa, cocksleeve! Reader, anal(f&m), double penentration, penetrative sex with no barrier, jongho needs some encouragement to cross the line of best friend and lover with San so there's a bit of coercion here {everything is consentual}, creampie(s), facial, jerking off, biting, marking, LOTS OF VERBAL FOREPLAY, fingering(f), cum eating, oral (m), proper lube, spit as lube

ღSummary: the wedding day with the Chois comes and so begins the learning curve of adding two new husbands to your family. It'll take the joint effort of you, Seonghwa and Yunho to keep the peace and to keep the marriage together.

ღBeta's:  @downtoamagicalland 

ღSeonghwa & Yunho: The First Husbands | Masterlist

San and Jongho weren't actually brothers but everyone thought they were. Same clan tree, different branch. But they were stuck together like white on rice. And so, in their calculated slight towards your husbands, and thus to you, the both of them suffered the same punishment for their shared crime.

You sighed heavily, standing at the altar once again, with Yunho and Seonghwa in black suits this time, no longer your ‘virginal’ husbands but the first husbands and therefore more powerful in the relationship than the men about to walk down the aisle towards you three. 

“Careful, Bell, or someone might think you don’t actually want this,” Yunho said through the side of his mouth. 

You took Yunho’s hand. To anyone else, it would appear as if you were searching for some connection, or perhaps reassuring your current husband. Instead, your nails pressed into the webbing of his fingers. To Yunho’s credit, he didn’t even flinch. 

“They will pay, Yunho, but you better not try to pull rank on me in front of them the first night,” You warn him. 

A tiny but cocky smile pulled at Yunho’s lips. “Yes, Dear.”

Seonghwa leaned over so that he could make eye contact with you. “Smile, please. Jongho’s about to come down the aisle.”

You pursed your lips to send an air kiss and Seonghwa’s face turned pink in pleasure. He smiled genuinely and then shuffled back to his place, one hand wrapped around his opposite wrist, crossed in front of his body. 

Choi Jongho, the younger of two Choi’s, walked down the aisle first with the Belladonna of his family. His head was held high, like this was his choice to cement the most powerful family in the city to his. Once Jongho made his way in front of you, his Belladonna handed him over to you. She made eye contact with you, a wary look. You gave her nod and you watched as her shoulders sagged with relief. The damage had been fixed and there would be no war.

Jongho took a step aside, leaving a space between him and you on your left. You kept your head forward. Jongho would be dealt with in conjunction with his distantly related relative, once everyone was home. 

The bridal march began again and Choi San turned the corner. Everyone in the church turned around in their pews and then let out a scandalized gasp. The elder Choi stumbled down the aisle, clearly inebriated, in only slacks and a long fur coat. 

The Belladonna turned the corner, a few steps behind him. Her eyes were wide in alarm and she quick-stepped after San. She made a grab for his arm to stop him but he shrugged her off. Clearly unsure of what to do next, she took her seat on the side of the church where the Choi Family tree were, at the front pew.

A slow, lazy grin grew on San’s face when he made his way to the front. “Might as well get this over with!” he announced.

He took his place between you and Jongho, amicably throwing his arm around Jongho, who was stiff in the hold. Jongho hissed something to San that missed your ears. San had an aw-shucks look on his face but didn’t fix himself at all. 

Once the vows were exchanged, the rings fitted on fingers, the kisses were next. Jongho stared you right in the eye and you couldn't quite read his expression. He seemed in control and stoic, his kiss feather light and unemotional. That was going to have to be fixed. San, on the other hand, kissed you sloppily and you had to wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. It seemed like both of your new husbands were going to learn a hard lesson. 

“I now pronounce you all wife and husbands!” 

The limo ride was quiet and tense. Seonghwa held your hand this time, swiping his thumb against the back of it, hoping to keep you grounded because Yunho was glaring daggers at the Choi’s. Seonghwa would have been glaring too if not for his need to always be the balance between you and Yunho, regardless of the situation. 

Once the door on the mansion closed behind you all, however, it was a different story. 

You folded your arms under your breasts and took a wide stance in front of your two new husbands. “Follow me to my office. Now.”

Yunho locked eyes with you, so you told him, “You’ll come when I call for you.”

San snickered with his hand in front of his mouth and your eyes were back on him. “I have a perfect curved knife to castrate you. I can still fuck you with a cock, you don’t need your balls, I have three other husbands to breed with.”

San’s eyes narrowed in anger at you. He stepped up, to be directly in front of you. He used his height advantage to tower over you, his breath hitting your face. “You think you’ll make me one of your docile husbands?”

You smirked. “I don’t think, I know.”

“She’s not worth it,” Jongho finally speaks up. “Stand down, San.”

“Not worth it?” Yunho released his silence as well. “How dare you? She is not only your wife but your boss. She is the Belladonna and you will respect her.”

Jongho scoffed. “But I sure as hell won’t respect you.”

You could cut the silence with a knife. In fact, the sound of your personal knife that was held up the slit of your dress snug against your thigh, was exactly what cut through the silence. “I can’t kill you but I sure as hell can do anything but. If you two aren’t in my office right now, you’ll be tied up for the pleasure of my knife. That’s a hell of a way to begin our wedding night, don’t you think?”

Seonghwa left the hallway, showing that one of your husbands was able to follow a command. Yunho, after a long look exchanged with you again, left you to take care of your business, following his husband into your shared bedroom. 

You spun on your heel and made your way to your office, fully expecting the Choi’s to follow suit. San made a frustrated noise behind you but you were satisfied when you heard two sets of feet clack against the old wooden floor boards behind you. 

You sat on the edge of your desk and ordered Jongho to close the door behind him. The two of them stood shoulder to shoulder. Jongho looked as if you were dirt under his fingernails and San looked like he was ready for a fight. If only they knew how hard they were going to fall.

You grabbed your wedding dress and slowly dragged it up your legs. Once it was hitched high enough, you sat further back on your desk and put your heels up on the edge. Your pussy was completely bare. 

“This is how you swear fealty to me. I bear the womb therefore I bear the power. Kiss my cunt and then you acknowledge that your family belongs to me now.”

“This is fucking ridiculous,” San cursed under his breath. 

Still, he pushed forward first. He knelt in front of your desk, eyes flashing upwards to your face quickly, before he pursed his lips and lightly kissed your clit. “I do so swear fealty to the Belladonna.”

San stepped away and Jongho took his place. Jongho, however, did not simply do the mandatory kiss, oh no. Jongho swirled his tongue around your clit, a slow circle with his eyes downcast, and then one solid swipe up. He sucked on your clit to finish the kiss. “I do so swear fealty to the Belladonna,” He said, his voice slightly rough. 

“At least one of you knows how to eat pussy properly,” You announced. 

You closed your legs and jumped off your desk. 

San frowned, his eyebrows furrowing together. “I didn’t think--”

You pressed two fingers to his forehead. “That’s the problem with you, San. You don’t think. Which makes you trainable, at least.”

You opened your door and stuck your head out. “Seonghwa. Yunho. You may enter now.”

You sashayed your way behind your desk this time, taking your seat in the chair. You folded your hands on top and waited until your first set of husbands came into your office. “I believe you two owe an apology to my husbands.”

Jongho stared right at you. You were starting to get irked that he had the balls to always meet your gaze. Bigger men than him knew better. “We’re your husbands too.”

You ignored him. “Seonghwa and Yunho are not just my husbands. They are my right and left hand, respectively. If something comes from their mouth, it’s as good as my own word. If I send them to do a job, it is like going myself. In fact, they are my husbands, MY FIRST HUSBANDS, and I am sending something more precious than even myself. Do you understand what you have done? You have acted as though I am not worthy of meeting at a drug meet. That you refuse to come through with a pre-negotiated deal. By all rights, I should have you hanging by your fucking toes, plucking your eyeballs from your sockets and pickling them for dinner.”

San’s Adam’s Apple bobbed finally with some nervousness. Jongho was still the tough nut to crack. “Then why are we here?”

“Because the head of your family begged me. She casted herself at my feet and wept for forgiveness. She said she would give me your hands in marriage to fix the gap between our families. And I took up the offer because my husbands decided that physical torture was not good enough for you two.”

Jongho’s facade was beginning to crumble as well. “What would you will of us?”

“From this moment forward, you are at the bottom of the food chain of this family. I am the head. Yunho comes after me. Then Seonghwa. We will decide your positions depending on your behavior, however, as it stands, the two of you are the bottoms.”

San pouted petulantly. “I’ve never been a bottom in my entire life.”

Yunho smacked San from the back of the head. “Did you just talk back to your Belladonna?”

San kept his head tilted down submissively. “No.” But the tone was still there. 

“To pay for your insults, you will spend our wedding night tied up and watching. you will not get to participate. You will not be able to relieve yourself. you will have to just observe. Perhaps, if you watch closely enough, you will learn what happens when you act like a true husband of the Belladonna.”

“We won’t have a wedding night?” Jongho finally looked like he was incredulous at this statement.

“Are you ready to cement our vows? All of our vows? Remember, you’re married to Yunho, Seonghwa and I. And to each other.”

San casted a look of calculation towards Jongho. “I didn’t think of that.”

“What did I tell you about thinking, San?” You scoffed.

“Ludicrous,” Jongho said under his breath.

“Come on, boys. We’ve a show to put on, it seems.”

You run your hand down Yunho’s tie, letting it slip through your fingers and then you continue out of your office and to your bedroom. 

“You're lucky she’s even going to let you watch,” Seonghwa sneered before following you.

Yunho gave both the Choi’s a rough push. “Go on. Follow her.”

You found the ties that you used for play sometimes in the drawer next to your bed and grabbed the longer ones. You had a feeling you’d have to double up for the Choi brother’s first time. 

Yunho and Seonghwa, respectively, kicked out San and Jongho’s knees so that they had no choice but to kneel before the bed. You tied their wrists behind their backs, securing them like it was just another day in the world of a Belladonna. 

“I hope your cocks ache against your pants as you watch us,” You tantalized, leaning down between the two and whispering delightfully. 

“I doubt it’s that good of a time,” San said petulantly. 

Jongho remained silent, appearing as if he was attempting to not miss a thing. You’d make sure that he was fed then.

“Strip,” You commanded next. 

Your eyes greedily ate up the meal as Seonghwa loosened his tie and Yunho went for his own pants immediately. The amount of times they had fucked you in their buttondowns and slacks was nearly not enough as much as you’ve had them completely naked and in your bed. Neither of them needed the command to go to your bed, however.

You pulled at your sleeves and shrugged out of your dress, letting it slither to the floor and off your body. Stepping neatly out of it, you sat down to take off your heels. Then it was time to remove your bra and underwear.

“Shit,” San cursed. He rubbed his lips together. 

Once you were fully naked, you crawled into bed with your husbands. 

“How do you want to do this?” Seonghwa posed the question first. 

Yunho’s eyes were almost unreadable. “The last command I got was that I was not to pull rank in front of those two.”

You sighed, contemplative. “I did this for you two. They should suffer while you two flourish.”

Seonghwa’s eyes bounced between you and Yunho, always waiting for his dominants to decide before he gave his opinion. “We were the ones to suggest it.”

Yunho pursed his lips to the side. “They are your husbands right now.” What he let hang in the air unspoken is

You smiled. Imagine that, the golden child of the Jeong family, taking into consideration that you always felt second fiddle to him. Someone was trying to maintain a healthy relationship with his wife. You wiggled in between your two husbands, but turned towards Yunho, slinging a bare leg over his. 

“They are mine but I am yours,” You whispered, your hands digging into Yunho’s hair and your foreheads pressed together.

“I don't want you appearing weak before them,” Yunho whispered back.

“It is you who cannot afford it,” You pushed back.

“They view us as lesser because we were married off, like them,” Seonghwa said, his emotional intelligence shining through once again.

“Show them that being my husband gives you power.” You stole a kiss from Yunho, a quick nip at his plush lips. 

“Cocksleeves don't speak,” Yunho mumbled against your lips, using the phrase to begin free use.

“Let me have her cunt tonight,” Seonghwa begged. His fingers dug into your arms as he physically turned you towards him.

“Bambi, this was your idea in the first place. It came to fruition. You get her pretty pussy,” Yunho said.

“Such a pretty pussy,” Seonghwa echoed. His fingers found your wet slit and ran between them. “What a good toy, so wet and willing and ready.”

“What the fuck is going on?” San loudly whispered.

“Shut up and watch, San,” Jongho hissed.

Yunho slipped a hand over your hip and ran his fingers over your ribs until he rested just below your breast. “Hurry up and make her come so I can use her wetness to lube up her ass.”

Seonghwa sent a bland look at Yunho. “Stop telling me what to do.”

You could hear Yunho’s smirk in his voice. “Then get to work, Bambi.”

Seonghwa pushed his middle finger into you, grinding the heel of his hand against your mound. “Wait your turn for the cocksleeve, Husband,” Seonghwa said through gritted teeth.

You whimpered as Seonghwa’s finger worked inside of you and it wasn’t long before he was slipping another slender finger into you. Your head moved back so it was fully supported by Yunho’s shoulder. You propped up your right leg so that Seonghwa had better access and you scooched your lower half forward, wanting more. Seonghwa gave it to you. He pulled his fingers from your cunt and played the pad of his wet fingers around your sensitive asshole. 

Yunho rolled his eyes. “Fine, I’ll make the toy come. I always have to do all the work.”

Yunho sucked two of his fingers and circled your clit. He was rough and direct and your hips jerked as flashes of pleasure and pain shot through you. You whined as you both got what you wanted but felt empty as well. 

“I’m stretching her out for you,” Seonghwa hissed. “How are you doing all the work?”

You cried out as you came quickly. Your thighs shook as Yunho pressed his fingers against your clit until you attempted to rescind from his touch. It pushed you further onto Seonghwa’s fingers that were now knuckle deep, slowly stretching your ass. 

Yunho, quick as a flash, grabbed Seonghwa’s rock-hard cock and rubbed the cockhead against your even more wet cunt. “You focus on your sweet prize and I’ll take care of the cocksleeve’s ass. How about that, Bambi?”

Seonghwa’s hips bucked forward, Yunho’s grip and your wetness being more than enough to get him ready for what was next. “You gonna put me inside of her too?” Seonghwa partly whined, partly growled.

Yunho dug his teeth into your shoulder playfully, then soothed it with his tongue. “You want me to?”

Seonghwa laughed and groaned in frustration. “Just shut up and fuck her ass.”

Seonghwa sheathed himself into your wet heat with a groan. “Fuck yes. Right where I belong.”

Yunho, in contrast, took his time fucking into your ass, letting you adjust with each slip of his cock inside of you. The entire time your cunt simply convulsed around Seonghwa, making him cry out. Seonghwa’s fingers dug into your thigh where he held your leg up and his teeth were digging into his lower lip. 

“Are you going to come before I can even get inside of her?” Yunho demanded incredulously.

 “She is so fucking tight around me,” Seonghwa cried out. 

You were almost delirious with the two of them inside of you. The fact that neither addressed you, that they continued to talk over you like they were simply sharing a toy, made you clench down on both of them. 

“Fuck, what a good cocksleeve,” Yunho moaned. 

“Are they sharing her and or she sharing them?” San spoke up. His voice sounded low and turned on. What part did he enjoy?

“If you don’t shut the fuck up, I swear to god,” Jongho moaned quietly. 

You wished you had the energy to see if the Choi brothers were hard pressed against their pants, sweating at the show, but you didn’t. Nor did you think either of the husbands inside of you currently would have been impressed if you were focusing on anyone other than themselves.

Once both Yunho and Seonghwa were sealed inside of you, you didn’t have any more thoughts to spare regardless. When Seonghwa pushed into you, Yunho pulled out. Seonghwa slipped out and he was a bit mindless that he simply let his drenched cock rub along your legs and Yunho’s before Yunho directed Seonghwa’s cock back into your entrance. 

Yunho came first, regardless of his teasing towards Seonghwa. Your ass tended to be his weakness. He came with a deep grunt, sounding satisfied to the fullest. You came next, the feeling of Yunho’s cum dripping out of your ass and Seonghwa’s cockhead rubbing against your g-spot spurning it forward. As you clenched around Seonghwa, he came with a scrunched-up nose. 

The room was only filled with panting; the three of you coming down from your highs and the Choi brothers unable to obtain their own. It was music to your ears. 

“I’ll clean her up,” Yunho offered, practically a ritual by now. “You cut them loose.”

Every male gaze in the room watched as Yunho carefully wiped the cum from your gaping ass and cunt. You whimpered as the warm cloth circled around your clit. 

“So dirty,” Yunho murmured under his breath. “Did you like being a good little cocksleeve for your husbands?”

Seonghwa pulled the knife from your thigh before moving behind San and Jongho. His focus was off, because Jongho winced as the blade gave him a shallow cut. 

“I’ll assume you two know better than to touch yourselves once you’re dismissed,” Seonghwa said with a haughty tone. 

San rubbed his wrists, sending a sour look to Seonghwa. “How the hell are you going to know?”

You shrugged on the robe that Yunho had grabbed and neatly tied a knot. You got off the bed and padded to stand directly in front of San and Jongho. 

You ran a finger under Jongho’s chin but spoke to San. “If you're good boys you'll get rewarded.”

San couldn't help but drop his jaw in surprise. “You're giving us blowjobs tomorrow?”

“Should I tell him, or should you?” You raised an eyebrow at Jongho.

Jongho swallowed loudly. You liked when the big boy was nervous. “We'll be good.”

“Good.” You jerked your head towards the door. “Rooms have been made for you. You may retire.”

San stood, looking at Yunho still in bed, to you and to Seonghwa who now held open the door. He finally had a big brain moment. “But you three will fall asleep together?”

You folded your arms beneath your breasts, your lips twisting into a slight smirk. “Perks of being a good husband.”

Seonghwa closed the door once the Choi brothers were gone and slipped back into bed. “Do you think they'll ever…?”

“Yes,” You said simply.

“Yes?!” Yunho asked.

“I can see it in both their eyes. It was in yours too. Before I found you two in my study.”

Seonghwa ducked his head, snuggling into Yunho’s shoulder. “Oh,” Yunho replied. “Well.”

You laughed, making them both smile in response. “Yes. So I think the future is looking very bright for us, my husbands.”

The house was a little bit quiet despite there being more additions. The acclimation of the new drug trade took much of your time and focus. You had brief updates from Yunho and Seonghwa, dealing with your main branches of the family. Meanwhile, you walked through the underground factories that made the Choi drugs. You met with dealers. You made sure you understood every little bit of your newly inherited empire. 

Ever since that first night with your second husbands watching while your first husbands fucked you, the shift in the air was palpable. San and Jongho had been introduced to what this family looked like--and how it functioned--and were hungry for more.

San and Jongho stuck together like glue. To an outsider looking in, it would appear as if they were two lambs up for the slaughter, finding solace in the familiar. But you knew better. Especially considering the long looks you found Jongho sending towards San. 

You kept the Choi brothers close to your side. You would spend hours in your study grilling them, making sure you understand every agreement you inherited and every line where the brothers did not make deals. It was a lot but you were a very capable woman with a growing empire. 

Of course, with more stress, came more free use. With each night, San and Jongho were brought to witness exactly what they could get if they took the next step. Seonghwa and Yunho took their fill of you and helped you release your power to them. 

However, even though you were simply a cocksleeve between Yunho and Seonghwa, your eyes were sharp to recognize that San was looking close to breaking down. Especially when Yunho degraded Seonghwa, or fucked him. You weren’t sure if San was looking more forward to finally being with Jongho, or Yunho, or yourself.

So that’s when you decided it was time to make the leap. Everything in your life was always dealt with deals and negotiation, so it was time to mediate one within your small harem of a family.

Everyone was gathered in the living room. San and Jongho sat on the couch together, San with his arms spread along the back of the couch, legs spread, and Jongho with his elbows balanced on his knees, head in hands, in fierce concentration. You sat on a high back chair, with Seonghwa and Yunho flanking you. 

“Are you finally prepared for negotiations?”

San looked around cluelessly. “For what?”

Jongho rolled his eyes and sighed. “For snacks.” He smacked San from behind the head. “For bed, of course.”

San’s eyes grew hooded and he licked his lips, teeth flashing obnoxiously. “Finally.”

“Our bed,” Yunho reminded everyone in the room. 

“We are all married to each other.” Seonghwa made sure the bottom line was firm.

San’s eyes slid to Jongho before meeting Yunho’s gaze. “What exactly did you two do?”

Yunho’s ears became red and Seonghwa snickered. “Ours was a learning experience. But there is a privilege in sharing.”

“If this marriage is going to be a thing of truth, then you have to prove that you are willing to bed everyone. You two begin with each other,” You revealed.

Jongho’s eyes grew wide. “Us?”

You nodded. “If I just let you fuck me, that allows you to impregnate me which--”

“Isn’t happening,” Seonghwa growled.

You put a hand on Seonghwa’s arm and the tension eased from his body. Your husband took his breeding kink a little too seriously. 

You started to correct Seonghwa’s statement. “It gives you liberties and power that perhaps you haven’t earned yet. So, as proof that you are prepared to take on all responsibilities, if you are intimate with each other, then I’ll see that you’re dedicated.”

“Not to mention, we all see it,” Yunho said under his breath.

“See what?” San inquired.

Jongho shot upwards, standing quickly. “You would force our hand?”

You knew he was going to be the worst one to break, so to speak. You stood up and stood before the younger Choi. “Jongho. Force what, exactly?” you said low.

Jongho spoke back in a hissed whisper. “He is my best friend.”

“I know,” You acknowledged. “Yunho was my rival and Seonghwa I considered inferior. Do you see what we are now?”

“A force to be reckoned with,” Jongho finished for you. “Truly, you were as you say?”

“And now stronger because of how connected we are,” You nodded. “Yunho and Seonghwa bicker, but that’s their love language. Truly, they’ve connected for the better.” You leaned forward to whisper into Jongho’s ear. “I know you want that with Sannie too.”

Jongho stepped back and almost would have fallen back onto the couch if not for San’s firm hand pushing him back. San stood up, but his motion was more of affirmation. “I’ll do it.”

Jongho looked like he was a wild animal trapped. “You can’t be serious, San?!”

San pressed his lips together. “I’m curious. It looks like it feels good. I do like to feel good.”

“We’ll help,” Yunho moved towards San. 

San swallowed loudly. “How will you help?”

Yunho shrugged, like what he was about to say was of no consequence to him. “Let you bounce on my dick. Show Jongho exactly what he wants.”

Jongho gasped and then slapped his hand over his mouth. Seonghwa cackled. “Oh, he wants it alright.”

Yunho took your spot on the high back seat and began to unbutton his pants and push them, and his underwear, down to his ankles. “Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa bit down on his lower lip, eyeing you up and down. “Do you have him?”

You pushed your lips up against Seonghwa’s to reassure him. “Go give our husband a blowjob, huh?”

It took no further encouragement to get Seonghwa on his knees, swallowing Yunho into his mouth. It wasn’t long before Seonghwa couldn't play with soft Yunho in his mouth and he began to struggle with the length down his throat. You could see the spit that was dribbling down Yunho’s cock as Seonghwa choked and coughed with the effort. 

San took no time to strip himself of all his clothing. He fisted himself at the view of Seonghwa choking on Yunho’s cock. There wasn’t an ounce of shame in that man and you were starting to truly appreciate that about him. 

“Enough,” Yunho said gruffly. He grabbed Seonghwa by his hair and pulled him off his cock. “Would you suck me dry before I can fuck the slut, Bambi?”

You began to touch Jongho through his pants. He let out a muffled groan as the palm of your hand came in contact with him. “Someone’s awfully hard,” You murmured. 

Jongho looked away from the rest of your husbands. “It’s been a while since I’ve had a blow job.”

You sighed dejectedly. “He’s not ready, boys. Keep going.”

Seonghwa was quick to retrieve the lube that was in one of the side tables drawers, kept for quick access. The drawer had been custom built so that the lube was kept warm, just for the right occasion. Seonghwa grabbed the back of San’s neck and pushed him until he was at a ninety degree angle. With his hand firm, Seonghwa bent over so that his head was at the same height as San’s.

“This is your last chance, slut. I’m about to prep you for Yunho’s cock. If you don’t want this, now is the time to decline.”

San whimpered and you and Jongho both shuddered at the delicious noise. “I want it,” the older Choi admitted. 

Seonghwa squirted the warmed lube onto San’s asshole. He rubbed the pads of his fingers along San’s puckered hole and then pushed in his fingers to stretch San for Yunho’s rather large cock. 

You followed Seonghwa’s lead and unbuttoned Jongho’s pants and pushed his down to his thick thighs. Then you pulled his straining cock from the confines of Jongho’s underwear. “Look at how hard you are, Jongho. And wet.” You rubbed your thumb along the slit of Jongho’s cock and he grunted. 

You swirled his precum along the head of his cock and then spit onto it. You spread your spit by fisting his cock. You angled yourself behind Jongho, wrapping one hand around his stomach and peeking around his body, keeping your other husbands in view. “Once they’re all set up, all you have to do is come on San’s face and then the keys to the kingdom can be yours, Jongho. It’s just that easy.”

Speaking of the devil, San was making desperate noises as Seonghwa fucked him with his fingers. “Such an eager slut. Did you give all your stubborn brain cells to the other?” Seonghwa murmured under his breath. 

“If you make him come with those pretty fingers of yours, Bambi, I swear to God,” Yunho grumbled. 

Yunho began to strip completely and lie on the floor. The three of you had already spoken of what would be the most appealing for Jongho and San, and for the rest of you, if you were being completely honest. “I’m ready for him.”

Seonghwa pulled his fingers from inside of San and released him. He gave him a slight push towards Yunho and then moved back towards you and Jongho. “Now, for the other one.”

Jongho was enjoying you jerking him off, so you slowed down your pace. He swallowed loudly. “Puh--please.”

“Nuh uh,” You denied him. “You don’t get to come unless it’s on Sannie’s face, come now, Jongho. We’ve been clear. Just watch how well he takes Yunho’s cock.”

“How--?” San sent a confused look towards you and Seonghwa. Poor dumb puppy. 

“Turn around!” Yunho shouted. “Do I have to do everything myself? Spread your ass cheeks and crouch over my dick. I’ll do the rest.”

San did as he was told, eagerly of course. The three of you could see his face, in anticipation to get filled once again. He bit down on his lip as Yunho guided San down his cock, rubbing his hips as he took it one inch at a time. And then the bouncing began.

You nudged Jongho forward so that you two could stand in front of San, also in between Yunho’s spread legs. You started to speed up your pace along his length. 

"Don't you wanna come on his tongue, Jongho?" You purred into Jongho’s shoulder. 

You peered over to look down at San whose mouth was open wide obediently. San's mouth was partially open so wide because he was bouncing on Yunho’s dick but the fucked-out look only added to the allure of the scene. 

"Co-come, Jongho!" San whined, "Yu--" Yunho interrupted San by sticking two fingers in his mouth.

"Yuyu won't let San come until you've shot your load into Sannie's mouth, Jongho," You finished San's interrupted sentence. 

"But!" Jongho squirmed in your embrace. "It would be dirty."

Seonghwa folded his arms over his chest. "Just give it up, lover. He's not going to do it. Let me just fuck you as he lies under you. He can watch those tits sway and his cock can remain hard."

"I believe in him, Seonghwa," You shook your head. 

You sucked a love bite into Jongho's skin and he cried out at the sensitivity there.

"Puh-puhlease, wait a minute, that's my best friend!" Jongho protested.

"Whom," You pressed, "You would like to shoot all your cum over his face and on his tongue and when you think you're done, we can tap tap tap your dick on his tongue to make sure there's no more."

San whined as his orgasm approached, voice crescendoing higher and higher, only to let out a loud noise of defeat as Yunho's hips held up against him, deep in San, but no longer letting San move. He had once again been denied his orgasm.

“The only way you get her cunt is by exploding over your best friend,” Seonghwa stated with a lift of his eyebrow. “Don’t you want to fuck our wife?”

Jongho’s eyes get a look of fire in them. “I want the free use privileges.”

Yunho chuckled. “He wants the free use privileges.”

You ran your hand up and down Jongho’s length. “Where do you want me, Jongho? What’s your dirty thoughts been?”

Jongho swallowed loudly. “In the shower. When you get ready for the day. I want you covered in my cum.”

Seonghwa looked contemplative. “Have we done that yet?”

You sent a glare to Seonghwa to tell him to shut up silently. You flicked your wrist over the angry head of Jongho’s cock. “You can have that. You just need to come over San’s pretty tongue.”

Speaking of the devil, Yunho released San, and the fucker was bouncing eagerly on Yunho’s dick again. His noises of pleasure were punctuated with the slapping of skin against skin. “Wanna come, Jong, please,” San whimpered once more.

Jongho’s cock twitched and you smiled into Jongho’s shoulder. You leaned up to press your mouth to the shell of Jongho’s ear. “I know you want to, Jongho. Otherwise why would you be so hard while watching our husband fuck Sannie?” you purred. 

Jongho whined and you decided you were going to do everything in your power to continue to hear the rather stoic Jongho whine more. “It’s not dirty, Jongho. It’s fun. Yunho and Seonghwa have all kinds of fun. Don’t you want to have fun with San?”

“I want it,” Jongho whispered back to you. 

“Come all over Sannie, sweet boy. I want to see it.”

With your final command, Jongho ejaculated, and hard. He cried out, finally getting the release after all the edging. His cum covered San’s face, who flinched cutely, but kept his tongue out. Spurts of cum hit San’s shoulders and chest. He truly was the epitome of a pearl necklace. You continued to jerk off Jongho until he whimpered, feeling the overstimulation. 

You lifted your hand off Jongho’s length and raised an eyebrow at Seonghwa. “Told you I could get him to do it.” And then you made a show of sucking and licking Jongho’s cum from your fingers. 

“Come on, you slut,” Yunho grunted under San. “You’ve been bouncing on my dick for long enough. Come.”

San’s high-pitched moans escalated and finally, he jubilantly came. The sweet smile that spread across his face as he spurted over his own toned stomach was worth the hard sacrifice of the work put in. 

Yunho gently pulled out from San and let the younger man lay back in all his blissed-out glory on the floor. He patted his shoulder, muttering about how he was a good sport and then stood up. 

Neither of your first husbands had come and you were starting to feel a little nervous. The three of you had worked well together as doms to the two subs in the room but the three of you couldn't remain doms for long. Someone had to take the fall. 

Yunho grabbed a bottle of water and tipped his head back, drinking deeply from it. Seonghwa licked his lips, whether because he was thirsty for the water or Yunho, that was to be debated. 

You grabbed a warm wet cloth for Jongho and threw it at him. “Clean yourself up and help Sannie, Jongho. You did dirty him up after all.”

Jongho pouted, pouted, but did what he was told. Sannie was still smiling as Jongho ran the warm cloth over San’s face loyally. They exchanged words and Jongho finally smiled warmly at something San murmured. 

Hopefully this was the beginning of something beautiful. 

“That’s no fun,” Seonghwa said through a pout of his own. “I wanted to fuck you while he watched below you.”

You laughed softly. “There will be other nights, I'm sure, Hwa.”

“What about tonight?” He wondered. 

“I…” Your eyes slid to Yunho. You could tell Seonghwa was still in his dominant mood and he wasn’t about to melt for Yunho. What could be done?

Yunho used a towel to wipe down the sweat from his body but his cock was still hard and at attention. Seonghwa was still covered in clothing, much like yourself. Could that mean…?

You strode purposely towards Yunho. He kept his eye on you but leaned down so you could speak to him. “Want a treat?”

“Didn’t I just have one?” Yunho laughed.

“Let Seonghwa dominate you tonight. Show the other two that even the biggest dog in this room can get taken down a peg. Show them what it looks like from the outside to be taken care of. Show them you don’t need to dominate to be respected. Give Seonghwa some confidence tonight, don’t take it away from him,” You suggested. 

Yunho looked blown away at your suggestion. He chewed on his lower lip, however, and you knew he was considering it. “Give Seonghwa some confidence? Where does that leave you, sweetheart?”

You turned on the ball of your foot and made your way to Seonghwa. You liked how his eyes followed the sway of your hips. “Seonghwa, I hurt,” You whimper.

Seonghwa’s eyes sharpen at your words. “I can make you better.”

“Didn’t you see the way Sannie bounced so well for Yunho? I’m drenched now,” You admitted. 

“Show me,” He said gutterly. 

You discarded your high-waisted pants and finished walking in front of Seonghwa. You grabbed his hand and placed it against your underwear. His eyes widened to find you were completely soaked through them. 

You cried out when he swiftly circumvented your underwear and rubbed his fingers through your wetness. “Hw-hwa,” You stuttered, “What about Yunho?”

Seonghwa’s eyes focused on Yunho behind you. “What about Yunho?”

Yunho groaned in response. 

“Get your hand off your dick, Yunho,” Seonghwa snapped. 

“But--!”

“Do as you’re told,” Seonghwa commanded.

You could hear Yunho’s cock slap against his stomach as he let go and you let out a whimper. “Hwa, Yunnie hurts too.”

You watched as the gears turned in Seonghwa’s head. How could he keep in control but satisfy his husband and wife at the same time?

You wrapped your arms around his neck and placed a kiss on his cheek. “The floor is yours, Seonghwa, and we are your toys. Do with us as you would.”

Seonghwa’s possessive and dominant growl only made you wetter. 

You only hoped Jongho and San were watching and taking notes.

[aventurineswife]

No idk if you’re still taking holiday requests, but can I get some fuckin uuuuuuhhhh reader spending christmas with Aventurine and Kaveh? (together, because I do not separate my gay blonds)

“Christmas isn’t a season. It’s a feeling”

Summary: Aventurine, Kaveh, and you spend a peaceful Christmas evening together in a modest home, enjoying the warmth of the holiday season. While Kaveh works to make everything perfect, Aventurine—despite his usual aloofness—lets his guard down, enjoying the moment of connection. The three of you share simple joys, playful banter, and tender moments, forming a bond that transcends the chaos of your individual lives.

Tags: Kaveh x Reader x Aventurine, Winter Special, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Holiday Spirit, Soft!Aventurine, Caring!Kaveh, Slow Burn, Bonding, Gentle Romance.

The house was quiet, bathed in the warm, flickering glow of Christmas lights that dotted the small living room. Outside, the world was covered in a soft blanket of snow, but inside, the fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The air smelled of pine and cinnamon, and soft, holiday music played in the background, blending with the sound of the storm outside.

You were curled up on the couch, a blanket wrapped around you, watching the fire. Your gaze flickered between the warmth of the flames and the two figures who shared the small home with you. Kaveh was carefully arranging small pine branches on the coffee table, creating a makeshift centerpiece for the evening. His hands moved with practiced precision, but the way he muttered to himself as he worked showed the care he put into everything, no matter how small. Every detail mattered to him—whether in his work or his life.

Aventurine, on the other hand, was lounging in an armchair, his legs crossed as he absently played with the cards in his hands. His usual air of confidence seemed a little softened tonight, the ever-present smirk on his lips replaced by something more thoughtful, more subdued. His eyes occasionally met yours, lingering just a little longer than usual before he returned to his game. It was rare to see Aventurine so quiet—he was usually wrapped in mystery, always orchestrating, always calculating—but tonight, with the snow outside and the peace of the holiday surrounding the three of you, even he seemed to let his guard down, if only for a moment.

"You know," Kaveh's voice cut through the silence, soft but clear, "I thought about making some eggnog, but I couldn’t decide if it should be with or without rum. What do you think?" He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and sincerity. "I want tonight to be perfect for all of us."

You smiled at his earnestness, your heart swelling at his thoughtfulness. Kaveh was always like this—seeking beauty in everything, always trying to create the perfect atmosphere for those around him. The way he cared for both you and Aventurine was a reflection of his endless empathy, even when he carried the weight of his own struggles.

Aventurine's voice broke the brief silence as he looked up from his cards, eyes glimmering with amusement. "Knowing Kaveh, I think the rum would be a fitting touch. Though," he added with a sly grin, "I'm more interested in how you'll manage to make it taste good without overcompensating for the lack of… finesse." He raised an eyebrow, his eyes flickering between you and Kaveh.

Kaveh rolled his eyes, though there was a fond smile tugging at his lips. "It’s the thought that counts, Aventurine." He glanced at you again, his expression softening. "Maybe we can compromise. A little rum, just to make it feel more festive."

You chuckled softly, enjoying the easygoing banter between them. Despite their differences, there was a comfort in their presence—two very different men who somehow complemented each other perfectly, just as they complemented you. Kaveh's idealism balanced Aventurine's calculated risk-taking, and your gentle nature was the thread that bound them both together in ways none of you could truly explain. But tonight, it didn’t matter. Tonight was about simple moments, warmth, and connection.

"Alright," you said, your voice warm with affection. "Eggnog with rum it is." You reached for the blanket, adjusting it around you as you sat up and stretched, your eyes meeting Aventurine's as you spoke. "Do you want to help with the drink, Aventurine? Or should I let Kaveh work his magic?"

Aventurine smirked, his fingers lightly tapping on the cards, but his gaze softened as he leaned back in his chair. "I think I'll leave the magic to Kaveh. I'm not much of a 'holiday drink' enthusiast, you know. I'd rather be the observer than the participant." He gave you a teasing wink, as though he were already plotting something else, something you might never know.

Kaveh grinned at the playful exchange. "You and your theatrics," he teased. "Go ahead, make yourself useful and put the fire poker in the hearth."

Aventurine, always the one to tease back, gave a theatrical sigh. "Fine, fine. But don’t expect me to get too involved in the food prep. I’ll leave that to the true artist."

You stood and moved toward the kitchen, feeling the warmth of the fire on your back as you went. You could hear Kaveh following you, his footsteps light, and a moment later, he was beside you, already rummaging through the cabinets with a quiet hum of excitement. "Aventurine likes to act aloof," Kaveh whispered with a smile, "but deep down, I think he’s really enjoying tonight."

You nodded, knowing exactly what he meant. Despite Aventurine’s detachment, you knew that he was here, present, and something about the atmosphere tonight made him more… approachable. Maybe it was the holiday magic, or maybe it was the simple fact that, for once, all of you had nothing to worry about. No high-stakes gambles. No impossible debts. Just the present moment, shared between the three of you.

"Here, I’ll handle the drink," Kaveh said, his hands already measuring out the ingredients, his focus absolute. "Why don’t you get the glasses ready?"

You smiled, moving to set the table as he worked. The space felt alive with the hum of quiet conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the soft laughter that echoed in the small room. Tonight, there was no scheming, no grand plans—just a peaceful Christmas with two people who, in their own ways, loved you more than words could ever express.

As the evening wore on, you found yourself sitting between Kaveh and Aventurine on the couch, the three of you sharing stories, warmth, and the joy that only a quiet night of true companionship could bring. For once, you weren’t just playing your part in the world—they were your world, and for tonight, that was enough.

Kaveh's eyes sparkled as he glanced at you, his voice soft but full of genuine affection. "I’m glad we’re here. Together, like this."

Aventurine leaned back, his hand brushing against yours in a rare, unspoken gesture of connection. "For once, I’m content to let fate take its course." His smile was subtle, but the meaning behind it was clear. For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to control everything.

And so, under the twinkling lights and the quiet serenity of Christmas, the three of you simply existed—no masks, no games—just love, laughter, and the beauty of being together.

[ungurth]

I want to make a post about the different churches for the Divine Warriors because I saw someone’s post and I was a bit shocked at how they seemed to see religion in a negative way. It’s a valid way to see it, after all it’s just headcanon stuff but I had radically different ways to see it. I based it all a lot on creature by half.alive and I kinda pity Christians who keep getting bullshitted and presented as all violent and mean. No religion is perfect but I really wanted to lean into the positive sides of it since we hear too often about the negative aspects. Especially since Emma’s beliefs in Irene are very pure.

Irene

People who follow Irene are called Lightbearers. They believe that everyone have a bit of Irene’s light in them. There’s an official hierarchy like high priest and stuff but there’s a freedom in beliefs and the church isn’t a necessary place. Lightbearers believe that Irene will listen to each individual and that no middleman is necessary. Every place is good to connect with her. Often, priests replace the healers/doctors in small villages and it is believed that those priests have a part of Irene’s healing powers. I worked harder on Irene’s religion since she’s the main one so here’s the hierarchy in short because I wrote a lot. The Archlumen is the pope of the Lightbearers. The top of the top. It is traditionally a man but women have been archlumen before. They are often located in O’khasis, the epicentre of the religion. The High Priest is just after. There’s one in each village. They organize celebrations and prayers. Priests are under their order. They help organize things and some smaller villages don’t even have one. Irene’s daughters/girls (idk how to translate it best) are like midwives. They help pregnant women and mothers taking care of the pregnancy, delivery and everything that comes after. Then you have the “laymen/women”, the regular believers that are simply called Lightbearers. They value sharing with the community, prioritizing peace over violence, helping thy neighbour, working hard and not be lazy. Most Lightbearers are humans. Their alignment is lawful good. Her divine domains are light, life, health and peace

Esmund

Esmund’s divine domains are the mountains, ice, guards, the law, order and miners. The tenets of faith are stolen from Dragonheart: "A guard is sworn to valor, His heart knows only virtue, His blade defends the helpless, His might upholds the weak, His word speaks only truth, His wrath undoes the wicked." Basically, they value justice, respecting the law, protecting the weak, humility, truth and they fight for the good. (Lawful good). Most people who follow the path of Esmund are guards and it can be worshipped alongside Irene’s. In best case scenario they focus only on the defensive but y’know, it’s not perfect.

The Guard of Light

Xavier’s religion is a branch of Esmund and Irene’s. His divine domains are guards, light, justice and peace. They old high regard to guards (or are one themselves) and the law. For them, taking the oath is a life long thing. “The guard lives my the sword, the guard loves my the sword, the guard dies by the sword.” They value virtue, honour, protecting the weak, truth and they only use anger against evil. They also believe that the good in humanity will never end. Light will always triumph. He is also a minor deity of marriage.

Enki

Enki’s domains are time, the earth, wisdom, knowledge, the moon, magick and scholars. His followers believe in perfecting their skill and always seeking new knowledge. The only thing stopping them from murdering and gutting people is the wisdom aspect of his teachings. Enki always added emotions in his calculations and had many research on the subject (often based on Irene.) Of course, there are always extremists who will completely disregard that part but they are a small minority. Enki is mostly seen as a great sage more than a god, kinda like Buddha. But some still believe he is holy and created magick as it is. They will focus on understanding the work in a more theological manner than scientific but will often end up with the same results as the other scholars. Also, obviously, the majority of Enki’s believers are scholars. In Ru’aun, mostly. In the Gal’ruk region, they see him solely as a holy guardian, the protector of their home. Like people see Esmund or Irene in Ru’aun. An important value that they have is keeping every bit of knowledge alive. Enki built a giant library that continuously gets expanded with new work, even the stupidest ones. They also value sharing that knowledge with everybody. Even if scholars can get quite competitive, they want a fair fight. This is more of an Enki thing but he wrote a lot about forgiveness in the later years, before his death. Enki also assures that the cycle of day and night happens, rising up the moon in the sky as guidance in the dark of the night until Menphia takes her turn for the day. In werewolf culture, he is called Ocshaliak, the god of the moon. Ocshaliak focuses on the moon and stars instead of knowledge and magick, and shares traits with Kul’zak. Just like Irene’s religion, no middleman is necessary for Enki’s religion but the religion sometimes gets meshed with the Academy and leaders/teachers can say that they have been chosen by Enki. Lu’pin tribes who worship Ocshaliak believe that the god will only speak to the alpha.

Shad

Shad is a weird one. He has no church and the only people worshiping him as a god are the shadowknights. It’s a particular one. They have no rules, no event and no prayers. Their only ritual is like dumping the new Shadowknights in a cell until the Nether juice gets to their brain lol. Shad’s domains are the Nether, shadows, death, destruction and vengeance. Their goal is to revive Shad, obey his orders and destroy everything. Some maniacal humans would be ready to perform suicide to become a shadowknight. In every other religion, Shad is perceived as Satan and the shadowknights as his demons.

Menphia

Goddess of the sun, war, passion and fire. She is mostly worshipped in Tu’la by humans and Meif’wa (but under another name). Her church’s alignment is chaotic good. “imbue men with constancy and tranquility.” Is a quote describing Halone from FFXIV that I think represents her teachings. Combat is necessary to protect the things you cherish and keep the peace. It’s a different approach to Esmund’s religion that focuses mostly on defence. Menphia’s focuses more on offence. But both strive for the same goal. Sadly, many wars have been justified through twisting her teachings. Menphia also assures that the cycle of day and night happens, rising up the sun in the sky until Enki takes his turn for the night. The Meif’wa call her Azeyma, the goddess of the sun. Their leader (always female) gets chosen by her. They also wear colorful war paint that is believed to give powers to them. “the everlasting flame of hope for all living beings, and the cleansing fire that incinerates all evil.” (Description of Mavuika in Genshin). Fire is often depicted as a symbol of Menphia’s holy light, hope in the dark, the sun itself (who is also a representation of Menphia) and her burning passion for Enki and combat. Knights (guards) are also valued highly in this religion. It is believed that if a knight does exceptionally good, they will ascend to divinity, just like Menphia did. (My hc is that Menphia joined the Divine Warriors last and upon seeing her battle prowess, Esmund chose her as one of their warriors.)

Kul’zak

Kul’zak has no church but small monuments are erected in his honour alongside the most used travel paths. He is the god of the wind, freedom, stars, fortune and of all travellers (merchants, mercenaries, thieves, nomads, prostitutes, bards, drifters, assassins, …), making him chaotic neutral. He keeps travellers safe and on the right path. He is also a god of mischiefs and it is said that if you hear the wind whistle in your ears, you ought to be careful because he is watching you. Piles of rocks alongside roads constitute most of the monuments dedicated to him. Each traveller would write a prayer or draw his symbol for safe keeping on a stone and put it on the pile. If the god feels generous, he will fulfill your prayers. Since Kul’zak is the god of travellers and freedom, the religion has no hierarchy.

Atheists

Atheism resembles Enki’s church. People who are atheists do no worship anybody and only consider the Divine Warriors as powerful beings and prominent historical figures. (Like Kenmur).

[pancake-breakfast]

As it seems I'm entering my Jayvik phase, I wanted to write a bit about how I see them in Arcane. This one's a bit of an odd one for me, as I'm usually pretty "Word of God" when it comes to ships... but for this one? I just don't see the writers' intention of them as "brothers" fully encompassing what's going on here.

(Disclaimer: This is just my thoughts, impressions, and feelings on this and really isn't meant to be a well-thought-out analysis. I'd need to rewatch season 1 for that, and I don't have any intentions of doing that just at this moment. For now, word vomit.)

When I first started watching Arcane, I remember deciding two things about Viktor pretty quickly:

He was my favorite character in the series.

He definitely had a crush on Jayce.

My feelings toward Jayce have always been more complicated. On the one hand, he seemed like a hopeful if naive Labrador of a man who really wanted to Do Good. On the other hand, he's sooooo dumb about things that his actions often seemed... a bit negligent. Like, he just didn't calculate for enough of the world around him, which is why he so easily overlooked things Viktor could never look away from, and why he was so easily used by others (even when they cared for him). I didn't hate Jayce, but to say I liked him would be too strong. It would be more accurate to say I wanted to like him because Viktor liked him. I wanted to trust him because Viktor trusted him. I wanted to hope that even his mistakes would turn out ok because that's what Viktor seemed to want for Jayce.

Theeeeen Jayce got entangled with Mel.

Now, before I go any further, I want to state that I like Mel. I think she's a wonderfully complicated character, and for as strong and competent as she is in S1, watching her still find ways to grow in S2 that even she would have never anticipated was excellent. But my raving about various Madaras is gonna have to wait for another post. Let's get back to Jayce.

While it's pretty undeniable that Jayce had a heavy impact (for the good) on Mel in the long term, it seemed like he mostly got into that relationship by thinking with his dick. That's... a thing that definitely happens, and Mel knew what she was doing and even came to and/or had a level of respect for Jayce (I honestly don't remember just now if she respected him before getting to know him or if it grew on her over time), but I reserve the right to be annoyed when it happens, be it in fiction or in real life. And what made me even more annoyed was the way Jace and Mel's relationship seemed to drive a wedge between Jayce and my dear Viktor.

I wanted Viktor to be happy. I wanted his trust in Jayce not to be misplaced. But seeing the way Jayce approached his relationship with Mel made it pretty clear Jayce was dumb enough to put the work between him and Viktor on the line and was... well... not attracted to Viktor the way Viktor seemed to be attracted to him.

It wasn't that Jayce didn't care for Viktor anymore. Quite the opposite, as S2 is very quick to remind us.

But the way Jayce cared about Viktor was as a colleague, a best friend, a (I'm gonna say it) brother. Viktor was someone he didn't want to lose, someone he wanted to share his life with, but not someone he wanted to take on a date with the hopes of eventually sharing their bodies with each other.

Jayce seems to carry those same feelings all the way to the end of the show. To Jayce, Viktor is the blood that runs in his veins, someone with whom he has an unbreakable bond, someone who inspires him to be his best self, someone whose back he'll always have.

But to Viktor... Jayce is the universe. Every universe. Jayce is his eyes when he forgets how to see and his heart when he forgets how to hope and how to love. When he thinks Jayce has fully rejected him, Viktor gives up on finding any reconciliation not just between himself and Jayce, but between all branches of humankind, seeing the only path forward as one where he forces a connection that strips away all individuality. It's not until he sees the greater love and respect Jayce has for him, love that persists in spite of Viktor's actions and flies in the face of Viktor's initial interpretation of Jayce's actions, that Viktor finds himself again.

Meanwhile, while apparently losing Viktor TWICE rent a hole in Jayce's heart, neither time did that injury come close to destroying him. It helped him solidify who he was and who he wanted to be rather than forget it or let it get twisted to some other purpose.

I absolutely intend to play around with shipping the two of them and appreciating the gorgeous and passionate art of them that's floating around. I want my little Viktor to be blessed with his heart's desire, and I think I appreciate Jayce far more through him than I would have without him. But for me, in canon, their relationship isn't a romantic one. It's a bond made up of mutual professional and personal respect, dedication and affection even until death, and Viktor's deep but unrequited love.

Because even in the real world, relationships are often more complicated than can be defined by words as simple as "brothers" or "lovers." For me, that complicated space is where their relationship forever lives.

Also, Viktor is a top and I love that for them.

[k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl-wr1t1ng]

The M3duS4 Protocol 

Part 1.0

Rubble shifts and slides under slender pointed feet. The dark haze of night shrouding her swift movements through the crumbling streets, the abandoned machine world silent around her as she darts from shadow to shadow. Her almost impossibly dark chassis perfectly suited for infiltration and stealth, reduced now to slinking around like an old world rat. Void pauses as she reaches a jagged opening in the floor in front of her, the edges of the pit’s yawning maw partially melted and gnarled. Void’s sensors begin to scan and calculate, she has no idea what weapon could have caused this damage but she does notice its trajectory, all the damage bent outwards, towards the sky. Whatever it was came from bellow and fired out, and hopefully, if she’s lucky, continued that way itself. She knows she has to decide quickly, spending as long as she has inside such an active zone without an encounter is a miracle, and she’ll need a few more if she’s gonna make it out intact.

A silent sigh escapes her body, she cant afford to stay out in the open any longer. Gingerly she starts her descent, every step carefully placed as to not create any noise, the pile of metal left over from whatever rampaged through here making a convenient staircase down into the dark under-city. Her sensors carefully scanning the room as the sky above her is replaced by thick metal. Her nimble body quickly swallowed by the total darkness of the streets below.

Without the natural moonlight lighting her path, and the thick machined walls insulating her from the world above, Void now relies solely on her other sensors to navigate. Her infrared scanners detecting nothing but the cold, lifeless metal all around her. She could easily get lost down here, with thousands of identical rooms and rundown corridors all it would take is one slip up. Void forces the thought from her CPU.

We need to focus

Continuing along her path she continues to scan each branching pathway for a potential exit, unsure what such an exit would look like, but remaining confident she would know it when she sees it. The dark corridors feel almost alien to her, the old world used to be so fascinating and incredible. She would spend hours studying everything about it. In the hopes that it would make her more capable, better at keeping everyone safe...

Just stay calm, we can alwa-

A loud clanging rings out from beneath her as her foot collides with something she hadn't noticed laying in her path. The sound reverberates off the walls, no doubt alerting anything nearby of her presence.

Fuck

Void freezes in the growing silence as the sounds bouncing around her fizzle out, every sensor in her body working overtime in a desperate attempt to detect any reactions to her fumble. Bitter memories rise up in her memory banks, flashes of a similar situation, decades ago, forever burnt into her core, pain and fear elevating throughout her system in equal measure. Distorted screams impossible to forget.

A heavy force slams into Void’s left side, distracted in the depths of her own memories she didn't sense it approaching until she was already halfway to the ground. Her light, metal frame slams hard into the cold, unforgiving floor as the force in her side crashes down with her. Scrambling under the weight above her, panicking as she gets her hands beneath her chassis, the lithe body of her assailant slowly coming into focus as her sensors turn towards it. A lightweight, civilian frame containing a mess of wires and rusted metal, two poorly connected arms on either side of its torso grasping and scratching desperately towards her.

“Get off me!” Void screamed, hoping in vain that it would understand.

The bot opened its mouth in what looked like an attempt at communication but all that escaped its throat was the sound of ancient parts grinding together, its voice module long since decayed. Not that communication would have helped her. The frenzied movements and ancient design indicated clearly what she feared, the bots core had already completely destabilised, its body acting on nothing more than instinct and impossibly faded memories.

Flailing desperately Void gives the bot a shove with all the strength she can muster. Despite the civilian design it doesn't budge, the four arms and angle of approach giving it a significant advantage.

Knife

Void scrambles to keep the clawing hands at bay as she reaches her free hand down to her thigh, a small click and the outer casing slides apart revealing a small compartment containing a dark metal rod. Clumsily she grasps at the bar, forcing it into her grip. Almost instantly, as if knowing the danger present, a slim blade slides out from within the dark steel. Quickly she takes the blade and thrusts it as hard as she can into the closest shoulder. Something bursts inside the bots body as the blade tears through it, a dark liquid spurting out of the wound and any gaps within the already damaged chassis. The bot, seemingly unbothered by this explosion, continues to grasp and claw into her armour. Void braces her other arm against the bots chest, remembering her training, and slams the knife back down. This time into the exposed wiring coiling up its neck. Almost instantly the bot buckles above her, both its right arms collapsing to the floor, its torso falling flat against Void’s chest.

Sensing her moment, Void pushes with all her might against the partially disabled bot, her body sliding out from underneath it. Clambering to her feet she breaks into a sprint down the corridor, her mind spinning as she desperately tries to escape the now dangerously noisy area.

Synthetic adrenaline surges through her system as she dismisses several warning alerts flashing across her visor. Her panicked movements desperately working to get her as far away as possible. Struggling in the dark she finally spots a branching corridor to duck down, her feet sliding and sparking against the floor as she drifts around the corner, almost slamming into the opposite wall.

Peaking back behind her as she runs, another warning burns through her system, this time a proximity warning. Confusion fills her core, quickly replaced by fear when she turns back to face a burning bolt of plasma rushing towards her, almost the width of the corridor. She dives to the ground, the impossibly scorching heat partially colliding with her left arm as she falls. Another flurry of warnings rocket through her as she once again slams into the hard metal flooring.

Looking up with a long, distorted moan, Void attempts to discern the source of the projectile. She suddenly makes out a large, hulking form limping its way towards her. Six crab like legs straining to hold up a heavy weapons platform, an incredibly ancient warbot. Its design so old it could only have been built during some human war, long ago lost to time.

Multiple targeting lasers circle the dark space, most of them slowly coming to focus on her centre mass, a few others pointing off in seemingly random directions. Void drags her limbs closer underneath her in a desperate attempt to stand and fight. Her servos screaming at her as they fail to give her what she wants. Void sighs, accepting her fate, letting herself think back to those deep, desperate memories. Her body failing her now as it did back then.

I’m sorry

Before Void is able to fall too far into her shame, the entire floor lurches beneath her, a deep rumbling pulses through her body. A deafening explosion roars from somewhere behind her and the entire space around her is shifted and distorted. Void is thrown from her prone position forcefully into the ceiling, before dropping back down onto the now rapidly collapsing floor, the structure disintegrating and warping around her faster than she can process. Watching as the ancient warbot across from her is sucked through the floor, its towering form swallowed by the darkness below.

Attempting to avoid a similar fate, Void thrusts her knife deep into the wall in front of her. Almost as quickly as the knife enters the wall does the floor crack and sunder beneath her, being torn away by whatever force propelled the explosion. Her entire body briefly suspended in the stale air. Gravity quickly takes hold, her form plummeting downwards before jolting to a stop, anchored to the wall by her blade. Her relief is short lived as her her arm is torn from its housing, shorn wires sparking, lighting up the darkness as she falls fast. Warnings and alerts fill her vision, her entire system screaming at her one final time as the impact ruptures something within her, sensors and servos lose power almost instantly, her consciousness only seconds behind. Her limp body pathetically falling through the dark before thudding into a metallic surface one last time.

~~~~~

I'm currently saving up for a tattoo (as well as just trying to survive) so if you wanna support me know it would go to a hot as fuck tattoo hehe - Ko-Fi

[anxiousnerdwritings]

Percy is lowkey the only one that really understands Weasley!Reader’s complicated relationship with their parents and money so the two of them are closer then any of the other siblings

Percy doesn’t approve of the things that his little brother is doing but climbs the political ladder at the Ministry just to use his connections to keep the smoke off of his brother and his criminal activities

I love this so much🥰💕. I was honestly so conflicted how I thought Percy would be about the whole situation but I love how you put it. I already headcanoned in my own mind that Percy would be the first (and probably only one) in the family to find out about what the Reader was doing and that’s merely because he happened across the Reader during a dealing they were doing in one of the back allies of Hogsmead during school or at Diagon Alley before the school year started.

I imagine Percy being pretty upset and disappointed with the Reader at first but when they give their reasoning he calms down and is understanding of it. He even hunts his younger sibling felling terrible that they feel the need to resort to illegal means as to provide for their family. I think this would even cause Percy to resent their parents a little more than normal. If they only made better decisions or tried to strive a little harder in life then his younger sibling wouldn’t feel such a need to go down the path they’re going, and at such a young age too, all just to help out the family cause they’re parents can’t.

Percy would definitely involve himself in the Reader’s ‘business’, more so to ensure his sibling is safe and protected throughout it. But he doesn’t start out too thoroughly involved, just some behind the scenes stuff and covering for the Reader whether at home or school, until eventually he finds himself calculating the business’ overall earnings or looking into new ways to branch out the business as a whole in its’ dealings and who all it deals with.

When it comes to Lestrange!Daughter!Oc, Percy is skeptical. He doesn’t trust her at all, whatsoever, especially regarding his sibling. Hell, he probably believes early on that she’s the one who got the Reader into doing this type of stuff to begin with. Even after quite awhile of having her around and being involved in everything Percy would still be very skeptical of Lestrange!Daughter. He just can’t bring himself to trust her with his sibling. He’s seen first hand what she’s capable of when it comes to the Reader and that only worries him so much more.

Also, Percy coming across the Reader really hurt after a dealing gone wrong. Probably an incident that occurred earlier on when the Reader’s business was still in the early stages. I imagine things like this still happen every so often but the Reader is much better at handling the situation and putting whoever in their place by whatever means necessary, not to mention Lestrange!Daughter is there to take out whoever she sees fit (especially if they dare to cause any harm to her beloved darling). But no matter how many times it happens, Percy never gets use to it. No matter how far he’s involved it still hurts him to see his younger sibling getting so badly hurt because of everything. Especially when the Reader is at home after a particularly rough interaction; cuts, bruises, and broken bones, but they’re just so happy to be back with everyone, acting like nothing ever happened.

[nekomiras]

Alhaitham in an Art Nouveau inspired style Here's a thread I wrote about this concept on Twitter, below the cut will be a copy of the text, sorry if it takes a weird format on tumblr since it was initially written as a twt thread

This might not make a lot of sense to some of you but before i talk about Alhaitham and Art Nouveau i'd like to talk about Kaveh and Romanticism The connection between Kaveh and Romanticism can be more easily done, specially with characters such as Faruzan calling him a romantic

The Romantic movement, as the name suggest, is very emotionally driven. Its a movement that values individualism ane subjectvism, it's objective is on evoking an emotional response, most comonly being feelings of sympathy, awe, fear, dread and wonder in relation to the world

Basically the artistic view of the Romantic is to represent the world while trying to say "we are hopeless in the grand scheme of things, little can we do to change the world yet the world is always changing us"

In Romantic pieces the man is always small compared to the setting they find themselves in, see the painting Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog by Caspar David Friedrich as an example, the human figure is central but relativelly insignificant to the world

Another thing about Romanticism is the importance of beauty, it's through it that the Romantic seeks to get in touch with their emotions and ituition and its through these lenses that they see the world. The Kaveh comparison should be easy to make with these descriptions

Kaveh's idle chat "The ability to ability to appreciat beauty is an important virtue" just cements to me the idea that his romanticism is closely connected to the artistic movement. He does have an argument agaisnt this connection but I'll bring it up later on the thread

Now that I used the opportunity to talk about my favorite character in a thread that wasn't supposed to be about him let's go back to Alhaitham and how to connect him to the Art Nouveau movement

But seriously, I brought up Kaveh's more obvious connection to Romanticism because the Nouveau movement was created as a direct mirrored response to the Romantic movement, and we all know how we feel about mirrored themes between these two characters

Art Nouveau is about rationality and logic, the movement was used more comonly on mass produced interior design pieces or architectural buildings, it's a movement much more focused on functionality than on art appreciation

They also had a big focus on the natural world but in a very different way, while Romantics saw nature as a power they couldnt contend with, artists from the Nouveau used the natural as an universal symbolical theme for broad mass appeal

Flowers, leaves, branches, complexes and organic shapes are the basis of this style, the logical side of it coming from the mathematics needed to create these shapes and themes in ways that were appealing and also structurally sound

To appreciate the Art Nouveau style is to understand it is a calculated artistic movement (another reason to be salty about an AI generated image trying to emulate it) In short, this style is less about the art and more about the rationality in the mathematics to make it

Another note I'd like to point out is that I love how both Alhaitham and Kaveh have dendro visions while both movements are so nature centric in different ways, Romanticism seeing it as a subjective power and Art Nouveau seeing it as recognizeable symbols

I mentioned an argument against the Kaveh comparison before: the one thing that bothers me about Romanticism is how negative it is in relation to humanity's position in the world and how that related back to Kaveh

In the Parade of Providence it was explicitely showed how much Kaveh dislikes the idea of people seeing themselves as helpless in relation to the problems of the world

People may suffer but there is something he can do to help them and he will do it

It doesn't feel right for me to say that Kaveh fits the Romantic themes because of his suffering, in a similar sense it also doesn't feel right to me to say Alhaitham fits Art Nouveau because of his rational behaviour while he as a character is a lot more complex than that

This thread was done all in fun and love for an artistic discussion, it's not a perfect argument to connect these characters and movements

+ I haven't studied art history in a year, if anyone knows more about these movements please tell me I love learning new things

++ Really sorry if my english is bad or I sound repetitive, it's not my first language and im trying my best here

Thanks for reading

I love you, have a nice day/evening/night