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writesvani · 1 month ago

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dear me | 09

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: sexual tension, emotional tension, alcohol consumption, conflicted feelings for a taken friend, stage anxiety, performance stress, emotional repression, romantic confusion, angst, unresolved feelings, subtle jealousy, explicit language

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter

wc: 6,6k // date: 13th of May 2025

CHAPTER NINE — PLAY IT AGAIN happy reading my gummies...

AN: hey guys, it’s been 2 weeks without “dear me,” but we’re so back, baby. anyways, writing this chapter was really hard for me. like, REALLY hard. i’ve been stuck in a writer's block pit and i swear, i kept deleting and rewriting scenes (i’m pretty sure this chapter has like 8 versions in my drafts, don’t even ask). BUT i’ve finally settled with this one, so here we are.

now, time to meet some new characters. what do we think of them, huh? yay or nay? also, i gave you SO MANY easter eggs in this chapter. like, half of it is just foreshadowing or clearly hinting at something and i’m LOWKEY excited to see your comments and asks about it.

anyways, goal for this chapter is 450 because i KNOW we can hit it and also because i like having a bit more time to finish chapters. so yeah, let’s do this. love you guys, now go read and tell me everything you think.

It’s kind of ridiculous, honestly—the way Jeon Jungkook blends into a room and owns it at the same time. Like some kind of paradox. Earlier today, he looked like he belonged to the sunlight—the warm kind, the kind that makes old bookstores feel like home. Curled into his booth with an espresso and that soft, quiet stare. He looked small. Touchable.

But now?

Now he looks like a warning sign. Shoulders squared, head tilted like he knows something you don’t, lips curved in that maddening smirk of his. The neon lights of The House flicker against his sharp jaw, casting shadows that feel deliberate. Calculated. Dangerous.

You’re following behind him, mildly regretting the decision to show up early. It’s barely 9 p.m. and the place is already humming—bands tuning up, neon signs buzzing, and Alex... perched on a bar stool like he owns the air.

You’re going to need a drink. Immediately.

Jungkook walks up like it’s his goddamn stage. Alex looks up, face splitting into a grin.

“Well, shit,” he says, tossing his pen aside. “Didn’t think you’d actually show, big boy.”

Jungkook shrugs, already half in a chair. “I don’t back out of dares.”

You glance at the paper Alex was scribbling on and let out a half-laugh. “Are you—are you seriously doing sudoku right now?”

Alex deadpans, “Gotta keep the brain sharp, sweetheart.”

You snort. “You’re so full of it. You not working tonight?”

“Please. I’m off-duty. I came to get drunk and take Jungkook’s money.”

“You wish,” Jungkook mutters, grinning. “So who’s behind the bar?” he asks.

Alex leans back dramatically. “New guy. But he’s decent. You might know him—same age as you two.”

You raise a brow. “Then just say his name? What is this cryptic scavenger hunt?”

“I’m setting the vibe,” Alex says. “Anyway, name’s Park Jimin.”

You blink. Jungkook goes still for half a second.

Park. Fucking. Jimin.

This is exactly why you hate small towns.

This is why you should’ve stayed away. Should’ve packed up your life, lit a match to the past, and never looked back. Because small towns come with reunions you never asked for. The kind that smell like stale beer, too-loud music, and people who were never villains—just unnecessary plot twists you never wanted to reread.

So when Park Jimin strolls out from the back closet door of The House—the one they keep the good booze in because the bar’s too damn small—you already feel your molars grinding.

You don’t hate him. But God, does his presence itch.

“Well, well,” he says, slipping a bottle of Belvedere into the fridge. His eyes lock on yours, glittering with the same mischief that used to make you roll yours in high school. “Familiar faces just follow me, huh?”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He grins like it’s personal. “Missed me much?”

“Yeah. Like a rash.”

“Oof. Still bitter about prom?”

“I’m not bitter about prom.”

“You totally are.” He leans on the bar like he’s settling in. “Sorry again for dumping you right before, though. Heard you had to go with Yoongi. Brutal.”

“Hey, hey, hey—” Alex interrupts next to you, throwing a hand in the air. “Don’t slander my boy Yoongs like that. That man is class.”

Jimin ignores him. Of course he does.

“Thought your bestie would take you,” he adds, eyes still on you, “but I guess his girlfriend matched his aesthetic better.”

The blood in your ears roars. You open your mouth, but Jungkook beats you to it.

“What’s your problem?” he says, voice low and sharp. The tension in his jaw could crack diamonds.

Jimin looks at him for the first time. Smirks. “Relax, bro. I’m just messing with my ex. No harm done.”

You’re about to fire back when he adds, casual as hell, “Heard you got engaged to your high school sweetheart though. Congrats, man. Seriously.”

And just like that, the air goes from hot to hostile. Your throat tightens.

This motherfucker always knew where to cut.

Jungkook’s expression falters for a moment. You catch it—just the twitch of his jaw, the flicker behind his eyes. You think he might say something—thank him, tell him off, maybe even laugh it off.

Instead, he shifts.

His face evens out into that lazy, cool disinterest he wears so well. Like nothing ever touches him.

“One Jack Daniels,” he says, tone smooth, eyes bored. “Two cubes of ice. And for my friend—” he gestures toward you without even looking, “One Long Island Iced Tea. Add extra lemon juice and, uh, don’t be shy with the tequila.”

Jimin blinks. “What?”

Jungkook shrugs, rolling his shoulders like he’s stretching before a fight. “That’s our order. You do still make drinks, right? Or are you just here to be irrelevant all over again?”

You almost choke on a laugh. Almost.

Jimin wets his lips, and for a moment you see the flicker of something crack behind his eyes. But he recovers. Plasters on that wide, gleaming smile—the one you used to fall for. The one you now recognize as plastic.

“Of course,” he says, voice all sugar and sawdust. “Coming right up.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the bar top. You glance over just as the screen lights up — Nina. Of course. She and Yoongi are supposed to be showing up any minute now.

When Jungkook had called her earlier to tell her about the bet with Alex — how he was playing drums tonight — she was thrilled. Or, well, "ecstatic," in his words. You weren’t on speaker, so you couldn’t hear her exact reaction. But you can imagine it. Sweet and supportive and all the things you know Nina to be.

He’d invited her immediately, of course. And she’d dragged Yoongi into the plan too — not that you minded. You might’ve casually begged Yoongi to show up so you wouldn’t have to third-wheel your way through the night like some tragic side character.

Jungkook picks up his phone with a low grunt, muttering, “She’s gonna call me in like, two seconds.”

You nod as he stands, watching his silhouette disappear toward the front door.

Alex elbows you, hard. “So… what I’m gathering here is, Jimin is your ex?”

You sigh. “Wow. Incredible deduction, detective. Really cracked the case there.”

He snorts. “So he’s that ex? The one who bailed on you before prom?”

You shoot him a look. “What gave it away, the tension in the room or the mild death wish I had five minutes ago?”

Alex grins. “You’re such a bitch.”

“Jimin brings it out in me.”

“Sure, blame the man.”

“I am blaming the man,” you say, then pause, brow furrowing. “He’s just… irritating.”

“He was acting weird with Jungkook though. And Yoongi too, back when he was mentioned. What's his deal with them?”

You shrug. “Honestly? No clue. Even when I dated him, he’d pretend they didn’t exist in public. It was weird then, and it’s still weird now.”

Alex hums, nursing his drink. “Damn, I thought he’s cool. He gives me bad vibes now.”

“You give me bad vibes.”

“And yet here you are, hanging out with me,” he grins.

“Sooo… love,” Jimin drawls, and you know — you just know — he’s talking to you.

You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to stay facing Alex, but his voice is like a needle in your spine. When you glance over, he’s not even trying to hide the smug look on his face. He’s pouring white rum into a shaker like it’s the most casual thing in the world, the glint in his eyes almost daring you to respond.

You roll your eyes. God, he’s insufferable. Always was. Still, you can’t lie — black hair, pretty lips, annoyingly symmetrical face… Park Jimin has no right still looking that good.

Not that you’d ever say it aloud. Your friends would kill you on the spot.

“What?” you snap.

He shrugs. “Nothing. Just wanted to see if you’d still turn when I call you love.”

“You’re fucked in the head.”

He grins, unbothered. “You know whose head I also fucked?”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “Peak comedy. Is there a two-drink minimum for this set or what?”

“No joke. Just facts.”

“Yeah, okay, we had sex. Ages ago. You want a medal?”

He leans in slightly. “Didn’t think the first time was that forgettable.”

“It only means something if the person means something,” you say coolly.

That hits. His smile slips just a bit — before morphing into something darker.

“Then maybe you should’ve picked one of your friends. Wonder who would’ve been more desperate—gloom-and-doom Yoongi or Mr. Marrying-The-Preppy-Girl.”

You tense. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

He just shrugs again, shaking the cocktail like nothing’s wrong. “Touchy.”

“I don’t know what your problem is with them—hell, with me—but you’re acting like a damn parasite.”

“I don’t have a problem with you,” he says easily, pouring the drink. “You’re not pathetic. They are. I’m just trying to open your eyes.”

“Dude,” Alex hisses, his tone sharp, “I get there's history here, but you really need to back off. She’s a customer.”

Jimin doesn’t even flinch, still focused on mixing the drinks with practiced ease. “I get it, I do,” he smirks, eyes flicking to you. “But she knows exactly what I’m talking about. She knows why we broke up, after all.”

You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to snap. “Jimin, drop it. It was a high school breakup. Seriously, who cares? I got over it in two weeks.”

He leans in slightly, that dangerous edge to his smile. “You ever think I might’ve been right?”

“No,” you reply coldly, voice tight. “Because you weren’t.”

Jimin’s smile widens, but it’s all sharp edges now. “Sure, love. Whatever helps you keep your little fairytale. I’ll drop it—for now.” He slides the drink toward you, his gaze lingering just a second too long.

When Jungkook walks back into The House, the change in him is immediate. Whatever easy charm he left with is gone — replaced by stormy eyes and a jaw so tight you’re afraid he might crack a bone or two. His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek, a tell you’ve come to recognize: something went wrong.

“Took you long enough,” Jimin taunts, just as Jungkook drops into the seat next to you without a word. It’s not his usual controlled fall — it’s heavy, careless.

“Your ice melted,” Jimin adds, gesturing toward the untouched whiskey glass, voice dipped in mock concern.

Jungkook barely glances at it. “Right. Shame,” he mutters.

Alex leans forward slightly, brow creasing. “Everything cool, man?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook says. “Peachy. Don’t worry about it.”

But you do. You worry the second you see the way his knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the bar. You want to ask, but his expression shuts that down. Whatever it is, it’s not meant for public display.

So you shift gears. “When are Nina and Yoongi getting here?”

“Nina’s not coming,” he says flatly, not even looking at you.

“What?” That doesn’t make sense. She was practically bouncing off the walls earlier, excited to watch him drum again, or at least that’s what Jungkook said.

“She’s… feeling under the weather.”

A cold excuse. Paper thin.

You blink. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” he says, then adds, too casually, “Just not in the mood to go out.”

Something’s off. Way off.

“And Yoongi?”

“He’ll be here later,” Jungkook says, voice tightening as he rubs the back of his neck — another tell.

Then, of course, Jimin can’t help himself.

“Damn,” he drawls, grinning like the devil. “Your little fiancée bailed on your big night?”

Jungkook flinches.

It’s subtle, but it’s there — a flicker of pain behind the guarded eyes.

“Jimin,” you hiss, eyes flashing as you shoot him a death glare. “Enough.”

But he’s already walking off, smug and self-satisfied, whistling like he didn’t just stick a knife into something raw.

And Jungkook?

He doesn’t say a word.

He just stares straight ahead.

A few awkward minutes pass — the silence only interrupted by the distant sound of opening bands testing mics and tuning guitars. No one dares break the uneasy stillness. Alex is hunched over a sudoku, casually sipping his beer like it’s any other night. Jungkook nurses his half-melted whiskey, the kind of lukewarm drink that probably tastes like piss by now. Even Jimin’s gone quiet, absent of any snark, polishing glasses with the focus of someone who knows he went too far.

You stare blankly at your phone, Instagram Reels flickering past without meaning. You couldn’t name a single thing you’ve watched.

Because all you can feel is him.

The tension radiating off Jungkook is impossible to ignore — like he’s one sharp breath away from detonating. But instead, he just… sits there. Bottled up. Unmoving. Unwell.

“Kook,” you whisper, soft enough that only he hears. “What happened?”

He exhales through his nose. “Nothing, really. I don’t wanna dump shit on you.”

“C’mon.” You bump your shoulder gently against his. “Spill.”

He hesitates. Then, quietly: “Nina just thinks… since I’m working tomorrow, I shouldn’t be out tonight.”

You frown. That doesn’t sound like Nina. Not from what you know.

“And?” you ask.

“And she thinks… this is an unnecessary distraction.”

You blink. “This as in what?”

“As in me drumming tonight.”

Your eyebrows knit tighter. “A distraction from what?”

“I don’t know,” he mutters. “I don’t get it either. She just said she needs sleep and can’t make it.”

You let that settle for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Kook. But… wasn’t she excited earlier? Like, really excited?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice thinning. “But… something changed. I don’t know what. She just—changed her mind.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, Kook,” you say gently, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. “She’s probably just annoyed about something and taking it out on you. It’ll pass. It usually does, right?”

“Yeah… probably,” he mutters. “I just thought she’d come. I haven’t played in forever. Kinda wanted her here, that’s all.”

“I get it,” you nod. Wanted her here. It shouldn’t hit the way it does, but it does. You take a sip of your drink, trying to shake it off. “But hey—Yoongi’s coming. Alex is here. I’m here.”

He glances at you, manages a small smile. It looks practiced, not real. “At least I’ll have a chill crowd when I completely bomb.”

“You wish,” you nudge him. “If you bomb, I’ll be the first one to laugh in your face.”

“You’re all heart,” he says with a light chuckle, and it feels better—easier—than anything he’s said since he walked in.

“Hey!” Jimin suddenly appears in front of you both like he’s been summoned by drama. “Not everyone here’s so supportive. I’ve got front-row seats to his downfall.”

Jungkook laughs for real this time. “Yeah, well, good thing I never valued your opinion.”

“That’s rude.”

“That’s accurate.”

You roll your eyes, pointing at Jimin. “Alright, enough out of you. Go make us another round. Alex too. And fine, you can pour yourself something if it’ll keep you from eavesdropping.”

Jimin clutches his chest like you just proposed. “Wow. Buying me a drink now? And here I thought you were over me.”

You smirk. “Don’t push your luck. I’m just trying to keep the vibe from completely crashing.”

Jimin gives you a playful salute and walks off. And for the first time in what feels like forever, Jungkook’s shoulders drop a little. He still looks sad, but at least now he doesn’t look like he’s gonna snap in half.

When Jimin slides your drinks over, Alex actually wheezes — like, full-on wheezes — before his face turns red with excitement. “As soon as I get Jungkook’s money,” he adds dramatically, “you’re the first one I’m buying one for.”

“You could just split the money with me,” you reply, smirking over your glass.

Next to you, Jungkook groans and slumps forward, burying his face in his hands. “I swear to god, I’m gonna die. I’m not even gonna be good. I haven’t done this in so long.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Alex waves him off. “Spare us the dramatics, Kook. The kids you’ll be playing with should be here any minute.”

“The kids I’ll be—what?”

“Well, yeah,” Alex shrugs. “You’re playing drums, right? No offense, man, but I don’t think the crowd’s dying for a solo drum recital. You need a full sound. Guitar, bass, maybe even keys. You know how these things go.”

Jungkook stares at him, horrified. “Oh my god. I didn’t even think about that. Who am I playing with?”

“That band I told you about this morning, remember?” Alex says casually.

“Wait—don’t they already have a drummer?”

“Yeah, they do,” Alex grins. “But I talked to Jack. Asked if he’d let you jump in for a song, and he said sure. Super chill guy.”

Jungkook rubs his forehead with both hands, muttering something under his breath. You can't tell if it’s relief or panic—or both.

“Hey,” you nudge him gently, “you’ll be fine. You could probably play in your sleep.”

“Yeah, well, maybe I’ll have to,” he mutters, then downs the rest of his drink.

The door of The House creaks open, and like a domino effect, all four of you—Alex, Jungkook, even Jimin, and you—snap your heads toward it, expecting to finally see the teenage band roll in.

But no. Not even close.

Instead, it’s Yoongi. He steps inside in a massive black hoodie and matching sweatpants, a bandana pushing his hair off his forehead. He pauses when he sees all your eyes locked on him, confusion already creeping into his features.

“What?” he frowns. “Did I miss it? You already played, man?”

You let out a small laugh.

“Nah, not yet.” Jungkook gestures toward the bar. “Keep the whiskey flowing.”

Jimin groans under his breath, clearly annoyed—by Jungkook’s request, by Yoongi’s sudden presence, by existence in general.

Yoongi raises a brow as he takes the seat next to Alex. “Did all of you just... stare at me when I walked in?”

“Sorry, man,” Alex chuckles. “We thought the band Kook’s playing with showed up.”

“The high schoolers?” Yoongi asks, settling in.

“Yeah,” you say. “I mentioned them earlier when we texted.”

Yoongi hums. “Heard they’re good. Can I get a dirty martini?” His voice is calm until his eyes meet Jimin’s.

He stiffens. Jimin rolls his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they stay in his head.

“Why the hell not,” Jimin mutters, stomping off to make the drink.

Yoongi watches him walk away, his jaw tightening.

“What are you doing here?” he calls after him.

“Working. Thought that was obvious,” Jimin bites back, slamming the finished martini in front of him with no ceremony.

Yoongi goes quiet. You and Jungkook exchange a subtle glance.

You lean toward Yoongi, voice low. “Okay, I knew you two weren’t exactly besties, but this feels like next-level passive-aggressive.”

“He deserves it,” Yoongi grits out.

You blink. “Sure, but… I wasn’t expecting you to be more pissed than I am to see him.”

“He’s just—” Yoongi exhales, “annoying.”

“That’s something even I agree with,” Jungkook mutters, sipping his drink.

“What are you even wearing, dude?” Jimin asks, eyeing Yoongi’s oversized hoodie and sweats like they’re a disgrace to the earth. “Who the hell comes to a club dressed like that?”

Yoongi doesn’t even flinch. “Me.”

Jimin scoffs, dramatic as ever. “Right. Is that because you’re, what—edgy? Quirky? Too cool to try?”

“No,” Yoongi says flatly. “It’s because this place isn’t a club, it’s practically a dive bar, and I literally grew up here. But hey—props to you for trying so hard. Must be tough being the new guy.”

Jimin raises an eyebrow, jaw twitching just slightly. “Cute. Did you rehearse that one in the mirror or does it just come naturally when you’re being a dick?”

Yoongi smirks, unbothered. “Naturally. But thanks for noticing.”

“Well, everyone’s getting along just great,” Alex mutters, lips pressed tight around the rim of his beer.

“I’m just glad someone finally matches Jimin’s talent for being a pain in the ass,” Jungkook says, spinning one of his rings absentmindedly with his thumb.

Your eyes drift to his hands. Just for a second. Just because they’re moving. But then you really look. His fingers—long, slender, tanned just enough—move with ease, like they know how to pull attention. His skin looks soft, but there’s something sharp in the way his knuckles flex. Something wicked. Something you shouldn’t be noticing.

Your stomach twists.

You blink, hard, like that'll reset your brain.

Jungkook is your friend. Your best friend. Engaged to your other friend. This isn’t supposed to be happening. You’re not supposed to be looking at his hands like this.

And worse—worse than anything—Jimin saw it. Of course he fucking did. You hear his quiet, condescending chuckle, and a wave of shame burns through your cheeks.

“Nice rings, Jungkook,” Jimin says, too casually. His eyes never leave Jungkook’s face, but you can feel the smirk meant for you. “They really suit your fingers.”

Jungkook frowns, caught off guard. “Uh… thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” Jimin replies smoothly, already turning on his heel as someone calls his name from across the bar.

You watch him go, teeth clenched.

Fuck you, Park Jimin.

You’d almost been grateful for his silence. But no—he just had to say something.

Finally—finally—after what feels like an eternity and three Long Islands too deep, the door creaks open and in stumble four high schoolers, breathless, disheveled, and looking like they lost half their souls on the way here.

Alex shoots up with a dramatic yell. “Here they come. My children.”

“Fucking hell, Mina, I told you we’d be late,” the tall brunette groans, dragging a black gig bag over his shoulder as he wipes sweat off his brow.

“Chill, dude. We’re not late—we’re on at eleven,” the girl—who you assume is Mina (probably because she’s the only girl)—retorts, hoisting a keyboard bag like it’s a sack of bricks but somehow not tripping over it.

“Can you two not? Just tonight, please?” the third kid huffs, his pale skin glowing under the lights, striking blue eyes shooting them both a glare.

Trailing quietly behind them is the fourth member—carrying only a pair of drumsticks. That’s Jack. Definitely Jack. His shoulders are hunched, cheeks tinged pink as he scratches the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with the chaos in front of him.

“Hey, Alex,” the blue-eyed boy says, grinning as he high-fives the older man.

“Yo, Dan. What’s up.”

“Sorry we’re late, bro. Mina took two hours doing her eyeliner.”

“Ha! See!” the brunette jumps in. “I’m not the only one who thought it was excessive.”

“It’s called getting ready,” Mina snaps, turning on him. “Sorry I wasn’t born a man so I could just throw on a clean shirt and be socially acceptable. It’s not my fault people expect women to look like magazine covers.”

“Why do you turn everything into feminist propaganda?” Ace mutters, and you can’t help the smirk that tugs at your lips.

“I’m not. I’m just stating facts.”

They’re so deep into their bickering that they don’t even notice the rest of you at the bar—except for Jack and Dan, who gravitate toward Alex like they're clinging to stability.

“So, this is JK, guys,” Alex says, nodding toward Jungkook.

That shuts everyone up.

“The Jeon Jungkook?” the brunette—Ace, you think—says, eyes wide, posture straightening in an instant.

You nudge Jungkook’s shoulder. “Uhm, wow, Jungkook. Didn’t know I was in the presence of royalty.”

Jungkook laughs under his breath. “Uh… yeah?” He glances at Ace, unsure.

Mina squeals—an actual, honest-to-god squeal. Dan flushes bright red. And Jack stammers, “Whoa. You’re kind of a legend around here. Total honor to meet you, sir.”

“Please don’t call me sir,” Jungkook says, flustered. “I’m not that old. And—legend?”

“Yeah, bro—I mean, sir—I mean Jungkook,” Jack stammers. “Everyone knows about you. I can’t believe I’m letting you borrow my sticks tonight.”

“Thanks for the sticks in advance, Jack,” Jungkook says, his cheeks tinged pink—part whiskey, part unexpected attention. “But I’m just gonna warn you—I might disappoint you guys.”

“No way,” Jack fires back instantly.

“Not a chance,” Mina adds, shaking her head.

Jungkook laughs, easing into their energy. He falls into effortless banter with the kids, talking about their setlist, throwing out ideas, asking their opinions on which song he should play.

You don’t interrupt. You just watch him.

He finally looks relaxed, like the tension in his shoulders has melted off without anyone noticing. His face is lit up with a soft smile, his hands moving as he animatedly explains why Smells Like Teen Spirit should absolutely make the list. The kids groan dramatically, arguing that while it’s a classic, it’s way too basic for a comeback gig after ten years.

“It’s a banger!” Jungkook insists, brows raised.

“And that’s the problem!” Ace argues. “We want iconic, not expected.”

Yoongi, from his seat nearby, chimes in lazily, “Nirvana is iconic. Can’t be basic if it’s legendary.”

Mina turns to him, eyes sharp but playful. “With all due respect, Sir—we need something more iconic.”

“How is that song not the 'most' iconic?” Yoongi repeats, deadpan.

“It is,” Mina sighs, “but we need like—iconic with a twist.”

You laugh, quietly. The whole exchange is ridiculous but so full of life. Your gaze finds its way back to Jungkook—still laughing, still animated, bangs falling in his eyes, youth catching the edge of his expression.

You’re not sure what it is—the presence of the kids, the memory of what The House used to mean, or just the anticipation of playing again—but something about him tonight feels different. No—familiar.

He looks alive.

He looks like himself.

So you lean into it. You let yourself feel it. Let yourself miss him in the way that hurts but also heals.

Because this… this version of him—the one glowing with purpose and ease—this is the version you’ve missed the most.

“Don’t you guys want to drop off your instruments and have a drink?” Jimin asks from behind the bar, voice light, expression even lighter.

You stiffen, blinking twice. Park Jimin… smiling? And not the condescending, I-know-something-you-don’t smile, but a real one. It’s disorienting—like waking up in a parallel universe. For a second, you brace yourself for a backhanded comment, a jab hidden behind sugar-coated words.

But it never comes.

He actually looks like he likes the kids.

“Uh, yeah—we totally forgot,” Daniel says, still a little breathless as he adjusts the strap on his shoulder.

“Give us a sec, JK,” Ace calls over his shoulder, clapping Jungkook’s arm before the four teenagers vanish backstage, a trail of youthful energy and secondhand adrenaline left in their wake.

The bar quiets just enough for a breath to settle.

“Are you excited?” you ask, leaning closer to Jungkook.

His gaze lingers on the now-empty hallway where the kids disappeared. His features are soft, loose, almost vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen in years.

“Actually… yeah. I am,” he admits, lips parting in surprise at his own words. “I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just the kids—”

“The tasteless kids,” Yoongi deadpans, slumped in his chair like a tired philosopher. “How the hell does that girl say there’s something more iconic than Nirvana?”

Alex raises his beer solemnly. “Blasphemy. Absolute blasphemy.”

Jungkook just rolls his eyes, used to their noise. “Anyway,” he says, “like I was saying… I think I’m genuinely looking forward to playing.”

The words hang in the air for a second too long, warm and raw. And before you even realize it, your hand is in his hair, ruffling the soft strands. His cheeks flush—alcohol or affection, you can’t tell.

“Aw, look at my bestie getting all giddy,” you tease, trying to sound casual, but something inside you aches at how happy he looks. “Seriously, Kook, that’s fucking amazing. Now I can’t wait to see you up there.”

“Don’t be too excited,” he laughs, brushing a hand over his face. “There’s still a good chance I shit my pants from nerves.”

“Wasn’t your whole goal to fail?” Yoongi asks, blinking like he’s doing mental math. “So you don’t have to give Alex the money?”

Alex waves a dismissive hand, the gold ring on his pinky flashing under the low amber lights. “No one ever plays to fail. Not in music, not in life. I, my friend, am simply operating within the mystical corridors of Jungkook’s subconscious. Planting seeds. Psychological warfare.”

“You, my friend,” you shoot back, “are drunk.”

“Maybe,” Alex replies, tipping his beer with a grin that says definitely.

“You so are,” Jungkook adds, eyes glinting.

Alex leans closer, mock-sincere. “Don’t worry. I’ll still be sober enough to take my money when you owe it to me.”

There’s laughter again, warm and alive, and for a moment you forget the heaviness. Forget the time. Forget the past. Because Jungkook is here, sitting next to you, eyes sparkling, stomach twisting with nerves in the most beautiful, human way.

And for the first time in a long while—he wants to be seen.

The kids return in a pack—energy buzzing around them like static, cheeks flushed from the excitement and maybe just a bit of nerves. They spill into the empty bar stools like they own the place, all happy—the kind that comes with knowing tonight matters.

Ace claps his hands together, flops onto a stool, and shouts toward the bar, “Alright, Jimin! Hit me with a Coca-Cola—I’m fucking thirsty!”

Jimin, unfazed, quirks an eyebrow. “Watch your mouth, rockstar,” he says, already reaching for the glasses.

The others chime in, each echoing Ace’s order like it’s part of a ritual. Coke all around.

“When are you guys on?” you ask casually, turning to Mina as she sips from her drink. Her eyes are bright beneath the dim bar lights, and you blink. Damn, her eyeliner’s sharp enough to kill. It makes her look fierce. Electric.

“In about twenty minutes,” she says, voice calm, a soft smile curving her lips like she’s done this a thousand times before. “Jk’s opening on drums—Jack takes over after he finishes the first song.”

You nod, picturing it. Jungkook behind the kit again. The lights. The sound. The pulse of something being reborn.

“Oi, Mina!” Daniel calls from the other end of the bar, half-lounging over his stool. “Quit flirting with Jungkook’s bestie and finish your drink—we’re up soon!”

Mina groans and rolls her eyes, but her grin gives her away. “I’m not flirting,” she mutters as she raises her glass. “I’m being polite.”

You smirk, and she clinks her glass against yours anyway.

There’s a hum in the air now. Something about the way the kids shift in their seats, glance at the clock, tap their fingers to an invisible beat. A collective breath held, waiting to be released the moment they step on stage.

And through it all, Jungkook’s knee bounces beneath the table, his fingers twitching like they already hear the opening riff in his head.

The bar dims a little more, lights overhead shifting to a deep red hue. A hush rolls through the room—not complete silence, but that charged pause just before something erupts. The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle.

“Alright, let’s do this,” Mina says, swinging her keyboard bag over her shoulder as she hops off the stool. The others follow, a quiet intensity settling over their faces like masks. The joking, the teasing, the sugary buzz of Coca-Cola—all of it vanishes in the electric stillness of the pre-show moment.

Jungkook gets up too, a small crease between his brows, lips pressed together in a thin line. You nudge his arm gently as he passes by.

“You’ve got this, bestie,” you whisper.

He glances back at you. A smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes—those big, dark eyes—are filled with something you haven’t seen in a while.

Fear.

But also: fire.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nods.

On stage, Jack claps him on the shoulder before handing him the sticks. The kids do a final check—Mina tapping her keys, Dan tuning his bass, Ace slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. The room starts to buzz again, people murmuring, turning toward the stage, phones raised. Someone yells out a “WOOO!” and Alex, leaning against the side wall, grins like a proud dad.

Mina steps up to the mic. “Hey guys,” she says, her voice steady. “We’re The Strangers, and tonight… we’re doing something a little old school.” She glances at Jungkook. “Featuring a local legend.”

There’s light applause, a couple surprised whistles.

And then—Jungkook lifts the sticks.

He taps the hi-hat four times. It begins.

But then.

Crash.

The beat stumbles. His right hand slips, hitting the rim instead of the snare. The rhythm trips over itself, chaotic and jarring. Ace freezes mid-riff. Mina slams her palm on the keys too early. Dan completely misses the bass cue.

A mess. A beautiful, terrible mess.

A few people in the crowd gasp. One laughs. You wince.

Jungkook, mortified, pauses for half a second—half a second that feels like a lifetime—before whispering, “Shit,” under his breath.

Jack starts to step forward, like he’s ready to take over immediately.

But Jungkook throws up a hand.

“No,” he mutters to the mic, half to himself, half to the crowd. “I got it.”

And this time—he counts again. One, two, three, four—

This time, it hits. Hard. Toxicity intro comes alive—feral, gritty, raw. Ace slams into the opening riff with vengeance, Mina’s synths howling underneath, Dan’s bass like thunder rumbling through the floor. And Jungkook—Jungkook comes back. You can see it in his shoulders, in the way his hair whips around his face. There’s rage and release in every strike of the snare, redemption in the crash cymbals.

The crowd erupts.

Jungkook plays like he’s possessed now, blood rushing, all hesitation gone. His whole body moves with the rhythm, with the madness of it. His face glistens with sweat. He grins—really grins—like he’s high on the beat.

And you? You can’t look away.

This, this is the Jungkook you remember.

A little off at first. But once he finds the groove—

He becomes it.

The crowd is losing their minds.

Phones are raised, heads are banging, and even Jimin—cool, collected, snarky Jimin—is nodding behind the bar with an impressed smirk. Ace and Dan are completely synced, locking in their parts with the kind of chaotic grace that makes you feel like the song might fall apart at any moment, but never does. Mina’s eyes are closed, fingers dancing across the keys, mouth moving along to lyrics.

And Jungkook—

God.

His hair sticks to his forehead in messy strands, and there’s a flush creeping down his neck, veins flexing on his forearms every time he slams into the snare. He looks like he’s burning up—like every part of him is charged. The black t-shirt he’s wearing is soaked down the back, clinging to him like a second skin, and when he tilts his head back in rhythm, biting his lip and closing his eyes—

You feel it.

In your chest. In your throat.

Oh God.

You shouldn’t be thinking this. He’s your best friend. He’s taken. He’s Jungkook. But you’re human and he’s—he’s just so magnetic up there. Confident. Wild. Beautiful.

It rattles something in you.

You look away for a second, shaking your head as if that’ll snap you out of it. But then you hear the bridge hit—Mina’s synths wailing, Ace’s guitar almost screaming—and you glance back.

He’s looking at you.

Just for a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice. But long enough for you to feel your heartbeat quicken like it’s trying to keep up with the tempo of his drums.

Long enough to wonder if he knows what he’s doing to you.

And then, just as quickly, it’s over.

The final notes ring out, loud and proud, and Jungkook hammers the crash cymbals like punctuation marks. The sound reverberates through the bar, into your ribs, your skin. Everyone’s screaming and clapping and whistling. Alex is on his feet, yelling something you can’t even hear. Jimin throws a towel toward the stage.

But you?

You’re frozen.

Emotion crashes into you like a wave—unexpected, heavy, cold. It’s not about attraction anymore. It’s not even about the performance. It’s the moment. The way Jungkook looked up, eyes shining, chest heaving, smiling like he hadn’t smiled in years.

It’s the way he came back to life in front of you.

And you realize, achingly, that this is what you’ve missed all along.

Not the friendship. Not the ease. Not the safety.

You missed him. That version of him. The one who lets himself feel joy without guilt. The one who belongs somewhere.

And for some reason, that breaks your heart.

Because he’s not yours to keep.

Not really.

Jungkook jumps off the stage like he’s weightless, flushed and glowing, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon and won. The crowd still buzzes with leftover energy, but he’s already moving toward you—wild-eyed and breathless.

Before you can react, he wraps you in a hug, tight and full-bodied, arms locking around you like you’re the one anchoring him to the ground. You barely have time to think before you’re melting into it, laughing as your arms wind around his back.

“Holy shit,” he gasps into your ear, voice cracking with joy. “Did you see that? I didn’t tank it! I came back! I actually pulled it off!”

“You did, Kook, you killed it out there.”

He pulls back just enough to grab your face between both hands, calloused palms cradling your cheeks. His eyes are shining—shining—with something raw and real and so reminiscent of the boy he used to be, your chest squeezes tight.

“I thought I was gonna choke after that first beat,” he breathes, grin splitting his face. “But then I looked at the kids. And I looked at you. And it felt like I was supposed to be right there.”

Your heart stutters. “You looked like yourself up there.”

His expression shifts—just for a moment—and then his forehead drops to yours.

The contact is light. Barely there.

But it crackles.

It’s intimate and fleeting and charged, his breath brushing your lips, and your entire body locks up. You should move. You should really move. But you don’t. Neither does he.

You both just breathe.

And in that breath, something slips.

Not love.

Not lust.

But something terrifyingly in between.

“I should do this more often,” he murmurs, still forehead-to-forehead with you, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “Feel like this.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t want to say anything that might break the moment. That might remind either of you that he’s not yours to lean into like this. Never was.

But then the room reminds you for you.

A cheer goes up. Someone shouts his name. Laughter rings out.

And when he opens his eyes and sees how close you are, the spell breaks.

He steps back, a breath catching like it hurts. His hands fall slowly from your face as if letting go costs something.

You say nothing.

Neither does he.

Instead, you both turn—wordlessly—and slide onto the barstools beside each other.

Jungkook drums his fingers against the wood, still jittery with leftover adrenaline, while you pretend to focus on the drink Jimin sets in front of you.

Your shoulder brushes his.

He doesn’t move.

Neither do you.

But the silence between you is deafening.

Your chest feels too tight. Your throat too full.

And for a second—just a second—you wonder what would’ve happened if you told him everything when you were younger.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you he could come back to.

But you don’t ask.

And he doesn’t offer.

So you both just sit there—shoulder to shoulder, forehead memory still warm—and pretend nothing happened at all.

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allaboutthemoonlight · 1 year ago

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How to Build Self Discipline

Cultivating self-discipline is the way towards personal growth and achieving long-term goals. To me, it’s really all about making choices that honor your well-being and identity.

Understand that self-discipline is about self love and respect

It’s not about punishment or deprivation, but rather caring for yourself enough to make choices that align with your long-term well-being and goals.

You’re showing yourself the respect you deserve by honoring and committing to changes you want to make.

It’s all about recognizing your worth and having the motivation and courage to pursue what’s really best for you, even when it requires a lot of effort and decision-making.

Frame your identity in a way that includes discipline

How we act directly ties to our identities and how we believe we are. If you believe you’re a successful individual, you’ll live a life framed by confidence and determination. If you believe you’re someone who is lazy and unmotivated, you’ll struggle to find the drive to pursue your goals and aspirations.

Gaining discipline is all about acting as the person you believe you are and moving through life in a way that’s consistent with your determined identity. The key here is to try to imagine who you are at your highest self in a disciplined state of mind.

To start this, ask yourself these questions and slowly arrange your life in a way so there’s no distance between who you are now and your highest self:

What does your day look like

What do you eat

What do you wear

What does your week look like

What does your work day look like

What hobbies do you have

What’s your morning and night routine

Who are you surrounded by

What do you say yes and no to

Have systems in your life

I recently wrote a post about habits and mentioned the idea of systems versus goals. Here, I want to delve a bit deeper into that concept within the context of self-discipline.

To me, another way to truly live a disciplined life is to establish starting systems, something that will propel you past hurdles and reduce the friction that accompanies change.

Let’s say you want to improve your eating habits and cultivate discipline in consuming less sugar while incorporating more whole foods into your diet. You could begin by implementing a system of prepping healthy snacks or meals in advance at the start of each week, or however you see fit. By having these snacks readily available, you eliminate the need for decision-making, making it easier to adhere to your goal.

Anything that serves as a reminder or facilitates consistent action toward your desired outcome is a valuable system in your life.

Be okay with not doing something and embrace the mindset of small wins

This may seem paradoxical in the context of developing self-discipline, but being okay with not doing something is crucial. There are times in life when we need tough love and motivation, but there are also moments when compassion is the driving force that propels us forward.

When you don’t follow through with something, whether it’s going for a run or preparing a healthy dinner, it’s important to be okay with it. You don’t need to shame yourself or feel guilty for not taking action because that will only reinforce negative thought patterns, making it harder to create the change you desire.

Consider this: if you miss a planned run and spiral into self-criticism, you’re more likely to avoid running altogether. However, if you approach the situation with understanding and compassion, you’ll be more inclined to try again next time.

This is where small daily victories come into play. Sometimes, all we need is one small step forward to develop a new habit and maintain consistency. Whatever you're striving to improve or change, if it feels daunting, tell yourself, "Just for today, I'll do a 15-minute workout instead of the full hour," or "Just for today, I'll read 5 pages instead of the entire chapter," and celebrate these as small victories. Doing so not only helps you establish new habits but also allows you to acknowledge the progress you've made and the trust you've built within yourself.

—Luna

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goldfades · 4 months ago

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my boredom's bone deep / this cage was once just fine / am i allowed to cry? / crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox / i'm seeing visions, am i bad? / or mad? or wise? | joe burrow⁹ (part 1/4)

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | trapped in a relationship that feels more like a losing game, you find yourself drawn to the one person you shouldn’t want—the one who sees you, the one who listens, the one who makes you feel alive. but temptation is a dangerous thing, and once you’ve had a taste of something real, there’s no going back.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and LOTS of angst, switching between second and third person (it'll make sense and it's only for a couple of scenes where it's needed) slow-burn tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, toxic relationships, manipulation, emotional turmoil, guilt and desire intertwining in the worst ways, heavy themes of self-discovery and repression, morally gray decisions

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | okay guys, i couldn't resist... here is another long ass joe burrow mini-series because taylor swift has struck me with creativity... AGAIN. this will be a 4 parter and it will have a happy ending, but for now... just enjoy the slow burning of it and hate my made-up bengals player -- miles !

You used to think love was supposed to feel like this—steady, predictable, something you could fold into like freshly washed sheets. You and Miles had been together so long that your names practically rhymed in people’s mouths, like you were one of those inseparable, inevitable couples that just made sense.

And for a while, it did make sense. You were the girl on his arm at every event, the perfectly curated extension of his success. The engagement ring—a little too big, a little too heavy—sat on your finger like a trophy of its own. A prize.

But lately, it felt like Miles had stopped seeing you as anything more than that. A fixture in his life, expected and unremarkable. Like the luxury watch he only wore on game days or the expensive car he barely drove. You were always there, always waiting, always his. And he loved that, in the way someone loves knowing their favorite shirt will still be in the closet when they reach for it.

You just weren’t sure you loved it anymore.

The thought made your stomach twist. Because if you weren’t his, then who were you?

And then—Joe Burrow happened.

But, Joe Burrow was not supposed to happen.

Not to you, not to the carefully constructed life you had built around Miles, not to the girl who had spent years perfecting the role of the unwavering, effortlessly beautiful fiancée of an NFL star. But Joe moved through your world like a dropped match in a dry field—quiet, unassuming at first, and then suddenly, everything was on fire.

It wasn’t instant, not in the way stories like this usually go. There was no slow-motion moment, no breath-stealing epiphany. It started subtly, like the shift in seasons, like the way you don’t notice the days getting shorter until you’re standing outside at five o’clock and it’s already dark.

At first, he was just there—new to the team, new to the city, new in a way that made him sharp against the dullness you had started to sink into. You watched as he learned his place in the locker room, the way veterans sized him up, the way he answered with quiet confidence instead of arrogance. He was young but didn’t feel young. Polished, but not in the way Miles was. Miles was effortless charm, all grins and easy words, the kind of man who could shake a hand and win a deal in the same breath.

Joe was something else entirely. He didn’t just talk—he listened.

And that, you realized too late, was dangerous.

Because one night, at some event you barely wanted to be at, standing next to a fiancé who had long since stopped noticing the way your fingers curled anxiously around your champagne glass, Joe looked at you like he saw you. Like he had been watching, waiting, wondering.

And for the first time in years, you felt something shift.

Miles had always been the guy. The Bengals’ golden boy, the name fans chanted, the one reporters turned to after every game. When you first met him, he carried himself like a man who had already won. Six years older, already established, already adored—he had that presence, the kind that made people lean in when he spoke, the kind that made you, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, feel lucky just to stand beside him.

But now, there was Joe.

And whether Miles would admit it or not, it was getting to him.

It started small. A lingering glance at the TV when Joe’s highlights played instead of his. A clipped response when someone mentioned Joe’s name at dinner. But then, it became you.

"Do you still think I’m the star?"

The first time he asked, you laughed, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

You saw it in the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for impact.

"Of course you are," you had said, reaching for his arm, pressing your nails lightly against his sleeve.

And that was all he needed. A little reassurance. A little something to smooth over the edges of his pride. But then he asked again. And again.

"I mean, you don’t think people are, you know… forgetting?"

"You don’t think he’s—" a pause, a swallow, a carefully constructed smirk—"overshadowing me?"

And every time, you lied.

Because what were you supposed to say? That the shift was undeniable? That Joe walked into the locker room and the energy changed? That when people talked about the future of the team, they weren’t saying Miles’ name anymore? That you had started noticing it, too—the way Joe was young, sharp, hungry, while Miles had begun to settle into his success like a man reclining in a chair that used to be upright?

So you told him what he needed to hear.

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still everything."

But even as you said it, the words tasted false. Because when Miles spoke about himself, it was always in the past tense—I was the first star, I was the franchise guy, I was the one they built around.

And when people spoke about Joe, it was all about the future.

That was the difference.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what made you start looking at him, too.

You watched it happen in slow motion—the way Miles and Joe orbited each other, circling like two planets on a collision course, neither willing to acknowledge the gravity of the other.

At first, Miles played it cool. He was the veteran, after all. He had been here first. He had built his career brick by brick, through losing seasons and empty stadiums, back when the Bengals were a team people barely bothered to watch. When you met him, that was what he always talked about—the work he had put in, the years of carrying this franchise on his back.

"I made this team what it is," he would say sometimes, stretching out on the couch after a game, watching highlights on TV with a half-smirk, as if waiting for you to agree.

And back then, you did.

Because you had watched him grind, had seen the early mornings, the bruises, the exhaustion that clung to him after every brutal season. You had been his—the girl in the stands, the hand on his chest when he got home, the soft place he could land.

But now, the team didn’t belong to just Miles anymore.

Now, there was Joe. And Miles hated that.

At practice, you saw the way he measured himself against Joe, the way his jokes about the rookie’s "new car smell" had just a little too much bite. How he watched when Joe got called for post-game interviews, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

"They should be talking to me," he muttered one night after a game, dropping his phone on the table like it had personally offended him.

"Miles, they still talk to you," you had tried, voice gentle.

"Not like they used to."

And it was true.

At first, Miles had treated Joe like a little brother, ruffling his hair, giving him shit for his outfits, cracking jokes at team dinners. But then Joe started winning. Started throwing passes that made the crowd gasp, started playing with that quiet confidence that made people lean forward in their seats.

And suddenly, Miles’ jokes didn’t land the same way.

He started pushing harder in practice. If Joe made a good throw, Miles made sure his next one was better. If Joe got interviewed, Miles found a way to insert himself into the conversation. He started pointing out things—"He’s good, but let’s see how he handles the pressure. He’s young. He hasn’t been hit the way I have."

Like he was trying to convince himself of it more than anyone else.

And you—God, you noticed.

You noticed the way Miles had started looking at Joe like a threat instead of a teammate. You noticed the way his hand tightened on your hip when Joe walked into a room. You noticed the way he suddenly started talking about his legacy, about what he meant to this team.

And worst of all—you noticed the way Joe looked at you.

Because unlike Miles, Joe wasn’t trying so hard. He wasn’t overcompensating, wasn’t clawing to prove something. He just was. And when he looked at you, it wasn’t with the expectation that you would tell him he was still the star.

It was like he already knew who he was.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you were starting to wonder who you were, too.

The event was like every other one before it—too loud, too crowded, filled with people who weren’t actually listening to each other, just waiting for their turn to talk. Miles was somewhere across the room, laughing a little too hard at something an exec said, one hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon, the other resting on the shoulder of someone who mattered.

You were used to this part.

The waiting. The being-seen-but-not-heard. The polite smiles and empty small talk, the way people’s eyes would flicker over you before refocusing on Miles, because that was where the real conversation was.

You had perfected it—the art of looking engaged without actually being included. So when Joe Burrow slid into the seat beside you, you didn’t think much of it. At first.

And then he spoke.

"You always look this bored, or is it just tonight?"

You blinked, thrown off, turning your head to find him watching you. Not in the usual way—not in the quick, cursory glance men usually gave you before looking away, like you were set dressing, like you were just an extension of the man they actually wanted to talk to.

No, Joe was looking at you.

And he was smirking.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. His suit fit well—not flashy, not desperate, just right. Effortless. His tie was loosened, just slightly, like he couldn’t be bothered to play by the rules all the way. "You’ve been staring at the same spot on the floor for the last ten minutes. What’s down there? Something more interesting than all this?"

"Wouldn’t take much."

"Fair." He nodded, like you’d made an excellent point, then stuck his hand out. "Joe."

"I know who you are."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head. "Funny. You don’t look like you care."

You should’ve laughed. Or brushed him off. But there was something about the way he said it—like he wasn’t trying to be charming, like he was just stating a fact.

You hesitated. Then, almost begrudgingly, shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, I guess."

"‘I guess,’" he repeated, amused. "Damn. That’s all I get?"

"You want a standing ovation?"

"Wouldn’t say no."

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward just slightly. He caught it—of course he did—and grinned like he had already won something.

"So, what’s the deal?" he asked, nodding toward where Miles was deep in conversation, gesturing animatedly. "You actually like these things, or just contractually obligated to show up?"

"Contractually obligated," you admitted, swirling the drink in your hand. "You?"

"Nah. I just like free food."

You let out an actual laugh at that, brief but real.

Joe’s smirk deepened like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.

"So how long have you been stuck in the NFL Wife-To-Be role?" he asked, tone light but gaze sharp.

"Long enough."

"And how long is that, exactly?"

"You really want to know?"

"Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t."

You eyed him for a second, waiting for the punchline. The usual "just making conversation" energy you were used to from these kinds of interactions. But there wasn’t one. He actually seemed interested.

"Since I was 19."

His brows lifted slightly. "Damn."

"What?"

"Just young, that’s all."

"And what, you weren’t young once?"

"Not that young," he said, shaking his head. "I was in college at 19. Drinking shitty beer and wearing the same hoodie five days in a row. You were—what? Coming to things like this?"

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. "It wasn’t that bad."

"Doesn’t sound fun, either."

"And what were you doing at 20 that was so much more fun?"

"Winning a championship," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at him, blinking.

"Oh," you said finally. "Right. LSU."

"Yeah. Ever heard of it?"

"Vaguely."

"Damn. Humbling experience."

You smirked, shaking your head slightly. "Wait, so—how old are you now?"

"Twenty-four."

Your lips parted slightly. "Shit."

Joe raised a brow. "What?"

"You’re only a year older than me."

"And you sound offended by that."

"I’m just—" You exhaled, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. "I don’t know. I feel like I should be older."

Joe gave you a look like he already knew why.

"Because of him?" he asked, flicking his gaze toward Miles.

You hesitated.

"Because of everything," you said instead.

Joe didn’t press. He just hummed slightly, tapping his fingers against his glass.

"Well," he said after a moment, smirking again, "if it makes you feel any better, you look like you’re at least twenty-five."

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever gotten."

"I was going for honesty."

"Try harder next time."

"Noted."

And then, just like that, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. It was something else—something easier, something lighter.

For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t talking to you like Miles’ fiancée.

Joe was just talking to you.

It started as a passing thought. A curiosity Joe couldn’t quite shake after that conversation at the event. You weren’t what he expected. And maybe that was the first problem.

Miles had been around forever. The Bengals’ golden boy before Joe got there. A veteran. Respected. The kind of guy you built a franchise around—or at least, that’s what people used to say. But now, with Joe in town, the balance had shifted. Miles wasn’t the star anymore, and everyone knew it.

Even Miles knew it.

Joe could see it in the way he carried himself, the way he lingered after practices, pushing himself harder, talking about his old stats like they were some kind of proof that he still mattered. He’d joke about it, but there was always something underneath. So, Burrow, you think you’re the guy now? Said with a grin, but the weight was there. The question lingered in the air between them.

Joe didn’t care much about that. But he did care—more than he wanted to admit—about you.

It wasn’t even in a way yet. Not in any way he could name. It was just there. That curiosity, that thing in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away.

So one day, in the middle of practice, while the guys were running drills, he decided to ask.

Casual. Offhand. Like he wasn’t actually that interested.

"Yo, what do you guys think about Miles’ girl?"

Tee was the first to react, barely hesitating before letting out a low whistle.

"Whew, man. That’s a dangerous question, 9."

"Is it?" Joe asked, tilting his head.

"I mean, you have seen her, right?"

"Obviously."

"Then you already know," Tee said, shaking his head like the answer was obvious.

"Know what?"

Ja’Marr snorted. "That he’s punching."

Joe raised a brow. "Out of his league?"

"By a long shot." Tee shook his head, gripping the football in his hands. "It’s crazy, too, ‘cause she’s just… cool. You ever actually talk to her?"

Joe hesitated for a half-second. "Yeah. Once."

That was enough for the guys to give each other looks.

"Ohhh, so that’s why you’re asking," Ja’Marr teased.

"Chill, man," Joe rolled his eyes. "I was just curious."

"Sure."

"Nah, for real, though," Tee said, tossing the ball to Ja’Marr. "She’s mad sweet. Like, actually nice. Not just in a ‘stand-there-and-smile’ way, either. She remembers shit. Like, I saw her at some event last year, and she asked me about my sister. Nobody ever asks about my sister."

"She’s solid," Tyler added, jogging past them. "Like, real solid. You don’t meet a lot of girls like that in this life."

Joe frowned slightly, rolling his shoulders. "So why’s she with him?"

That made Tee pause, gripping the football tighter.

"Man…" He let out a breath, shaking his head. "I dunno. She’s been with him forever. Since she was, like, a kid."

"How much older is he?"

"Six years."

Joe blinked. "Damn."

"Yeah. And, like—don’t get me wrong, Miles is cool and all, but…" Tee trailed off, glancing at Ja’Marr, like he was debating how much to say.

Ja’Marr finished for him. "He’s kinda—" He made a so-so motion with his hand. "You know. A little selfish. Talks about himself a lot."

"A lot," Tee agreed.

"You ever seen them together?"

Joe thought about it. Really thought about it.

Miles was always talking. And when he wasn’t, he was making himself seen. When you were with him, you were quiet. Smiling. Nodding. Like you had a script to follow. Like it was second nature.

Joe remembered the way you’d looked at that event, absentmindedly twisting your ring around your finger. The way your face had shifted, just slightly, when you realized you and Joe were almost the same age. Like you’d never really thought about it before.

"Yeah," Joe said finally. "I’ve seen them."

Tee nodded like that told him everything he needed to know.

"Miles is a lucky dude," Ja’Marr said after a moment, stretching his arms above his head. "Just don’t think he knows it."

That part stuck with Joe the longest.

You had always wanted a quiet life. Not small, necessarily, but yours. Intimate. A life where love wasn’t measured in carats or headlines, but in moments. In the way someone reached for you without thinking, in the way they listened—really listened. But you knew, from the moment you started dating Miles, that privacy was a luxury you would never have.

Not with someone like him.

Miles was big. A presence. A personality. A man who took up space and made sure everyone knew it. And, in the beginning, maybe that had been exciting—the way he talked about you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was flattering. Addictive, even.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it became less about you and more about the idea of you.

The engagement was when you realized that fully, undeniably. When the last piece of the illusion shattered.

You had told him—so many times—how you dreamed of it happening. Something quiet. Personal. Maybe somewhere beautiful, just the two of you. No cameras, no crowd. Something real.

And instead, he did it during a game.

A packed stadium, the roar of the crowd, the flashing lights. And you—sitting in the stands, already feeling like a spectator in your own life—watching in horror as your face appeared on the jumbotron.

Miles, down on one knee in the middle of the field. Smiling like he had just won the Super Bowl. Holding out a ring so massive it caught the stadium lights like a diamond chandelier.

You felt it like a blow to the chest.

Because this wasn’t for you. It had never been for you. It was for the spectacle. The story. The legend of Miles Johnson, star receiver, locking down the perfect woman.

He had looked so proud of himself, so smug, soaking in the cheers. He didn’t even look at you, not really. Not to see you. He just waited, arm outstretched, knowing you would say yes. Because how could you say no? Not here. Not with thousands of people watching. Not with cameras broadcasting your reaction to the world.

So you said it.

"Yes."

And the crowd erupted, and Miles pulled you into a kiss like he had just won a trophy, and your hands shook as they slipped into his.

Later, when the adrenaline had worn off and the reality of it settled in, he had taken every opportunity to brag about the ring. Thirty grand. He told his teammates, his family, reporters. You see that? Got my girl the best. He would bring it up casually, waiting for people to react, for them to nod and pat him on the back like he had done something incredible. Like he had bought you.

The truth was, you hated the ring.

Not because it was expensive, but because it felt foreign on your hand. It was heavy, suffocating, too much. Too Miles.

Like everything else in your life.

Somewhere along the way, you had stopped being a person and had become a reflection of him. His fiancée. His prize.

And maybe you could have kept pretending it was enough—maybe you could have convinced yourself this was what love looked like—if Joe Burrow hadn’t looked at you that night at the event, sat beside you, and talked to you. Like a person. Like someone worth knowing.

Like you still existed.

It hit you a month after the engagement.

The NFL Honors had been a blur of flashing lights and stiff smiles, your body on autopilot as you stood beside Miles, your arm hooked around his like a delicate accessory. You had smiled for photos, laughed at the right moments, leaned into him like you belonged there. Like you wanted to be there. Like you weren’t suffocating beneath the weight of it all.

And then it was over.

The glamor, the noise, the people. Gone.

You were back in the house—Miles’ house—miles of sleek marble and vaulted ceilings, an architectural masterpiece designed to impress. To be envied. And yet, it had never felt like home.

It was too big, too curated, too cold.

It wasn’t you.

It had never been you.

The silence was deafening, pressing in around you as you sat curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, searching for something to fill the emptiness. And that was when you saw it—post after post, comments, pictures.

"Miles' girl." "Mrs. Johnson-to-be." "The most beautiful trophy wife in the NFL." "He really locked that down." "She’s perfect for him."

Not one mention of you. Not one comment about who you were, what you liked, what you thought, what you dreamed of. Just a never-ending stream of praise for Miles and how lucky he was. How you were his.

His. His.

You weren’t even Y/N anymore.

Just beautiful Y/N. Miles' perfect trophy. The girl who got the ring.

A weight settled in your chest, pressing against your ribs, thick and suffocating.

You hadn’t realized you were drowning until it was too late. Until you were so deep in it, you weren’t sure how to claw your way back to the surface.

Who even were you outside of him?

Your only friends were the other WAGs—women who smiled just like you did, laughed at all the same jokes, wore the same dresses to the same events, whose lives revolved around their husbands, their fiancés, their boyfriends. And Miles’ family—people who adored you, yes, but only as an extension of him. As the woman who would carry his last name, bear his children, sit in the stands and cheer him on.

You had spent years convincing yourself this was love. That this was what it meant to love someone—to mold yourself into what they needed, to take up less space, to fit neatly into their world without ever disrupting it.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear entirely.

Miles came home late that night, the door clicking shut with the kind of ease that only came with routine. He never announced his arrival, never called out for you. He just assumed you’d be there—waiting, ready, exactly where he left you.

You were in the kitchen, sitting at the marble island, fingers curled around a half-empty glass of wine. He barely looked at you as he walked in, dropping his keys onto the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“Hey,” you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. The air felt thick, heavy. You weren’t sure why, but you knew you needed to say something, anything to fill the space before it swallowed you whole.

“I was thinking of picking up a new hobby,” you tried. “Something creative. I don’t know, maybe painting or—”

“How much do you need?” Miles cut in, still looking at his phone.

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed like you were exhausting him. “How much? I’ll transfer it now.”

Your grip tightened around the stem of the wine glass. “I don’t need money, Miles. I just—”

“Then what?” He finally looked up, brow furrowed like you were the confusing one here. Like this conversation was a waste of time. “I don’t get it.”

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I was just trying to tell you something. About me. About my life.”

“Your life?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “What life, Y/N? You don’t work. You don’t have to worry about anything except looking good and showing up when you need to. What else do you need?”

It hit you square in the chest. The final nail in the coffin.

What else do you need?

Not who are you? Not what makes you happy? Not tell me more baby, I want to know.

You swallowed, a sharp bitterness curling in your throat. “I need a husband who actually listens to me.”

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Then—“Don’t start this shit, Y/N.”

And just like that, something inside you snapped.

“This shit?” you repeated, voice climbing, hands shaking. “You mean talking? You mean actually having a conversation for once?”

Miles groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus, you’re always so fucking dramatic.”

“I’m trying to talk to you, Miles! And you can’t even pretend to care for five seconds!”

His eyes darkened. “You have everything, Y/N. A perfect life. A perfect goddamn ring. And you’re still not happy.”

“Because none of it feels like mine!” The words came out harsher than you intended, but they were true. “It’s your house. Your money. Your world. Where do I fit into any of it?”

Miles shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to give a shit!”

“Well, maybe I don’t have time to sit around worrying about feelings all day!” He slammed his phone onto the counter. “I have a career to focus on, Y/N. A team to lead. You think I have time to deal with your little identity crisis?”

It felt like a slap.

A sharp, cold, humiliating slap.

You stared at him, heart pounding, mouth dry, but you had nothing left to say. Nothing left to fight for.

The silence stretched, long and unforgiving.

Miles exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and left, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.

And you—

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been, before you finally moved. You crawled into bed alone, pulled the covers up to your chin, and let yourself cry.

The next morning at practice, the air was thick with late summer humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel heavier. The guys were halfway through drills when Miles started talking—loudly, for anyone who’d listen.

“She was crying when I left last night, man,” he said, shaking his head as he lined up for another rep. “Over what? Some bullshit about a hobby. A hobby, bro. Like, what even is that? She has everything.”

Joe clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the yard line ahead as he rolled out his shoulders. He wasn’t trying to listen, but Miles wasn’t exactly subtle.

Tee Higgins, standing next to Joe, let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure you wanna be sayin’ all that out loud?”

Miles scoffed. “What, like it’s a secret? Everyone knows she’s got the perfect life. But somehow, that ain’t enough.”

Joe exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew why it wasn’t enough.

And before he could stop himself, the words were out—sharp, biting. “Maybe ‘cause it’s your version of perfect, not hers.”

A pause.

Miles turned his head slowly, expression hardening. “What?”

Joe shrugged, keeping his voice even. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should listen to her instead of assuming she’s just complaining for fun.”

The guys around them shifted, suddenly very invested in stretching. Ja’Marr muttered something under his breath about not getting in the middle of shit, but Tee smirked, glancing between them like this was the most entertainment he’d had all morning.

Miles let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “And what do you know about relationships, Burrow? You got a girl I don’t know about?”

Joe didn’t answer. Just stared back, unblinking.

Miles tilted his head, and his voice dropped lower. “Or are you just real interested in mine?”

The energy shifted. The air got tighter.

Joe rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to stay calm. “Nah. Just think you should be careful who you shit talk your fiancée to.”

“Fiancée, huh?” Miles’ mouth curled into something ugly. “You wanna date her instead or something?”

The words hit the ground between them like a live wire. The whole group went quiet.

Joe kept his expression blank. “That what you’re worried about?”

Miles took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Nah. I’m not worried about shit. But maybe you should be careful.”

Joe didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t give Miles the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, he let the silence stretch, watching as the frustration crept into Miles’ expression.

Then, finally—Joe smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

And that pissed Miles off more than anything.

Miles' jaw tensed, nostrils flaring. His hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to say more—like he wanted to do more—but there were too many eyes on them now. The tension between them was so thick, so sharp, that even the guys who usually loved a little locker room drama weren’t sure if they wanted to be part of this one.

Tee let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, y’all gonna throw hands before practice even starts?”

“Ain’t nobody throwing hands,” Ja’Marr cut in, stepping between them like he already knew where this was headed. “Miles just real defensive all of a sudden.”

Miles scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “Nah, y’all are just real nosy all of a sudden.”

Joe just smiled again, the same easy, slow smirk that had already set Miles on edge. He could see it in the way the older man’s shoulders went rigid, in the way his fists flexed. And Joe wasn’t dumb—he knew he was playing with fire. But Miles had been running his mouth since the moment practice started, acting like his relationship was some kind of burden, and Joe wasn’t the type to sit back and pretend he didn’t hear it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the other guys—those who hadn’t already quietly backed away—started chuckling, shaking their heads.

The laughter died down, but the damage was already done. The idea had already been planted—Miles wasn’t the prize in this relationship. She was.

Joe could see it in his face. The way his jaw twitched, the way his eyes flickered with something insecure, something raw.

And it made sense now. Why Miles paraded her around like a trophy, why he made sure every room knew she was his, why he proposed in front of an entire stadium instead of in private where she might’ve actually wanted it.

It was never about her. It was always about him. About making sure everyone knew he was still the star—on the field, in the locker room, and in his own damn relationship.

Miles exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off the conversation. Then he turned his glare back on Joe, pointing a finger at him. “You? Stay the fuck out of my business.”

Joe lifted his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Wouldn’t have to if you stopped airing it out in the middle of practice.”

Miles stared at him for another second—long enough that Joe could see the battle happening in his head, the urge to keep pushing versus the reality that they were still standing on the damn field, still surrounded by teammates, still at work.

Eventually, Miles just muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the sideline, shoulders tight with frustration.

Joe exhaled, shaking his head as he lined up for the next drill.

Tee clapped him on the back, grinning. “Oh yeah, you definitely got under his skin.”

Joe just smirked, eyes flickering in the direction Miles had gone.

Good.

You woke up feeling off.

Not sick, not exactly—but weighed down, heavy, like your body had absorbed the exhaustion of the night before and decided to make a home of it. The bed was cold next to you, a reminder that Miles had never come back from the couch. That should’ve brought some kind of relief, but instead, it just settled deeper into your bones.

You stared at the ceiling, the light creeping in through the expensive sheer curtains—ones Miles had picked out because they looked good, not because they actually blocked anything. You felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Last night was the first time in a long time that the silence had cracked, that the resentment bubbling beneath the surface had finally boiled over. And now, in the daylight, you couldn’t tell if you felt better for it—or worse.

It wasn’t like it was one fight that made you feel this way. It was years of being Miles Johnson’s fiancée, before that, his girlfriend. Years of being reduced to an extension of him, even when you hadn’t noticed it happening.

But you did now. And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You were nineteen when you met him. Miles was twenty-five. Six years older, in the prime of his career, a star. And you? You were just a college sophomore at a school you weren’t even sure you loved, in a major you had picked because it seemed practical, not because it felt right. You had plans for your life, dreams, but they were all vague and out of focus, waiting for the right moment to take shape.

And then there was Miles.

Charming, cocky, larger than life—he had walked into the bar that night like he owned the whole damn city. You hadn’t even known who he was at first, but your friends did. They whispered about him like he was something untouchable, an idea more than a person. And then, somehow, he was standing in front of you.

“You’re the prettiest girl in here,” he had said, like it was a fact. And when you had rolled your eyes, he had laughed, delighted.

“Not gonna fall at my feet, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

That had made him try harder.

It was easy, then. Easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of being pursued by someone like him—older, successful, with the kind of confidence that made you believe he knew everything about the world. He took you to expensive restaurants, bought you things you would never have dared to pick out for yourself. He introduced you to people who lived lives you couldn’t even imagine. And when he kissed you, when he pulled you into his orbit, it felt like stepping into a life bigger than your own.

You didn’t notice the shift at first.

Didn’t notice how the little things that made you you started slipping away, how your world slowly became about his—his career, his schedule, his needs. You told yourself it was just part of the relationship, part of loving someone like Miles. That it was normal to bend, to adjust, to let go of the things that didn’t fit anymore.

You stopped talking about the things you wanted to do—because, eventually, you started forgetting what they even were.

And then, somewhere along the way, you became his.

Not just his girlfriend, but Miles Johnson’s girlfriend. A title, a role, something people recognized before they even knew you. And you had played the part well. You were the beautiful, supportive, ever-smiling woman on his arm. The one who laughed at his jokes, who cheered for him from the stands, who let him hold court in every room while you lingered in the background.

And now, you were his fiancée.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear completely.

Joe had never been the type to dwell on things.

His whole life had been about moving forward, about the next step, the next goal, the next game. He had always known where he was going—to the NFL, to the kind of career most people could only dream about. That had been the plan since he was a kid, and he had never once let himself get distracted from it.

College had been a blur. Not in a reckless, partying-until-dawn way—he had been too focused for that—but in the sense that everything outside of football had been… secondary. Background noise.

Yeah, he always had a girl on his arm. It wasn’t hard—he was Joe Burrow, after all. But they were never the girl. They were just there. Pretty, fun, something to fill the gaps between practices and film sessions, but never something that took up space in his mind once they were gone. He never let them.

He had bigger things to worry about.

And now, he was here.

The NFL. The dream, the destination. And he had everything he had worked for—millions in the bank, a city that worshipped him, a career that was just getting started. He was playing on the biggest stage in the world, living out every goal he had ever set for himself.

And yet.

Lately, there was something he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t unhappy, exactly. He loved football. Loved the grind, the competition, the high of a perfect game. But there were nights—when he was alone in his place, when the buzz of the locker room had faded, when he saw his friends posting about engagements, weddings, families—when he wondered if maybe he had spent so much time chasing one dream that he hadn’t realized he might want something else, too.

Not in the I need to settle down right now way. He wasn’t miles away from that thought. But he just felt… off. Like there was something missing, something just out of reach.

And that feeling had been lingering at the edges of his mind for a while now, but he hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t really felt it—until he met her.

She wasn’t supposed to be interesting.

He had seen plenty of women like her before—NFL girlfriends and fiancées, always perfect, always polished, always a step behind the star they were attached to. He didn’t have anything against them, but he had never given them much thought. They were part of the scenery, the expected.

But she was different.

He had noticed it the second he talked to her.

That night at the event, when everyone else had ignored her, when she had been sitting alone while Miles soaked up the attention like a sponge, Joe had been curious.

So he sat down next to her.

And the second she looked at him, he saw it—the sharpness behind her eyes, the way she was there but not present, the way she seemed to be existing in a world that had been built for her but not by her.

And she had challenged him. Not in a playful, flirty way, but in a real way. He had expected her to be polite, to give the kind of empty small talk he always got at these things.

But she had given him something real.

And now? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Not just because she was gorgeous—she was, maybe one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—but because she was interesting.

She didn’t fit the mold. He could tell.

And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was just because he was bored with everything else, but for the first time in a long time, Joe had found someone who made him want to know more.

And he was going to figure out why.

You were curled up in bed, your phone the only thing keeping you company as you aimlessly scrolled. You barely heard him come in, barely looked up when Miles greeted you, his voice low and familiar. You felt the soft kiss he pressed to your neck, but your body tensed, just slightly. He didn’t notice, or maybe he chose not to.

His lips trailed lower, his hands finding their way to your waist, his voice dropping into that coaxing tone you knew all too well. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. Missed you.”

You exhaled, a slow, tired sound slipping from your lips. “Miles.”

He lingered there, waiting for more, but you didn’t give him anything. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, your phone discarded on the nightstand. You felt him nuzzle into your hair, his fingers brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The energy between you felt… off. He asked if you were mad at him, but that wasn’t it. Not really.

You didn’t answer at first. You just pulled away, just enough to let him know that you weren’t in the mood. That you didn’t want this.

He blinked, confused, his voice softer when he tried again. “Y/N?”

But you didn’t want to deal with this now. You were tired. Exhausted, in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “I’m just tired, Miles,” you murmured, your voice distant, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t mad at him. You just didn’t feel like being pulled into whatever he was trying to fix tonight.

You felt him sit back, his gaze heavy on you as if he was seeing you for the first time in a while. The silence stretched between you, thick and uneasy. Then, his voice broke through it again, suggesting that maybe you should get a job, do something with yourself to feel better. It wasn’t the most thoughtful thing he’d said, and you knew that. You weren’t sure if he even meant it or if he was just trying to patch things up in the way he knew best.

You looked at him, your gaze searching, unsure if you were hearing him right. “You’d be okay with that?” you asked, needing to know if he meant what he was saying.

He shrugged, a little too casually. “Yeah. You don’t gotta, obviously. You got everything you need, but if you want somethin’ to do, I’ll support you. Whatever makes you happy, baby.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You just let his words hang in the air, feeling like he was offering something you didn’t know if you wanted. But there it was—the tiniest flicker of relief in your chest as you nodded. Maybe you were grasping at something, anything, to feel like yourself again.

He exhaled, like he’d solved something. But you knew better. There was still a gap between you, unspoken, unresolved. For now, though, you’d let it go.

The night is warm, thick with the scent of grilled barbecue and chlorine, laughter spilling into the air like music. The backyard is packed—players, coaches, WAGs, and staff all buzzing with the energy of a new season, of fresh starts and high expectations. The pool glows under string lights, the surface shimmering as people dip their feet in or wade lazily through the water, red Solo cups in hand.

You’re sitting at the edge of a lounge chair, your bare legs stretched out in front of you, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you sip from your drink. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this—light. The WAGs are in a good mood tonight, looser than usual, buzzing from the excitement of the upcoming season, from the warmth of the alcohol.

"I swear to God, if I have to listen to one more fantasy football draft strategy," one of them groans, rolling her eyes as she leans back against her chair.

"Girl, my man has a binder full of statistics. Like it’s a college thesis or some shit," another one laughs.

You giggle, shaking your head, the sound feeling foreign in your own ears. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to just be—to feel like you’re back in college, before your entire identity became wrapped around someone else’s.

And across the yard, Joe Burrow cannot stop staring at you.

He’s not even subtle about it.

His drink sits idle in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest of a patio chair, his gaze cutting across the party, locking onto you like a magnet. He watches the way your shoulders shake when you laugh, the way you tilt your head, the way your dress clings to the curves of your legs when you cross them.

"Bro, you gotta stop looking before Miles notices," Ja’Marr leans in, a lazy grin on his face.

Joe just shrugs, bringing his drink to his lips. "What’s he gonna do? Kill me?"

Ja’Marr snorts. "I mean, you are staring at his fiancée like you’re trying to solve a puzzle."

"She’s beautiful. He should know people are gonna look at her," Joe says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ja’Marr shakes his head, muttering something about how Joe’s got a death wish, but Joe just keeps watching.

And across the way, the WAGs notice.

"Okay, so I need you to tell me what you did to get Joe Burrow to look at you like that," one of them teases, nudging your shoulder.

Your brows furrow. "What?"

"Oh, come on," another one smirks. "That man has not taken his eyes off you for the last twenty minutes. I’m actually starting to feel bad for Miles."

Your stomach twists—not in discomfort, not in guilt, but in something else entirely. Something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

You feel wanted.

Not in the way Miles wants you—like a prize to show off, like a thing to possess—but in the way you used to feel when you were younger, when boys would flirt with you at college parties, when someone’s gaze made you feel interesting, not just beautiful.

And it makes you feel alive.

You shake your head, laughing it off, even as your pulse picks up just a little. "You guys are imagining things."

"Oh, we definitely aren’t," one of them hums, taking a slow sip of her drink.

You glance back across the yard.

And Joe is still looking.

But this time, when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.

The night hums around you, a warm breeze sweeping through the backyard, making the string lights above sway gently. The scent of charred meat still lingers in the air, mixed with chlorine and expensive cologne. Laughter spills from the pool, from the deck, from the little clusters of people standing around, but none of it touches you.

Not now.

Not with him walking towards you.

Joe Burrow is moving through the crowd like he has nowhere to be, like he’s got all the time in the world to just be here, under these lights, on this night. And he’s heading straight for you.

The WAGs had just left, off to mingle with their husbands and boyfriends, leaving you alone in your chair with your mostly empty drink. You didn’t mind—being alone was something you were used to these days.

But apparently, Joe did mind.

"Need a refill?" His voice is smooth, the faintest trace of amusement in it, like he already knows the answer but just wants to hear you say it.

You glance down at your glass, condensation dripping down the sides, ice melting, barely a sip of anything left. You nod. "Yeah, actually."

He doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out, plucks the cup from your fingers with a little smirk, and walks off toward the bar like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him go, blinking in mild disbelief.

Joe Burrow, one of the biggest names in the NFL, just walked away to get you a drink.

And God, that does something to you.

A moment later, he’s back, handing you your glass, and when your fingers brush against his, there’s a flicker of something electric, something dangerous.

You swallow and bring the drink to your lips. Cold, crisp, refreshing.

Joe drops into the chair across from you, sprawling out like he belongs there, his legs spread wide, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. He watches you take a sip, his gaze half-lidded, like he’s already settled in for a conversation he doesn’t plan on cutting short.

"You looked like you needed rescuing from whatever the hell they were talking about," he says, tilting his chin toward where the WAGs had been sitting earlier.

You let out a breath of laughter. "You ever heard a thirty-minute conversation about throw pillows?"

His brows raise. "Can’t say I have."

"Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky," you tease, shaking your head. "I love them, but sometimes I swear they could write dissertations on interior decorating."

Joe smirks. "And you? You an expert on throw pillows too?"

You snort. "Not even close."

"Shame," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "I was really hoping you’d have some strong opinions on lumbar support."

You roll your eyes. "God, shut up."

"That’s not a no," he quips, and you groan, throwing your head back.

"Fine. If you must know, I do think most decorative pillows are pointless, because you just end up throwing them off the bed or couch anyway."

Joe grins, slow and smug. "So you do have strong opinions."

You open your mouth, then close it, glaring at him. "I hate you."

His smirk deepens. "No, you don’t."

And for some reason, that makes your stomach flip.

There’s something so easy about this, about him. The way the conversation flows, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he’s teasing you, the way he leans in just slightly, like he’s actually interested in what you have to say, like he’s not just making conversation to fill the silence.

It’s been a long time since someone talked to you like this. Since someone made you feel interesting, not just beautiful, not just Miles’ fiancée.

And God, you must be blushing, because Joe’s eyes flick over your face, and his grin turns downright wicked.

"You’re blushing," he says, voice all silk and amusement.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "No, I’m not."

"Yeah, you are," he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. "Damn, if I knew I had this effect on you, I would’ve started teasing you way earlier."

You narrow your eyes at him, but your lips are twitching, and he knows it.

"You’re insufferable."

Joe just chuckles, sitting back again, watching you over the rim of his glass. "And yet, you’re still sitting here."

And you don’t have an answer for that.

Because the truth is, you want to be here.

You want to sit in this chair, under these lights, on this warm summer night, and feel like this—like yourself, like a person, like something more than what you’ve been reduced to.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.

Miles spotted them the second Joe sat down.

At first, it was just an awareness, the way his eyes naturally gravitated toward her—like they always did in a room full of people. It was a habit, second nature, an unconscious thing. A glance, then another. But then he saw the way Joe was looking at her.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just watching. He was staring.

Something inside him, something dark and unfamiliar, curled up tight in his chest.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this.

Miles had never had to be jealous before. Never had to worry. She was his. And that had always been enough.

But now?

Now, he was watching another man sit in front of her, lean in, smirk at her like she was something to be won. And worse—so much worse—she was laughing.

Really laughing.

Not the polite, social laugh she gave when she was playing the role of his perfect wife. Not the strained, forced kind that meant she was bored but trying to be nice.

No, this was different.

This was easy, genuine.

This was the kind of laugh she used to give him.

His grip on his beer tightened, fingers pressing into the damp glass, jaw locking so hard it ached.

Joe fucking Burrow.

The golden boy. The franchise. The quarterback who could do no wrong.

And now, apparently, the asshole who thought he could sit across from Miles’ wife and flirt with her in plain fucking sight.

What pissed him off the most was that Joe didn’t even try to hide it. He wasn’t subtle, wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t the kind of half-assed flirting guys did when they were just testing the waters, unsure if she was off-limits. No, this was deliberate. This was the kind of thing that happened when a man already knew what he wanted.

And the way he was looking at her, the way he smirked every time she tried to argue with him, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth just a second too long—he wanted her.

And she was letting him.

Miles' stomach twisted, something sour curling in his throat.

Had she ever smiled at him like that in the last few months? Had she ever looked that light, that carefree, that… happy?

A flash of memory hit him—her voice, sharp and tired from their last fight.

"I just want to feel like more than your fucking wife, Miles."

His throat tightened.

Because fuck, he knew he hadn’t been perfect. He knew things had been off between them, knew she wanted more, needed more.

But was this it?

Was this what she needed?

Some other man’s attention? Some other man making her blush, making her tuck her hair behind her ear like she was some shy, sweet little thing who wasn’t married?

He set his beer down a little too hard on the table beside him, the sound loud in his ears.

"Man, you good?" Tee asked, glancing at him.

Miles barely heard him.

Joe was leaning forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low, saying something that made her shake her head, biting her lip like she was trying not to laugh.

And Miles saw red.

He had never—never—felt something like this before.

He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t the jealous type.

He never had to be.

She’d always been his. And no one had ever challenged that. No one had ever looked at her and thought they had a chance because they didn’t.

But here Joe was. Sitting there, flirting with her like Miles didn’t even fucking exist.

And Miles hated him for it.

"Yo," Tee said again, nudging him. "What’s up?"

Miles’ hands curled into fists.

"Burrow," he muttered, eyes still locked on the scene in front of him.

Tee followed his line of sight, then let out a low whistle. "Damn," he said, shaking his head. "He really don’t give a fuck, huh?"

No. He didn’t.

And that was the problem.

Because Joe fucking Burrow wasn’t scared of him.

He wasn’t worried about stepping on toes, wasn’t concerned about boundaries.

Because in his mind?

Miles didn’t matter.

And that?

That was fucking unacceptable.

You don’t notice Miles at first.

Not really.

You’re too caught up in the moment, in the way Joe makes it so easy to talk, to laugh. It’s been so long since you’ve had a conversation like this—one that isn’t about game schedules or dinner plans or how many charity events you have lined up for the season.

But then Joe’s eyes flicker up for half a second, and you know.

You know before you even turn around.

Miles is standing there, casual as anything, beer in hand, that unreadable half-smirk on his face. He’s trying to play it cool, you can tell, but you know him. You know the sharp edge of his jaw when he’s holding something back, the way his fingers tap against his bottle when he’s annoyed.

"Looks like you two are having fun," he says, voice light, teasing.

You open your mouth, but Joe beats you to it.

"Yeah," he says easily. "She’s good company."

Miles’ smirk twitches, just a little, just enough for you to notice.

"That right?"

Joe just grins. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Miles shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his beer, then turns to you. "We should get going."

You blink. "What? Why?"

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t just interrupted your conversation. "It’s late."

You frown. "It’s not that late."

Miles looks at you for a long second, then smiles. "You wanna stay?"

"Yeah, I do."

Joe leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying every second of this. "Can’t blame her," he says with a smirk. "It’s a good party."

Miles doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes on you. "One of your friends was looking for you," he says, smooth and easy. "Said they needed to talk."

You hesitate. "Who?"

He just shrugs again, taking a sip of his drink. "Not sure. But they seemed like it was important."

You glance between him and Joe, feeling something heavy settle in your stomach. You know what Miles is doing. He’s giving you an out, a way to leave without making a scene.

And part of you wants to fight him on it.

But the other part?

The other part just sighs.

"Okay," you say eventually, standing up. "I’ll go find them."

Joe watches you go, and just before you’re out of earshot, you hear him chuckle.

"You really don’t like me, huh?" he says, and you don’t have to turn around to know that Miles is seething.

Miles doesn’t answer Joe right away.

He just stares.

And for the first time in his life, Joe watches a man who’s always been effortlessly self-assured hesitate. Miles Johnson, the guy who’s never questioned a damn thing in his life, the guy who walks into every room like he owns it, the guy who doesn’t lose—he’s standing there, jaw tight, grip flexing around the neck of his beer bottle, seething.

Because this isn’t just about some guy flirting with his girl.

This is about Joe Burrow flirting with his girl.

Joe, who has everything Miles does. Joe, who isn’t just some backup wide receiver on the depth chart but the quarterback, the golden boy, the face of the team. If it were some random guy, Miles wouldn’t even be thinking twice about it. But Joe? That’s different.

Joe has already been given the world, and now—now he’s looking at his girl like he has a shot at taking that, too.

Miles lets out a breath through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "You think this shit is funny?"

Joe just smiles. "Kinda, yeah."

Miles’ jaw clenches.

"You got something to say, man?"

Joe takes his time leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, beer dangling from his fingers. "Me? Nah. I think you already know what I’m thinking."

Miles steps closer.

The tension is thick, crackling, and Joe—Joe just sits there, cool as ever, because he lives for this shit. He’s spent his whole life on a football field, has stared down 300-pound linemen trying to rip his head off, has played in stadiums so loud he couldn't even hear his own thoughts, and this?

This is just funny.

"You got a problem with me, Miles?" Joe finally asks, voice easy, relaxed.

Miles doesn’t answer. Because yeah, maybe he does have a problem with Joe.

And Joe fucking knows it.

And just when it looks like Miles might actually say something, Ja’Marr appears like he’s got some kind of internal alarm for bad ideas.

"Hey, hey, hey," Ja’Marr says, stepping between them before anything can go further. "What the hell is goin’ on over here?"

Joe leans back, grinning like nothing happened. "Nothing."

Miles scoffs. "Yeah," he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. "Nothing."

Ja’Marr looks between them, clearly not believing that for a second. "Right."

Miles exhales sharply, trying to regain some control of the situation. He looks back at Joe, his voice measured. "Look, I don’t know what kinda game you think you’re playing, but let me make one thing clear—she’s mine."

Joe just tilts his head. "No one’s arguing that."

"You sure?" Miles asks, voice low.

Joe just lifts a shoulder. "One hundred percent."

Miles stares at him, trying to read between the lines, trying to see if Joe is bullshitting him, and Joe gives him nothing. Just a calm, neutral expression.

Joe finally sighs, running a hand through his hair like this whole thing is just exhausting for him. "Look, bro, you got nothing to worry about," he says, and his voice is so assured, so calm, that for a second, Miles wants to believe him. "Focus on your season, your career. You’re a lucky man. No one’s trying to step on your toes."

He even throws in a little bro-code for good measure, because that’s what guys like Miles eat up.

And just like that—Miles relaxes. Not completely, but enough that he lets it go.

"Good," he mutters after a long moment.

Joe nods, casual as anything, and then Miles finally—finally—walks away.

Ja’Marr watches him go, then turns back to Joe.

"That was some bullshit," he says.

Joe just grins. "Yeah. But he bought it, didn’t he?"

The drive home is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, but the kind that makes your skin prickle, the kind that sits heavy in the air, thick with something unsaid.

You’re still in a good mood. You can feel it in the way your body is still buzzing slightly, the aftereffects of laughter and good conversation. For the first time in a long time, you’d felt light. Like the version of yourself that existed before all of this—before the responsibilities, before the expectations, before you became someone’s wife—had peeked through the cracks of who you’ve had to become.

And Miles hates it.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel it. The weight of his stare on the road, the way his grip on the wheel is just a little too tight. He’s never been good at masking his emotions, never been the type to hide his displeasure. You learned that early on.

When you get home, you don’t even make it to your bedroom before he speaks.

"So," Miles says, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you with an expression that isn’t outright anger, but something close to it. "You had fun tonight."

It’s not a question.

You pause, placing your purse on the counter carefully, your heartbeat just slightly picking up. "Yeah," you say slowly, hesitantly. "It was nice to be around everyone before the season starts."

He hums. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something calculating, and you don’t like it.

"You and Joe seemed to be having fun," he continues.

And there it is.

Your stomach twists—not in guilt, but in frustration.

"Don’t do that," you say, turning fully to face him now. "Don’t make it into something it wasn’t."

Miles tilts his head, his mouth twisting like he’s the one who should be annoyed. "Make it into something?" he repeats, letting out a sharp little laugh. "Baby, I was there. I saw it."

You inhale deeply through your nose. "Saw what?"

Miles scoffs, pushing off the counter, stepping closer. "You really want me to spell it out for you?"

Your jaw clenches. "Yes, actually, I do. Because from where I was sitting, all I did was have a conversation, and now you’re acting like—"

"Like what?" he cuts in. His voice isn’t raised, but there’s a sharp edge to it, a barely restrained irritation. "Like I didn’t have to sit there and watch my wife giggle at another man’s jokes? Like I didn’t have to watch him look at you like he was thinking about shit he shouldn’t be thinking about?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "That’s what this is about? Because someone looked at me?"

Miles exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "No, this is about you letting him."

Your stomach drops.

There it is.

The shift. The moment where he stops being annoyed at the situation and starts being annoyed at you.

Your hands clench at your sides. "I can’t control how people look at me, Miles."

He takes another step forward, closing the distance, voice lowering. "But you can control how you react to it."

You stare at him, searching his face for the man you used to know, the one who once made you feel like you were the center of his world.

"I didn’t do anything wrong," you say, and you hate the way your voice comes out softer, like you're trying to convince him.

Miles exhales, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And then—he sighs.

It’s long and dramatic, and he runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. "You’re right," he finally says, and it’s so sudden that it almost gives you whiplash. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

Your brows knit together in confusion.

"I—I didn’t?"

He steps forward again, hands landing on your waist now, pulling you closer. "No, baby," he murmurs, his voice shifting, softening. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you did."

Your brain is scrambling to catch up.

"You—" you swallow. "You just—"

"I know, I know," he sighs again, dropping his forehead to yours. "God, I hate fighting with you."

You exhale shakily. The tension that had built up in your chest doesn’t fully leave, but it starts to shift.

Because this is the part where he fixes it.

The part where he pulls you into his arms, presses his lips to your forehead, and makes it okay.

"You know I just—I just love you so much," he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck. "And I see someone else getting your attention, even for a second, and I just—I don’t know, baby, I just lose it."

You close your eyes. Your hands move to rest on his chest out of habit. "Miles—"

"Shh," he hums, lips brushing your ear now. "I forgive you, okay?"

Your breath catches.

"You forgive me?"

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

And that’s how he does it.

That’s how he wins.

Because somehow, you’ve gone from defending yourself to being the one who is forgiven.

And the worst part?

You let him.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow smut #joe burrow fan fic #bengals #jb9 #joe shiesty #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x oc

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elumish · 1 year ago

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I think some people get so caught up in a mindset that all moderation is terrible for fandom that they run headlong into the paradox of tolerance and side with the neo-nazis.

If you try to make a group equally and unreservedly welcoming to everybody, especially by saying that no content can ever be removed and that criticism is antithetical to the group norms, you by definition make the group unsafe for marginalized people.

Black fans are inherently less safe in a group that is tolerant of racists or of racist content. Disabled people are inherently less safe in a group that is tolerant of ableism or ableist content. Jewish people are inherently less safe in a group that is tolerant of antisemitism or antisemitic content.

And so there is no value neutral moderation decision--not even "everything and everyone is allowed without question or comment." You are making a choice as to who you want to prioritize in your community, and marginalized people are the ones who lose when you maintain the status quo.

#ethical writing #fandom

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chososcamgirl · 9 months ago

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(SHE’S) JUST A PHASE CHAPTER EIGHT: choose your fighter!

masterlist

She tossed her phone onto the bed, the sound echoing in the silence of the room, and buried her face in her hands, a deep sigh escaping her lips. Why couldn’t her friends find it in themselves to be happy for her? Sukuna had his flaws—plenty of them—but so did she. They had both stumbled through their relationship and while she didn’t want to return to that tumultuous past, the ache of loneliness was becoming harder to ignore.

She thought about the way he made her feel, the intoxicating blend of exhilaration and vulnerability that surged through her in his presence. His touch was a sanctuary, enveloping her in the warmth that felt both safe and electric as if every heartbeat synchronised with the unspoken connection they shared. It was in those moments that she felt seen, cherished, and undeniably alive; yet the aftertaste of that sweetness was often tainted by his erratic behaviour.

God, why did he have to be such a cunt? If only he had shown a hint of consideration, if only he hadn't allowed his insecurities to seep into their moments together, this decision would have been made hours ago. She could have stepped forward with clarity instead of being mired in confusion, torn between the yearning for his touch and the frustration of his thoughtlessness. Each time she recalled the warmth of his embrace, it came with the sharp sting of disappointment, a reminder that the comfort he offered was often shadowed by his lack of commitment.

It was a painful paradox-craving his closeness while grappling with the reality of his emotional distance. In that swirling tumult of feelings, she found herself caught in an endless cycle of hope and disillusionment, desperate for a resolution that would allow her to either embrace him in a way that wouldn’t leave her feeling like shit.

Her thoughts shifted to Megumi. He had offered in a way that made her heart race, the implication lingering like a whisper. She bit her lip, contemplating the choice before her. Megumi would be a far better option than Sukuna; he had a steadiness about him that she found comforting.

Flipping onto her stomach, she buried her face in the pillow, muffling a scream of frustration. Here she was, torn between dignity and desire. Should she text Sukuna and risk reopening old wounds, or reach out to Megumi and swallow her pride? The options felt like a cruel joke—two paths that led to equally undesirable destinations. Yet, amidst the chaos, she understood one thing: sometimes a girl had to make choices that didn’t feel right, simply to find a moment of solace in the storm.

Finally, she raised her head from the indent in the pillow, her thoughts swirling with a mix of reluctance and resignation. Swallowing her pride—and the certainty that she would regret this moment later—she reached for her phone, fingers trembling slightly as she opened iMessage. The soft, rhythmic clicks of the keyboard filled the quiet room as she typed one of the most clichéd and overused lines of the 21st century, a phrase as worn as her emotions felt.

Her finger hovered over the “send” button, a moment stretching into what felt like an eternity. With a heavy breath, she finally succumbed to the impulse and pressed it.

Read at: 9:47 PM

Well, that was fast. Had he been waiting for her to text him all along? The notification blinked before her, a stark reminder of her vulnerability and the tangled web of choices she had woven. A mixture of anticipation and dread coursed through her, leaving her to wonder if this moment would be the beginning of something new—or a replay of the past.

extras!

• the enemies to lovers is STRONG in this chapter

• honorary toge brainrot reference

• more cameos (also guys please do not ask for a cameo bc it’s filling up my inbox😭 in the most nicest way possible just let it be please <3 if i want you to be featured i will, keep in mind not every chapter will have a cameo)

• more stsg propaganda because THEYRE CANON IDC

• yuta being whipped part 73

• yuji def put all the new fans onto his fav horror movie recs (hereditary and i am legend)

• the girls are FIGHTINGGG (and not in a good way)

• yn being a bitch to maki on GOD she’s pissing me off like why is yn putting dick first

• maki being nothing but sweetheart part 119

• nobara cooking us #wedeserveit

• maki left the apartment and went to yuta’s after for some… therapy 😊

• WHO DID WE TEXT GUYS… MEGUMI OR SUKUNA?? FIND OUT *looks at watch* NEXT WEEK! 🫵

a/n: i’m really edging you guys with the last part THIS IS SO FUN😭😭 take your vote now! did we cave into daddykuna’s text.. or did we say fuck it and text megumi.. find out in 6 days!! <3 this was also probably my favourite chapter to write so far GUYS ITS JUST GETTING STARTED

taglist: @shokosbunny @luvvmae @catobsessedlady @satoryaa @prozacprinc3ss @essjujutsu @therealsatorugojo @yeehawslap @gojodickbig @dawnisatotalqueen @j2upiters @nappingnai @lalalasillybilly3000 @totallytatum @3cst4syy @lysaray @saltypuffin1040 @aozui @noodles-icetea @makeshiftproject @kurtcobaingirlie @kokoiinuts @renbittt @dashingaurries @slvttycorpse @cuupidsss @mochroialainn @tenjikusstuff4 @oroborosttheiii @ichcocat @laughingfcx @drugzforyou @sugurubabe @allthestarsarecloserrrrrrr @tyigerz @yoyo-yui @megoomies @yizmiu @jasminasblog22 @yomamablazeit @marst4rz @guitarstringed-scars @qtnfer @kalulakunundrum @lovefrominaya @beepbopzlorp @iheartlindz @itsdragonius @meguemii @chilichopsticks @7kn0wn @starantulas @1l-ynn @pastriepuppy @rcveriees @solaqes @starrysho @sukunaspillow

*if i can't tag you please change your tag settings otherwise i will remove you from the list!

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imaginingmanyfandoms · 26 days ago

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the size of baby kent - roy kent x reader

a countdown of nine long months of pregnancy mini series

warnings; pregnancy obviously, smut, pregnant sex (more than once) so much kissing, so much over-protective roy, angst in the beginning, panic attack

this got really long, so it's gunna be a three part series.

part one; finding out + first half of pregnancy part two; second half of pregnancy + birth of baby kent part three; the first few months of baby kent's life

the size of a poppy seed

You don't know how this happened.

Well, you do.

But also you don't.

The little white stick on the bathroom counter seems so inoffensive, so why is it about to change your whole life? It's been so good, so so good. Being with Roy is one of the easiest things in the world. He's fiercely loyal, he loves you and his family, and keeps the lot fo you close at all times, he takes care of you, shares responsibilities, rarely forgets anything important to you (except a date here or there, at the end of the day he's just a man), and he loves. Roy loves with his whole heart.

And you know deep down that that's never going to change, you know that having a baby will not make him leave, you know that it will not make him love you any less. So why was it so fucking scary to tell him?

Roy's great with kids. He'll be a great dad. And it's not like you've never talked about it before.

You count the months on your fingers and figure out he'll be mid season in nine months, even if you give or take a few weeks, he'll be right in the thick of it around then. Your mind goes into overdrive before you can stop it, and you're already worrying that he'll be at an away game when you go into labour. Already fretting that he'll be too busy to assemble the nursery with you and you'll miss out on those pivotal bonding moments during pregnancy.

After swatting the pregnancy test off the counter, and listening to it clatter somewhere behind the toilet, you try to take a few deep breaths.

Your heart is racing beyond your control, a borderline panic attack approaching, and your knuckles turn white as you grip the edge of the tub.

Tears start streaming down your cheeks as you try to regulate your feelings. Scared? Excited? Overwhelmed? All of the above? You wanted to see Roy, and you also wanted to hide away from him at the same time. You needed support but wouldn't be able to handle any negative reactions right now. It was all a paradox, there was no out.

Wanting to call and wanting to hide fought for dominance in your mind, but the decision was made for you when you heard the front door open and close, not a slammed door but enough to make you jump. The tears fell harder, your breaths got quicker as you tried to think of what to say. Maybe he wouldn't come in here? No, he just got home he would want to see you for a kiss right away. And when he saw you crying?

That would be too much for you to handle right now. So you tried to be quiet. As softly as you could you walked to the door, trying to bit down on your sobbing. You locked the door.

Leaning your back against the door, you slid down the length of it, sitting with your knees up to your chest.

"Darlin'?" he called, still sounding like he was by the door, "where are ya? Been a rough day, need a kiss!!"

You just cried harder, you had no energy to help him right now. You couldn't even help yourself. You tried to take a deep breath, but were interrupted by hiccups, loud, awful hiccups.

"Babe?" he called, voice sounding from the bottom of the stairs. "You up there?"

It's silent for a minute.

"Hey, phone says you're home! Are you sleeping or somethin'?"

You hear him climb the stairs, and walk by where you are to check the bedroom. You can hear him huff from the door, probably spotting your phone on the bedside table.

A dumb, stupid, ugly hiccup gives you away.

"Did you hear me babe? Need to see ya," he says, quieter now that he's outside the bathroom door. He knocks a couple of times, "are you in the tub, love? Can I come in?"

The softness in his voice effects you badly, adding guilt to your laundry list of emotional dilemmas, and you break out into another round of sobs, hiding your face in your knees as you wrap your arms around yourself.

"What the f... Darlin'? Why'd you lock the door? What's going on?" he panics, trying to door a few times before grunting and giving up. "You gotta say something, please, you're freaking me out."

"I need a m-minute," you choke out through sobs, and it only makes Roy more upset, more worried.

"Let me in," he says again, "are you hurt? What's happened?" He tries the door again. "Baby, please."

"Roy I just..." you can't catch your breath enough to speak.

"I can help you," he pleads, "whatever's happened, I'll help you." It breaks your heart to hear his voice crack, after a hard day you've made it worse. But it's not you're fault. You're allowed this, right? To process at your pace?

And of course you are, but you realize Roy's right when he says, "I can't try to help if you won't tell me anything, my love." And it's not fair on him for you to keep him at arm's length. You have the right to, but you don't want to, because this is your Roy. The one who's always been in your corner, even before you were together. The one who would lift the moon for you, with a bad knee, no less.

So you gather your strength, and unlock the door, and to your surprise, his entrance isn't a dramatic throwing open of the door and sweeping you into his arms. It's slow, so slow, like he's scared to frighten you. And when he steps into the room he's analyzing you from head to toe, looking for the problem, trying to see if he can figure it out before he asks any questions. And his eyes are glossy, like he was breaking outside the door but holding it together for your sake.

"You have to be nice," you say, voice sounding so unlike you and timid, "if you're in here you have to be nice."

"I'll be so nice," he promises without hesitating. His arms come up like he wants nothing more than to pull you close, but instead the hover just above your arms, as if trying to convey he's right there but willing to give you space, if that's what you need.

But it's not, you realize. Comfort had been right outside the door and you locked him out.

You nearly throw yourself into his chest, and Roy, ever steady, wraps you up in his arms and protects you from anything that may try to get you. He keeps you close, and secure, and whispers that everything's all right into the top of your head. He doesn't rush you. Now that you're here in his arms he can wait as long as you need. If you can meet him halfway and let him in, then he can meet you halfway and not force you to talk when you're not ready.

"It's all right, my darling, I'm right here," he promises, hands rubbing soothingly over your back and arms.

"It's, ugh, I'm blowing this all out of proportion," you say, sniffling against his chest, "It's just overwhelming."

"What's overwhelming? What do you need?"

"I need you to leave if you have a negative reaction. If you can't handle it calmly then I need you to leave without a word, okay? And call Keeley or somethin' to come over here. That's what I need."

Roy's head goes to dark places. His mind immediately jumps to worse case scenarios, and you need time to think about what you want to say, but the time it takes is giving Roy more and more time to think about the worst possible thing. It goes to loss. A loss in the family. It goes to identity theft. It goes to infidelity. And it lands on you leaving him, which makes no sense given you're here in his arms, seeking comfort with him. But it's what his mind tosses and turns and spins in head.

"I don't know why it's so hard to say," you mumble, and your words vibrate against his chest and land on his heart, making it beat uncontrollably. Your crying finally stops, and you're left with soft sniffles, your hands clinging to the fabric of the shirt on his lower back.

"Take your time," he whispers, "but you're scaring me, just give me a little something, baby."

"It's..." you sigh, it's now or never, "I'm pregnant."

The air that was tense is now entirely sucked from the room. Roy hears ringing in ears. He's not angry. He's not upset. But he is shocked. Not sure how that scenario didn't cross his mind, you guys hadn't really been careful lately. Not trying, but not preventing anything either. He always knew this was a possibility.

You're silent again, as is he, but he keeps his promise, and he's so nice. His soothing motions never falter, he keeps you wrapped up close.

He doesn't know whether to wait for you to speak or to say something, so he says, "I hope it's a boy," then thinks for a minute, "or a girl," he thinks again, "or anything really, I don't care."

It's silent, but he feels you laugh against his chest, feels the way your shoulders bounce subtly in his grip, and he lays his head down on top of yours.

His mind wanders while he waits for you to collect your thoughts, he thinks about a few weeks ago when a simple movie night had turned into more. He can't stop the smirk when he thinks about how he had your knees tucked into your chest, as he fucked you deep and slow, watching your face twist with pleasure, and how you cumming had made him finish so hard inside you, and how he held you there, keeping his cock stuffed into you while you both caught your breath.

That is absolutely what got you guys here now.

And he wouldn't take it back.

Roy wants this baby.

And he can only hope you do too.

"I'm sorry I scared you," you whisper, "I just got surprised and..." he cuts you off by shushing you sweetly, pulling back to see your face, and cradles the side of your face with his big hand, and you lean into his palm, looking up at him with red brimmed eyes and wet cheeks, and Roy just smiles down at you.

"Don't worry about a thing baby," Roy says, "I'm gunna be here with you every step of the way. Whatever you want, I want too."

"In nine months you'll be midseason," you say.

"I don't care about that," he says simply, "I care about you, and our family. We don't have to worry about that yet, okay? If I have to take some time off, I will. I want this, I want to have this baby with you." He kisses your forehead, lingering longer than he needs to, it's for him too, to show you how much he loves you. "I know exactly what did it," he says, grinning ear to ear.

"And what's that?" you ask.

"Why don't we go have some tea and calm down, then later I'll show you," he winks, and you laugh, letting Roy lead you out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, where he gets you to sit at the counter and drink some water while he makes tea and a snack for you.

"Do you want to tell me about your bad day?"

"Wasn't all that bad," he says, "just missed you, really."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. Kinda felt like a prick, missing you after only a few hours but I guess I just knew deep down that my girl needed me."

He sets a hot cup of tea down in front of you, and a slice of banana bread that Ted had apparently sent just for you.

And he holds his arm around you the whole time, sitting next to you and letting the moment sink in.

"I'm happy," you say finally, and Roy gives you the most love-struck, boyish, charming smile you've ever seen.

"I'm happy too," he says, reaching over with his other arm to put his palm on your belly, fingers spread wide, "I love you baby, I love you both."

the size of an apple seed

Roy, at some point, had come to the conclusion that everyone was out to get you.

You're not yet showing, and you haven't told anyone yet with the exception of Roy's sister, who'd worked it out when Roy kepting asking vague questions. You were waiting until you're in the second trimester. And you're not yet having any symptoms except the odd cramp, and a little bit of nausea. You know that's going to change, you know that it could happen any minute. But for know you're laying in bed reading a book on what to expect in the third trimester, while Roy is downstairs leaning over the shoulder of the guy working on the security system.

Nothing was wrong with it, but he needed them to add motion sensors on windows, needed alarms to blare if someone came in while you were in bed. He needed to know that no one could get in unnoticed if he was at an away match.

You considered going to help the poor guy (the technician) but there was nothing you could say, and your stomach was hurting, so you left Roy to it.

There was a system you had going with books. Roy, of course, needed to read everything about everything, so you would read a few chapters, then give it to Roy and he would catch up. And you could talk about anything you needed to talk about. He had also spent many afternoons questioning his sister as both a doctor (not her specialty, but he ignored it) and as a mum.

What should he be doing? Was he doing enough? When does he start the nursery? What's the best way to support you?

And while it was kind of annoying, it was way more endearing. Here was her baby brother, begging for information on how to be better to his pregnant girlfriend, when really, you didn't need anything right now. Just needed to know Roy was right beside you, which he was. In fact, he hated leaving your side.

It was driving you mental, but he was just worried. You are the love of his life, carrying his baby. Everything in the world he needed to protect.

You hear the stairs creak, much to the relief of the alarm system tech, and Roy comes into the room with a tray of lunch for you.

"Just thought you may be hungry," he said, placing the scrambled eggs and toast in front of you.

You loved eggs and toast.

But once the smell hit your nose, you were running away, throwing up into the toilet before you know what had hit you. Roy was right behind you, scooping all your hair up and rubbing your back, saying gentle, calming things in your ear.

"So no eggs," Roy mumbles, mostly to himself, "I'll remember that."

the size of a blueberry

"Roy," you sing the bedroom, "Come in here!"

Roy is up the steps and in the doorway of your room faster than ever, his knee thumping in the joint. You're standing in front the mirror, your reflection blocked from his view, only in your underwear. Which are tiny, and pink, and are almost enough to distract him from his worry.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Almost enough to distract him...

"Do these look bigger to you?" you ask, facing him with your tits out, and his eyes leave your face, staying directly on your boobs.

He just looks at them for a second, heavy lidded eyes focused on your chest. He mumbles, lemme see, and comes closer to you, putting a rough palm up to cup your breast, thumb running across your nipple, making you gasp and moan.

"Oh yes," he says, "they feel bigger." He takes his other hand and repeats the same action to the other breast, and you moan again, looking up at him with your lip sucked into your mouth. "Softer too."

You moan as he leans down, swiping a gentle tongue across one of your nipples, and moving over to show equal love to the other. You wrap your hands in his curls, arching your back and forcing yourself more into him.

"Please, Roy," you moaned, hands cradling his head now, legs clenched tightly trying to find relief. "Need you."

"You have me," he whispered, righting him and putting his hands on your hips to spin you, walking you towards the bed. "You have me, baby."

He takes your hand, aiding you onto the bed like a gentleman, and when you're resting against the pillows comfortably, he takes his shirt off and crawls up your body like an apex predator.

Roy stops by your breasts, taking one of your sensitive nipples back into his mouth, he's gentle, and the way you're squirming and moaning under him confirms it's the right way to do it, anymore and it could hurt. One of his hands support him, and the other is toying with the waistband of your panties, ticking the edge of your skin with the most tender touches.

"Bet I could make you cum just from these tits, right now babe," he whispers, looking up at your face as he licks swiftly across the peak, and your face twists up in pleasure and a pout.

"I want more," you mumbled, back arching off the bed, searching.

"Anything you want, baby, it's yours." He would've promised you the crown. The world. Anything. "I'll take care of you, just lay back."

And his hand slips into your panties, parting the slick folds with one thick finger, moaning against the nipple in his mouth, and the vibrations in turn make you moan, pulling at his hair again.

"Jesus fucking christ, you're so wet," he moans, bringing a trail of kisses up to your neck, stopping just above your lips, he smiles, letting you wonder why he hasn't kissed you, before sliding his finger inside you, twisting it up immediately, finding the sweetest spot inside you. Your moan is more like a yell, your walls squeezing his finger. "What do you want? Hmm? Tell me and it's yours."

"Your mouth," you answer quickly, "please, your mouth."

"All yours baby," he says, kissing you quickly, but deeply, before pulling away and sliding down your body, not keen on making his girl wait one minute longer. Your panties are taken off, and Roy flings them over his shoulder, and does the same with one of your legs, propping it over his shoulder as he pushes the other one up and over, straight out by your hip to give him the access he needs.

And he makes quick work of it. One hand working a couple of fingers inside you, abusing that sensitive spot inside you, while his tongue works over your clit slowly, lovingly, hitting it from every direction and circling her like a wolf with a lamb. He sucks his mouth around your bud, flicking his tongue over it quickly a few times, as you tug on his hair. He doesn't care if you hurt him, you're doing all the heavy lifting, he can handle some rough hair pulling.

Roy brings your other thigh to rest on his shoulder as well, letting you clamp around his head, he doesn't mind, he likes it.

It's Roy bringing his free hand up to your tit that really does you in, his thumb is so gentle over your nipple, but it just makes everything feel so overwhelmingly good. He doesn't stop until you're screaming, drenching his fingers and chin, clenching around him like a vice. He stills his hands, and continues licking, but softly, coaxing you through your orgasm.

You whine as he pulls out his fingers, pawing at his pants as soon as he's crawled back up enough for you to reach, he chuckles, helping you yank them down his legs.

"Feral little minx," he mutters, cock springing free and mouth back on your tits, "fuck," he moans, "love these fucking tits."

"Baby, fuck me, please... pretty please," you beg.

And who the fuck was he to deny you when you asked so nicely? You cradled his face, hands on both his cheeks, and he watches your face as he lines himself up with your core, bottoming out in one sturdy stroke.

"Fuck baby, that's so fucking wet," he moans, eyes shut tight in pleasure, the pump of his hips languid, and deep.

His elbows are on either side of your head, caging you in, almost acting like a shield to the outside world. And he thrusts consistently, looking right at you with all the love in the world. You're safe. You feel safe. And you moan, hands moving into his hair and over his under his arm to wrap around his back, digging your nails in and bringing him close.

"I love you, baby," he mumbles, "I love you so fucking much, gunna give you as many babies as you want, anything you want."

"I love you, Roy," you moan, "please, m'close."

And he drops his mouth to your tits again, licking across a nipple and that's all it takes to throw you over the edge. Back arched impossibly high, Roy's hot mouth on your chest, you gripped his hair and dug your claws into deep half moons on his back.

"Fuck," he groans loudly, following quickly behind you, filling you up and still moving slowly inside you. "Fuck, baby."

Roy rolls off you, wrapping an arm under your neck and letting the other rest over your belly. "I love you," he whispers, thumb rubbing slowly over your soft skin. You don't know if he's talking to you or the baby.

You don't know if it matters.

the size of a raspberry

"This is going to be a little cold," the ultrasound technician said, squirting a pile of freezing goop on your stomach.

Roy gives your hand a gentle squeeze, his eyes staying locked on the screen, waiting impatiently for the image of his baby on the screen. He'd been bouncing with excitement all morning. He refused to go to work, instead choosing to stay with you and have breakfast together, and walk through the park, and just be with you.

But now he just wanted to see.

"There we go," the technician points to the screen, "there's the baby."

"And everything looks okay?" you ask, eyes glued to the screen like Roy.

"Everything looks great, mom." The technician moved the wand around a little, digging in just a bit to find the heartbeat. "There it is, do you hear it? That's the heartbeat, sounds strong."

"Hear that Roy? Sounds..." you trail off when you look up at Roy, and his eyes are filled with tears, a few sliding down his cheeks, and his lip is quivering, like he can't quite believe what he's seeing? "Baby?"

Roy just looks down at you, eyes shiny with love and tears, and leans over to kiss you on the forehead, free hand coming to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing over your forehead. He doesn't say anything, just returns his attention to the monitor.

And he can't fucking believe his luck, his best girl and the little treasure you're carrying.

the size of a strawberry

Roy was a private guy, but he was fucking dying to tell everyone about his baby. His leg was bouncing as Ted and Beard bickered back and forth about a play idea they had. He didn't even realize they'd stopped to look at him, expecting a snarky remark or input of some kind, but they just saw him lost in thought.

"Okay there, buddy?"

"What?" Roy realized they were staring at him. "M'fine, what was the question?"

Ted and Beard exchanged a look, but said nothing else about it. Roy gave his inputs about the play, and Ted corrected a few things on the whiteboard, but Roy's attention faded away quickly after.

You'd been sick all morning, vomiting and cramps and he'd wanted to stay home with you, but you'd insisted it was just par for the course, and that you would be okay alone. But it didn't feel right. Letting you go through all that alone and not even being at home for it, but Ted and Beard had just gotten back from America, and it was time to start working again before getting into pre-season training.

But he didn't want to miss anything. What if you needed him?

"Roy?"

"Hm?" he grunts in response, "what?"

"It doesn't seem like you're really on the farm right now," Ted says, twisting his face into a concerned smile. "Where are ya, pal?"

"Nowhere," Roy said, trying to focus. "I'm here."

"Need a meeting of the diamond dogs?"

"No," he grunts, "no meeting, just.. let me go make a quick call then I'll zero in, okay?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before he's rushing out of the room, finding an isolated hallway. You answer after a few rings, sounding groggy, like you'd just woken up.

"Everything okay, babe?" you ask.

Roy chuckles, "was gunna ask you that."

"I'm fine, a little dizzy so I'm staying in bed, but cramps are gone and no more puke."

"Dizzy? Is that normal? Should we go to the doctor?"

You laugh, "I'm growing a person, being a little dizzy is normal, babe."

"I can be there in ten minutes," Roy said, "Call me if anything doesn't feel right."

"I will," you promise. "Go do some work, Tartt is gunna be all over you in just a few weeks, you gotta be ready."

"Ugh, okay. Tell the baby I love them."

the size of a plum

It had been exactly three months.

You were about to start the second trimester. You weren't quite showing yet, any bloating easy to hide under a big shirt, but it was time to start telling people.

Roy never wanted to share anything, but he was so relieved to be able to share this. Now he won't have to be so secretive about needing to call you, and why he can't stick around for drinks, or why he has to go home at lunch to bring you bread and butter pickles.

He didn't exactly care about the team knowing about his personal life, but he wanted Ted and Beard to be in the loop so he could leave anytime you needed him.

You were supposed to come down at lunch to bring a new ultrasound to show Ted and Beard.

Roy was anxiously watching the door waiting for your arrival.

You were walking down the hallway, a skip in your step as you went to meet Roy. After his work day, you were going over to his sister's to tell Pheebs the good news, and you were just excited to get it out in the open.

Jamie spotted you walk into the locker room, and had the same goofy grin on his face he always had when he saw you.

"Mrs. Grandpa!" he chirps, running up to you and scooping you into a brotherly bear hug, spinning you around a few times.

You were laughing. You always saw Jamie as an annoying younger brother, but you were fond of him.

"Hey, whistle!!!!!" Roy belts from the office door, rushing over to the two of you and getting you out of Jamie's arms and back on the ground, hand landing protectively over your stomach before he can think twice about it. You put your hand over Roy's smiling at him reassuringly.

"It's fine Roy, m'not made of glass."

Roy just grunts, rubbing his thumb back and forth.

"Oh shit," Jamie says, eyes wide and eyebrows raised, "there a baby in there?"

"What!?" is heard from the office, Ted and Beard tumble out of the room on each others heels, "a baby?"

"I was going to tell you today," Roy said, taking the ultrasound from you and handing it over to the coaches, "but obviously Tartt fucking spoiled it." The coaches both kept their eyes on the little photo with stars in their eyes, excited for you guys, and also excited to have a baby around the track.

"Hey," Jamie whined, "I just was sayin' hi!"

"Yeah well, keep your hands to your fucking self from now on." Roy wrapped an arm around your shoulders, kissing your forehead quickly. He never was a fan of PDA, but now that you were carrying his little baby, he couldn't seem to keep his hands off of you.

Roy kept you around the office for the rest of the day, mostly sitting in his chair, and then moving to lay in Rebecca's office when you got uncomfortable.

Keeley was there, getting promos organized to get people excited for the upcoming season, and she had nonstop questions. Boy or girl? Do you have a name picked out? Do you have the nursery started? Can she help decorate it?

You promised she could, and she was already squealing with excitement, starting a pinterest board of ideas.

Jamie, obviously, couldn't keep his mouth shut, and the whole team knew by the end of training. Everyone was excited, everyone was already bursting at the seems to meet the babe, even though there were still months left to go.

Roy came to collect you early, Ted insisted that you should be out of here and on with your day. Keeley wrapped Roy in a tight hug as you gathered your things, promising to find the cutest decorations for the nursery. He looked to you in question, but said nothing, just nodded at her.

It was a challenge, getting you away from Keeley, she had so much to say, so much bouncy excitement that she wanted to share.

Roy led you to the car, around wrapped around you the entire time, like he was afraid something was coming for you. He opened the car door for you, helping you climb in, and stepping up to make sure your seatbelt was on. You rolled your eyes, but there was no use arguing with him.

"Hey babe?" you said when he got into the driver's seat, "I won't be able to climb into this thing forever."

He looked at you in shock, like he'd never even considered that. "Do I have to get a new car?"

"Maybe? Would it be so horrible? Not like you have to get rid of this one, but is this what we want to drive a baby around in?"

"No you're right," he said, "I guess I didn't think about it."

"We're not in a rush, babe."

"Yes we are," he said, "and that's okay. Six months is gunna fly by and I need things done. I need the nursery started, I need the house baby proofed, I need hospital bags packed..."

"We have time," you said, reaching across the console to take his hand in yours.

He seems to calm at that, squeezing your hand three times softly.

When he parks at his sister's house, he rushes to your side to help you out of the car, noticing the hop you have to do out of the car suddenly fills him with worry, and he makes a mental note that a new car is the first thing that he needs.

Dinner goes as nicely as always, a beautiful supper with a few laughs. Save for missing your usual glass of wine, it was a nice night. It was dessert being served that was time to tell Phoebe the good news.

She looked around at all the adults, who obviously had something to tell her, and the poor thing got nervous.

"Is it something bad?" she asked, lips turned down slightly.

"No, no," Roy said, shaking his head. "No, we have good news for you." He held his hand out to her, letting her put her little palm in his, and he held it tightly. And then took yours as well.

"You're getting married?"

Roy smiles, "no, not yet. Maybe someday soon though."

"Then what?"

"We're having a baby," you said, smiling.

And Pheebs smile lit up the room, looking back and forth between her mum and Roy, then finally her sights landed on you. "He should marry you!"

You all laughed. "Let's finish having this baby first, then we can bug him about that after, yeah?"

the size of an avocado

"Roy!" you shout from the couch, hand on your stomach, and afraid to move. Afraid to ruin the moment.

"What!?" he shouts, sprinting down the steps to get to you, "what is it? What's wrong?"

"C'mere," you said, smile bright as the sun as you gesture him closer, he sits beside you. "Put your hand here," you say, laying his exactly where yours had been.

Your bump was starting to grow, pants started to get too tight. And it was beautiful. And now...

"He moved!" Roy shouts, grinning ear to ear, maybe the biggest smile you'd ever seen on him. His eyes were glossy, and he shuffled himself around so he could lay his head on your stomach, whispering secrets to the bump.

"Still so sure it's a boy, huh?"

"Roy Kent the second, football prodigy."

"I love you," you say, running your fingers through Roy's hair, "but we're not naming him Roy Kent."

the size of a mango

You can't stop crying.

Roy's been holding you for two hours, shushing you rubbing up and down your back, but the tears won't stop coming. He's having a hard time keeping it together, he feels awful, like he's failing you. But you're just so tired, and you can't get comfortable. And everything is overwhelming, and you can't even say anything. You just keep crying.

"Baby, please, what can I do?" Roy sighs, kissing the top of your head. "I need you to drink some water, you've cried so much. Take a sip, yeah?" He reaches for the cup of water on the bedside table, and helps you take a few small sips, your hiccups making it hard.

"What do you need darling?"

"I'm so tired," you say, "but I can't sleep."

"I don't know... maybe if I help you sleep like I used to? Would you want that?"

"You don't have to do that," you blush, "I probably look so unattractive."

"You've never, ever looked unattractive to me." He kisses the side of your head, "let's just see if it helps."

His hand slides over the swell of your small bump, and then wriggles into the top of your pants. The feeling of his thick fingers parting your folds, makes you forget how uncomfortable you were a moment ago. You close your eyes, and let Roy do what he does best, make you feel good.

His lips are constantly on you, kissing your temple as he praises you for being so brave, and strong, while his fingers work themselves inside you, his thumb running expert circles over your clit. He's not taking his time, he's using every trick he know will make you cum faster, desperate in his attempt to get you to sleep.

You moan and squirm against him, gripping the sheets in your fists, and he angles his arm a little differently to hit that sweet spot inside you, and with a couple flicks of that, you're hitting your high, squeezing the life out of his fingers, floating back down to earth softly, with Roy kissing your head and telling you just how much he loves you.

You're asleep before he pulls his fingers out.

the size of a coconut

Fake contractions were going to be the death of Roy.

You'd learned after a couple that just shuffling around will make them stop, but for him, everytime you wince and grab your now much more swollen stomach, he's ready to grab you and throw you in his car.

His much less cool, baby friendly, four door minivan, that he surprisingly doesn't hate.

So he keeps close by, insisting on being in the same room as you, and wanting constant text updates throughout the day.

Now, you were sitting in a rocking chair in the newly painted nursery, blue walls with lots of big clouds painted around, and a few soft rainbows, while Roy assembles the crib. He's knees were killing him, but he didn't trust anyone else to help make the crib his baby would be sleeping in.

And there was no way he was going to let you out of that chair to help.

"Babe? Keeley just got here, I'm gunna go let her in," you said, starting to stand when Roy jumps up.

"Don't be a muppet," he says, rushing out of the room shouting, "sit back down!" as he goes to let her in.

Keeley's following behind him with bags of stuff, and she's in awh of the room so far. There wasn't much done, a few shelves put up, pale yellow curtains, and some of Pheebs favourite books from years ago that she insisted the baby have, and half a crib. But still, it was coming along nicely.

"This is beautiful babes," she said, dropping all the bags on the floor, crouching beside you right away. "Can I touch?"

You nodded, smiling, and Keeley rubbed her hands together, warming them up before laying her hands on your belly. "Awh, there you little turnip, oh!" Keeley gasped, "she's wigglin' around!"

"He," Roy corrects, already back at work on the crib.

"And what do you think momma?" Keeley asked, thumbs brushing over where the baby was kicking at her.

"I think girl," you said, "but I'll be happy with healthy."

Roy grunts in agreement. Keeley pulls away, clapping once, "all right, look at what I've got you."

Keeley pulls out stuffed animals, comfy pillows for breastfeeding, a few wall decorations. Just some nice things to put around the room, make it feel more lively. Make it all feel real. You were over the halfway mark, and Roy hadn't been kidding, time was flying.

"Oh, nearly forgot the most important thing!" She rushes out of the room, and comes back with a huge pillow, shaking it aggressively. "Pregnancy pillow! I mentioned to Ted that you were having trouble sleeping, and he said this had helped Michelle when she was having Henry. He also said that Roy should've googled that by now."

Roy looks up, but says nothing, and returns to his work.

No point in starting an argument he has no way of winning.

As Keeley got to work deciding where some of the wall pieces she bought should go, you rubbed a soothing hand over the swell of your stomach, happy to be in this moment. Roy looks at you, and smiles, soft and gentle, like the dad he was going to be, and send you a sly wink, before carrying on with what he was building.

Everything was going to be better than okay, everything was going to be great.

#roy kent #roy kent x pregnant!reader #roy kent x reader #roy kent imagine #roy kent fic #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent x you #roy kent x y/n #dad!roy kent #ted lasso

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unconventional-lawnchair · 8 months ago

Text

His Scrubs

Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: A dedicated nurse in Gotham starts caring for the injured vigilante Red Hood, leading to a complicated bond between them. As their relationship deepens, she grapples with her feelings and the chaos of his violent world.

CW: No use of Y/N, mentions of blood, death, violence, trauma, survivors guilt, readers going through it and Jason is not helping, gn!reader

Wc: 5941

Working as a nurse in Gotham was a unique kind of hell. Your mentor, Dr. Leslie Thompkins, used to tell you that there was a special place in heaven for those who dedicated themselves to caring for the broken and battered souls of Gotham. The city, with its towering skyscrapers and shadowy alleys, was a paradox of beauty and despair. As a nurse, you witnessed the aftermaths of violence you never thought possible, the toll of addiction that ran generations, and the consequences of a society teetering on the brink.

Each shift brought a new wave of patients, the stories of their lives etched into their weary faces. You had learned to compartmentalize the chaos. To save yourself from the heart break younger you would face every time you would get to go home.

The survivor’s guilt destroyed you, you'd come home to your safe warm apartment, the stark contrast between your life and the lives of those you treated weighed heavily on your conscience. You would sit in your cozy living room, a cup of tea warming your hands, while the images of trauma and suffering replayed in your mind like a never-ending loop. Each laugh from the children in your neighborhood felt like a reminder of the laughter you had fought so hard to save; the laughter of those who didn’t make it, who had succumbed to the darkness of Gotham’s streets.

It got so much worse when Red Hood emerged. You despised him.

Forgetting his more violent approach, he sent more and more souls to your halls then you could count. Not the sympathetic ones, not the ones you wanted to care for. The monsters, the villains, men and women you considered a blessing to never see. People who sent most of the souls you mourned right to you.

That bitter anger is what prompted your switch to the day shift. You wanted- no, needed to get away from it. The day shift had its fair share of horrors and the lack of freedom was draining, but it meant that most of your patients were people you wanted to help.

Though, it came with its own downsides. Your pay dropped, your hours were longer, and now, you had to walk home at night. Walking home through Gotham’s shadowy streets after a long shift was a gamble with fate. The city, saturated in darkness, felt alive with danger. Danger you knew intimately. Every alley seemed to have eyes you couldn't see, and every corner could hide a lurking threat. What's worse is you knew first hand what could happen.

Not that you had a choice. You had traded the chaos of the night shift for the uncertainty of twilight; it was a decision that filled you with dread as well as relief.

You clutched your bag tight against your side, the familiar weight of your stethoscope a reminder of your purpose, even as the fear prickled at the back of your mind. Not bothering to change at the hospital, not risking it getting any later. The streets were quieter now, but that only made the ambient sounds of the city, distant sirens, the scuffle of rats, the occasional shout, more pronounced. You quickened your pace, your heart pounding against your chest with every step.

You made it to your shitty apartments, walking through your grounds and avoiding your vile neighbors. The old lady who insisted she heard every small sound you made after 8pm, the horrid teenagers who would do anything for the cash in your bag, and that awful married man from down the hall who took any chance away from his wife to make you as uncomfortable as possible.

When you made it to your door, you were quick to enter and lock it behind you. All three latches you had installed as well. The second you walked in the cold night was shoved away, warmth and bright yellows painted the portrait of a cozy home. A life you had made.

Yet, the paranoia never left. As you walked over to the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching you. You leaned against the counter, the coolness of the granite grounding you as you took a deep breath. The familiar sounds of your modest apartment greeted your ears. It was all the same, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant murmurs of the city outside it was always a comfort, yet they also felt like a mask hiding the lurking dangers beyond your walls.

As you sipped your water, your eyes wandered to the living room. Your eyes lingered on your darkened window that was on the fire escape. Not your favorite thing, which is why you installed black out curtains. Staring at it longer, you noticed something that made your heart sink.

Your curtains were opened. Yet the window was still dark, hardly letting any light in. At first, your mind tricked you into believing that maybe, possibly, there were eyes in the darkness. Staring at you, waiting for you to just make one wrong move. But when your eyes processed what they were receiving, you were rushed with a very familiar panic. It was red.

Your windows were absolutely painted with blood.

Your own blood surged through you like ice water, freezing you in place. The sight of the deep red streaks contrasting against the dark glass made your heart race. You blinked once, twice, three times, willing your mind to process what you were seeing. Was it real? Had it come from outside, or was it a figment of your exhaustion-induced imagination? Your mind wandered to the worse. Was it from inside?

But the metallic scent that wafted in from the window confirmed your worst fears; the air was thick with the unmistakable odor of blood.

You willed yourself to walk over. A guilty form of relief heated your veins when you saw no evidence the blood had, at any point, entered your home.

Then came the problem, do you open the window? Or do you keep it closed? Do you check on whoever or what ever was hurt? Or do you look the other way? Part of you wanted to turn away. Call the police and leave it to them.

But fuck, the paid hero you were, you couldn't stop yourself.

The anticipation was killing you. So as your fingers brushed the lock on your window, you flinched away for just a moment.

Then, you pushed it open quickly. Getting it over with, hoping your bleeding heart wouldn't be the death of you.

You covered your nose with your sleeve, staring out of the still dripping window, avoiding the fresh blood. You narrowed your eyes into the darkness only for your eyes to lock with a pair of piercing white slits. They were glaring at the window the second it opened, and you were greeted with none other then the Red Hood.

You stared him down, lips tightened in a firm line. He was covered in blood, holding his side, leaning against the wall and panting. Even in his clear pain he took the time out of his day, so selflessly, to stare into your eyes with a death glare.

You were an idiot.

Red Hood. Vigilante, murderer, anti hero, a right monster, just stared at you.

You knew your old mentor, how she used to care for the bats on their worst days. You wondered, just for a moment, if that's why he was here. Holding his gaze in absolute silence.

“You're bleeding.” You huffed at him and his eye slits narrowed. As if to say ‘No shit. Fix it.’

The tension between you was palpable, a charged silence hanging in the air. You took a deep breath, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the familiar smell of your home, and it made your stomach churn. “What do you want?” You asked, trying to sound more assertive than you felt.

“I need help.” He scoffed, his voice slightly strained, but there was an urgency beneath it that you couldn’t ignore. “I can’t go to the hospital. Not like this.”

“Of course you can’t.” You snapped, bitterness lacing your words. “You’d probably scare half the staff into quitting.”

He winced and after just a second or two of staring at each other you stepped into your house. Leaving the window open for him to slip in. You assumed he took the hint, as your window was slammed shut behind you.

You were quick to grab your emergency kit from the bathroom. When you returned, he was laying back on your coffee table. He must have remembered that from being treated by Leslie before. He was dozing in and out, and as you finally approached him, you could see the blood pooling on the table and down to the floor beneath him, a stark reminder of the urgency of the situation.

“Stay awake.” You ordered, your voice firm as you knelt beside him. “I need you conscious if I’m going to help you.”

He grunted in response, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I’m trying.”

You could hear his teeth grinding and you simply didn't respond. “You're overheating.” You commented. “Take off your helmet.”

“Like hell.” He hissed and you scoffed, starting to work. Cutting through his suit without much complaint from him.

“You come to my house in the middle of the night and can't even follow simple instructions?” You hissed back. Like two cats locked, your voices could be mistaken as snarls to anyone listening in.

“Oh fuck off.” He snapped and let his head lull back, his eyes blurring. You snapped your fingers in front of his face as you took in his abdomen. Two gun shots.

“Unfortunately this is my damn apartment.” Your tone was sharper than you intended, but the urgency of the moment was drowning out any lingering resentment you felt toward him. “And I’m not about to let you bleed out on my coffee table. So either help me help you, or I’ll drag you to a hospital myself.”

He chuckled weakly, the sound gurgling in his throat, which only added to your frustration. “You know, you’re not very nurse like.”

“I'm off the clock.” You rolled your eyes as you began to clean the wound. “I’m about to throw you out if you don’t stop talking.”

He let out a labored breath, a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth- not that you can see it. But god could you hear it. “You’re just arguing with me to keep me awake, aren’t you?”

“... just keep your eyes open, Red Hood. You're not as charming as you think.” You shot back, concentrating on the task at hand. “Or maybe you'd like to take your chances with the hospital instead?”

“Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job, don't doubt yourself.” He snarked, his voice slightly slurred, fatigue creeping in despite your efforts. Still, in what could be his final moments, he found the audacity to be sarcastic with you.

You didn’t respond, focusing on cleaning the wound with swift, practiced motions. The sight of the jagged edges of the bullet wound made your stomach churn, but you pushed the nausea aside.

You had treated countless wounds like this before, but somehow, this felt different. The adrenaline coursing through you mixed with a sense of dread that you couldn’t shake. Every second mattered, and yet here he was- this man who brought chaos into your life- laying in your apartment, bleeding out while making quips like it was just another day.

“Just breathe.” You once again ordered, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your mind. “I need you to focus on that. In and out, nice and slow.”

He nodded slightly, the movement causing him to grimace. You could see the sweat glistening on his neck, and his breath came in labored gasps. You hurriedly worked to clean the wound and apply a dressing, but the sight of the blood made your heart race.

“Who did this to you?” You muttered absentmindedly, trying to keep the conversation going. It was a tactic you often used with patients to distract them from the pain.

“Just another night in Gotham.” His voice was strained but laced with that same dark humor. “You know how it is. Bad guys, good guys, everyone in between.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You snarked as you applied pressure to stop the bleeding. “You think you’re funny? Dying anti hero?”

“I have been told I am.” He smirked again, not that you could see it, his tone playful despite his condition. “But you’re the real hero here, yeah? Playing nurse to a monster like me.”

You paused for a moment, looking him dead in the eye-slits, swallowing thick. “You're not a monster. Not in my home.” You corrected, the sound of tearing elastics and the ripping of tape sounded out in your empty apartment, as you got the bandages. “You're my patient.”

He stopped speaking, and for a fleeting moment, the bravado he usually wore like armor slipped away. "Your patient.” He echoed, a hint of something almost vulnerable beneath the sarcasm. "Well, I guess that makes me lucky."

You shook your head, forcing yourself to remain focused on the task at hand. "You're not lucky, Red Hood. You're just in a lot of trouble, and I need you to stay with me while I help you."

He let out a low chuckle that quickly turned into a wince, the pain evident in his covered eyes. You had to admire the expressive mask, it kept you keen on his emotions. “You really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Special isn’t the word I’d use.” You mumbled, your fingers deftly applying more pressure before you began to wrap his torso and start on the next wound.

You both slipped into a comfortable silence. Eventually, you turned on the tv, and he seemed to actually be interested in whatever nonsense was playing. Some black and white movie, dramatic and sappy.

You spent the next few hours cleaning and inspecting each wound. You managed to get him to drink some of your juice, eat some plain crackers, and by the time you cleaned up after everything, he had disappeared from your couch where you had shifted him.

He had taken his ruined tattered uniform with him, but left a lovely gift in his potent blood that stained your table and floor boards. You weren't surprised he left, more annoyed he didn't even bother to thank you.

But what did you expect from the ‘monster’ that was Red Hood?

You sighed, running a hand through your hair as you surveyed the mess he’d left behind. Pushing away the ridiculous concept that your night had become. The stark contrast of the blood against your clean, modest apartment felt like a personal affront. You had spent so much time trying to create a safe haven for yourself, only for it to be tainted by the chaos of the man you tried to escape.

The silence of the apartment was deafening now. As you cleaned up the blood with a damp cloth, you couldn’t shake the feeling of anger mixed with concern. Why did you care? Why did you even help him? You should have just called the cops and let them deal with it. He was a wanted criminal.

But the truth was, despite everything he represented- the violence, the lawlessness, the depravity- you had seen a flicker of humanity in him. He wasn’t just a monster; he was a man shaped by the same city that had shaped you. You understood that all too well. Bitterly, you wondered what had gone so wrong for you to choose nurture and for him to choose violence.

“Ugh.” You muttered to yourself, tossing the bloodied cloth in the trash. “What am I doing?”

You sank onto the couch, the adrenaline from the night finally wearing off. Your body slid to the floor and you shook with leftover shock.

You leaned back against the couch, your mind racing. The events of the night played on a loop, each moment echoing in your thoughts. How did it come to this? You had always been the one to help, to heal, yet here you were, embroiled in the chaos of Gotham’s underbelly, caring for the very personification of its violence.

The weight of your emotions pressed down on you, suffocating in its intensity. Frustration, anger, and an inexplicable concern for the man who had just bled all over your coffee table. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart.

“Get it together.” You whispered. You could almost hear Dr. Leslie, reminding you that everyone deserved to be saved. To be safe. No questions asked.

Well, you did two out of the three.

~~~

It became a routine, much to your dismay.

He came back days later, hurt again. You tended to him and you soon learned that you had rewarded bad behavior. Reinforcing this idea that you were some ally to him.

You reminded him of Dr. Leslie, that she was still available and willing to help, that she made a life of her golden heart. You did not.

Yet, the meetings became frequent. You began to leave your window unlatched, something he scolded you for. He was suddenly incredibly comfortable with raising his voice with you. That wasn't all.

Also comfortable with eating your dinner, watching your tv, demanding sympathy like a child. All under the idea that you were his nurse.

Most of your nights now entailed you cooking more than normal, to feed the behemoth of a man. He'd sneak in through your window and latch it locked. Or on your ruined coffee table and you would tend to him, feed him, and he would linger longer every time.

When he wasn't draining your supplies and food, he was watching you on your walked to and from work, making a routine of ensuring you made it home safely.

You hated to admit it. He was growing on you.

But every time he slipped through your window, each time he left behind traces of blood and chaos, a part of you felt like it was being chipped away. You had wanted to create a sanctuary, a respite from the horrors you witnessed at the hospital. Instead, you were becoming a refuge for the very chaos you tried to escape.

The first few nights after his first visit were filled with uncertainty. You found it hard to sleep, the memories of his bloodied form etched into your mind. You would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the sounds of his labored breathing and the sharpness of his pain. You had saved him, but at what cost? Each time he returned, you felt the line blur between patient and something else.

Days turned into weeks, and with each passing encounter, the boundaries you had desperately tried to maintain began to crumble under his comfortable behavior. You found yourself looking forward to his visits, despite the chaos they brought. Of course, you would never wish harm upon him. The initial anger at his reckless behavior transformed into concern, and then, surprisingly, a reluctant fondness.

He was breaking you down so perfectly. You knew he knew what he was doing too.

The nights he showed up were a mix of tension and reluctant familiarity. Sometimes he would come in badly injured, and you would patch him up, your hands moving with practiced efficiency, your heart pounding in your chest. Other times, he would arrive with only minor scrapes, a smirk in his voice, teasing you about your nursing skills or the state of your apartment.

“Rather cozy and plush for a nurse in this city.” He teased, leaning back into your pillow covered couch and groaned a bit as you continued to reset his middle finger.

“If you keep coming to me with these injuries you can fix yourself, I might just start locking my window again.” You huffed and he scoffed.

“Good.” He grumbled, taking his hand and rubbing his wrist. “Lots of freaks out there.”

“That's why I have you.” You scoffed and stood up, his eyes following you as he watched you go to the kitchen and grab a water bottle. He never took off his mask, he was glad for that now, he was positive his pupils were twice their normal size.

He liked it. That you took comfort in him. That he was your safety.

Because it was around that time that he admitted to himself that you were his safety too.

It was a strange and unexpected partnership that had formed between you two. Each encounter layered new complexity onto the already tangled web of your lives. You were both broken souls in a city that thrived on chaos, drawn together by circumstances neither of you could control.

As the weeks passed, you found yourself caught in a delicate dance. You would joke, bicker, and even share the occasional comfortable silence while watching old movies or eating meals together. He would often tease you about your habits, the way you meticulously organized your medical supplies, or how you always had to have the TV on for background noise. Just how human you seemed for a, as he called it, hero of the day.

You would ask him if that made him the hero of the night, but he didn't seem too keen on it.

“You know, it’s okay to have a little chaos in your life.” He would say, flashing you that infuriating smirk, his mask curled up to the bottom of his nose so he could enjoy the meal you made, that somehow managed to make your heart race. Trying not to think too hard about how sharp his teeth were. You wondered if he filed them. No way in hell they were natural. “You’re in Gotham, after all.”

“Not every part of Gotham has to be chaotic, Red Hood.” You would sigh, your hands on your hips, trying to maintain your authority. But even as you said it, you felt a warmth spread through you. You were beginning to appreciate the lightness he brought into your otherwise heavy existence.

Then came the day when he showed up with a gift- a half-eaten pizza, the grease soaking through the cardboard box. He had barged in through your window, an air of triumph surrounding him.

“I figured you could use a little junk food after all the healthy food you've been feeding me.” He chuckled, plopping it down on your coffee table, now permanently stained from his previous visits.

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head. At least you didn't have to dirty your hands tonight. “You think a pizza is going to make up for all the blood you’ve left on this table?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye slits. “It’s a start.”

And just like that, the boundaries you had set began to dissolve even further. You found yourself laughing more, enjoying the absurdity of the situation. You were a nurse tending to a vigilante in the heart of Gotham, and yet, with each shared moment, it felt strangely normal.

But the thought nagged at you; was this a good idea? You were still aware of the risks, the danger that came with his lifestyle. The chaos, the violence, the unending cycle of pain. You had seen it all too clearly in your line of work. But somehow, amidst the chaos he brought, you also found a strange sort of peace.

Yet you still let him in, you still fed him, you still spent time you should of spent sleeping, watching tv until you fell asleep. You hadn't realized how domestic his visits had become. Until he was on your couch, face down, shirt off, while you straddled his back.

You ran your palms along his shoulders, having forgotten which one of his many teasing comments had led to this. He was sweaty, his back rippled with red, and he was trying to pretend he wasn't aching. He groaned, low, into the couch as you continued to work your thumbs through the insane amount of knots.

You could truly appreciate how much bigger he was then you like this. Your hands barely fit over the small of his back, even as you pressed your wrists together and pushed down. You pressed deeper, feeling the tension in his muscles beneath your palms. It was a strange position to be in. Straddling both him and the line between caregiver and something that you both have been avoiding since this began. You could feel the heat radiating from him, the way he clenched his fists into the fabric of the couch as you worked. Breathing heavy and the hair on the back of his neck prickling.

“Is this how you treat all your patients?” His voice was muffled but laced with that familiar teasing tone.

“Only you, unfortunately.” A playful smirk tugged at your lips. Able to tell just how much he was struggling to take a full breath from under his mask.

He shifted slightly beneath you, the movement sending a spark through your body. “What a lucky guy I am.” He mumbled, though there was an edge to his voice, a mix of teasing and the strain of pain that lingered in his tone. “You should charge for this kind of therapy.”

“Therapy? Is that what you think this is?” You quipped back, trying to keep the atmosphere light. The truth was, you were painfully aware of how intimate this was. He lifted his hips to shift himself on your couch, lifting you up with him like you were nothing. You don't want to think about how different this would be if he was on his back instead.

You caught your breath, the sudden shift in his weight causing your heart to race. The closeness was distracting, his warmth radiating against your skin, and you fought against the urge to lean into him. The tension between you was disorienting, and for a moment, the world outside faded away. It was just the two of you, caught in this strange and fragile place where boundaries blurred.

“Yeah, therapy.” His tone was lighter now, but there was a seriousness buried beneath it. “You know, you could probably make a killing with all the heroes and villains in this town. Just think about it: Gotham’s very own nurse, providing ‘aftercare’ for the weary souls.”

“Or you know, I could just run for the hills and pretend I never met you.” You shot back, trying to deflect the weight of the moment.

He chuckled softly, the sound rumbling in his chest. “That's alright… you can keep this just for me.”

“Just for you? You would be so special.” You scoffed and tried to ignore how your body seemed to respond positively to his more possessive tone.

His eyes, hidden behind the mask, seemed to glimmer with amusement, and you could almost hear the crude smirk in his voice as he replied, “Oh, I’m definitely special. You’d be surprised how many people want my ‘aftercare’...”

“Fuck off.” You huffed before you began to apply more pressure, making him groan louder into the pillows. You slowly pressed your thumbs against his back dimples, hearing another low groan reverberate in his helmet.

“You know, you can take that off.” You huffed and he seemed to stiffen all the knots you worked so hard to untangle. “Hey-”

“I'm fine.” He huffed and slowly relaxed under your fingers again.

You could feel the tension radiating off him, a mix of bravado and vulnerability, and it made your heart race. “You’re clearly not fine.” You muttered, your voice softer now, a hint of concern creeping into your tone. “You’re hurt, and I’m not about to let you pretend otherwise while I’m trying to help you.”

He shifted again, this time with a hint of irritation. “I'm not-”

“I don't have to see.”

“What?” He whispered, a bit bewildered. You climbed off of his back and pretended you didn't hear what you could almost distinguish as a whine leaving him. You could feel his eyes on you as you picked up one of your larger silk clothes. You turned to him and walked over, he sat up, staring up at you as you stood before him.

“It's only fair. You won't relax like that.” You mumbled and lifted it to your face. With a bit of a struggle, you managed to tie the cloth around your eyes. Suddenly plunged into darkness, instinctively reaching out to grab his forearms. “See? Can't see a thing.”

He scoffed, but wasn't able to help how he admired your more oblivious state. He was used to your shameless challenges, your demanded presence, your snarky comments. But now? You were perfectly content and calm. Even your tone shifted the second you did it.

You were being weak with him.

It didn't help that everything he wanted to say was caught in his throat. Your lips parted ever so slightly, he could just see the top of your teeth peaking through your lips. You looked absolutely exposed and he had to do his best to shove away the more unkind thoughts he had.

Still, the room was thick with tension. Eventually, he lifted his hand, holding up a few fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

You scoffed with a laugh, looking to the side a bit and moving your hands to run over his large bicep, down to his forearm, up to his hand. And your fingers ghosted over his own. Smirking to yourself at your win. “Three.”

“Fucking hell.” He whispered your name, soft, careful, before he moved his arms. You were curious at first, until you heard the soft clicks of something metallic, and something falling to the floor. “You'll be the death of me, yeah?” He muttered and a shock ran down your spine.

That was new. It was the first time you've ever heard his voice. His actual voice. You ran your hands up his chest and slowly up his neck. Your fingertips ghosting over his jaw line and neck, making him release a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

“Hood?” You whispered, and he let out a shaky groan, as your thumb traveled up his chin to his jaw, discovering a few scars. What was getting to you the most, was his breath. It fanned over your face, you hadn't even noticed how much you had leaned into him.

Cigarettes and strawberry candies. That made you smile. You never in a million years would of guessed he liked strawberry sweets, but you'd commit that to memory.

The intimacy of the moment was overwhelming, and you found yourself lost in the cadence of his breath, the way it mingled with your own as you traced the contours of his face. The softness of his skin contrasted sharply with the violent persona he projected to the world, and it made your heart ache with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. Who was he?

“Why are you really here?” You whispered softly, your voice barely breaking the silence that enveloped you both.

His breath hitched slightly at your words, and for a heartbeat, you could feel the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging in the air. Before he could second guess it, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft. Softer than you'd ever thought he'd be. You guessed it made sense, he had always been tough, firm, and harsh with everyone. Not with you. Not with you in a long time.

The kiss was unexpected, yet it felt like a long-awaited surge of electricity between you. You squeaked and that made him deepened it. Time seemed to pause, the chaos of everything outside your walls faded into the background as you melted into the moment. Red Hood’s lips were warm against yours, and you could feel the tension in his body, a mix of pain and uncertainty- a need that mirrored your own.

You pulled back slightly, your heart racing as you furrowed your brow, as if you were trying to study the face you couldn't see. “What was that?” You asked, your voice trembling just a little.

He hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if weighing his words. “A mistake?” He offered, but the way he said it was more self-deprecating then teasing. He was nervous. He was offering you an out.

Like hell you'd let him get away with that.

“Not the way I’d describe it.” You whispered, giving a gasp when he reached for your hips and you were reminded how big he was. His hands made you feel pathetically small, as he pulled you between his legs. You tightened your lips in a thin line, still not able to see a thing.

“Yeah?” He prodded and you nodded, taking a deep breath. Leaning closer. “What is it then?” He asked softly.

“I don't know.” You whispered. “I may need another kiss. Just to be sure, you know?”

He gave a laugh at that, one that shook your entire body. He took your lips again and his hands raised up to your waist, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. It was intoxicating, sending a wave of warmth through you that made you forget everything else- the dangers of Gotham, the blood on the hands he held you with, the weight of your responsibilities. In that moment, it was just the two of you, lost in the warmth of each other’s presence.

You melted against him, your body responding instinctively to his touch. You could feel the tension in his muscles, but also a gentleness beneath his bravado that took you by surprise. It was as if he was allowing himself to be vulnerable, if only for a moment.

He lifted your waist up until you were straddling him again, leaning back into the couch and pulling you with him. Not an inch of space between you.

When you finally pulled away, both of you panting slightly, you could see the hesitation in his eyes, even through the mask. “So… that wasn’t a mistake?” He asked, his voice low and hesitant.

You shook your head, your heart racing. “No, it wasn’t.”

He studied you for a moment, and you were trying to catch your breath. His hands slipped up from your waist to behind your head. Suddenly, you felt the blindfold fall.

You quickly reached up, managing to catch it under one of your eyes, closing both of them tight. He gave a weak laugh and cooed at you. “Open them. Please, Scrubs.”

You were shocked by his words, but obeyed them easily. Slowly you opened your eyes and looked at him. Taking in his features, a bit breathless.

“Hood?” You croaked out and he took his own uneven breath.

“Just.. call me Jason.”

Your heart raced at the sound of his real name, feeling like a revelation that changed everything. “Jason.” You whispered, testing the name on your tongue, savoring the intimacy of it. It felt like a key unlocking a door to a part of him that was hidden beneath the mask, a glimpse of the man behind the vigilante.

He seemed to relax at your acceptance, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. “Yeah, just Jason.” He said, his voice low and gravelly, yet there was a softness in it that made you feel safer then ever before.

“Jason Todd.”

You were the first one he ever confessed his true identity to.

#jason todd x you #jason x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood x gender neutral reader

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