#Social Network Script | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

favefandomimagines · 5 months ago

Text

Now That We Don’t Talk (j.b)

Summary: now that we don’t talk…

AN: this is a long one boys and girls and nonbinary friends

Alternate Ending

The cameras loved them.

They were the kind of couple that seemed plucked straight out of a Hollywood script—Joe Burrow, the golden boy of the NFL, and Y/N, a star who shined just as brightly in her own field. Every magazine, every sports network, every gossip blog had something to say about them. America’s sweethearts, they were called. The kind of couple that made headlines for simply existing.

But what the world saw—the perfectly timed red carpet appearances, the viral social media moments, the dazzling courtside dates—was only a fraction of what their relationship really was.

It all started at a charity gala in Los Angeles.

Joe wasn’t the type to be impressed by fame. He wasn’t the guy who got starstruck, wasn’t the one to fawn over celebrities just because they were on the big screen. Football was his life—his focus. His teammates had to practically drag him to the event, insisting that it would be good PR.

Y/N, on the other hand, had been born for nights like this.

She thrived in the glitz and glam, the cameras, the flashing lights. It wasn’t that she was shallow—far from it. But she understood the game. She knew how to command a room, how to make people laugh, how to charm even the most cynical of hearts.

And that included Joe Burrow.

She noticed him before he noticed her. He was leaning against the bar, dressed in a sleek black tux, perfectly put together but somehow completely unaware of just how good he looked. His jaw was sharp, his lips pressed into a small, amused smirk as he listened to one of his teammates ramble about something.

Y/N was intrigued.

Not because he was Joe Burrow, the star quarterback. But because he was the only person in the room who didn’t seem desperate to be seen.

So, naturally, she made it her mission to change that.

"You're either really mysterious or really bored," she said as she slid up next to him at the bar, her voice laced with playful curiosity.

Joe turned his head, startled for a split second, before a small smirk tugged at his lips. He knew who she was, of course. It was impossible not to. She was everywhere—movies, music, magazine covers. She was the kind of famous that made people feel like they knew her, even if they didn’t.

"I'm neither," he said smoothly, taking a sip of his drink. "But that was an interesting introduction."

Y/N grinned, twirling the straw in her cocktail. "Well, you looked like you needed rescuing."

"From what?"

"From the serious case of ‘I don't belong here’ that’s written all over your face."

Joe let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You caught me."

It was easy after that.

Too easy.

They talked like they had known each other forever, like they had been waiting for this moment. It didn’t matter that their worlds were different—his ruled by playbooks and stadium lights, hers by movie scripts and flashing cameras. For that night, none of it mattered.

By the time the gala was over, Joe had Y/N’s number saved in his phone under a simple “Trouble”—a joke, but also a warning to himself. Because something about her felt dangerous in the best way.

From that night on, they were inseparable.

At first, they tried to be discreet. It wasn’t about hiding—it was about protecting something before the world could ruin it. They wanted to figure out what they were before the headlines did.

But it didn’t take long for the world to catch on.

The first time they were seen together was at a Bengals game in Cincinnati. Y/N had shown up in the stands, wearing his jersey, sitting beside his mom, cheering like she had been a fan forever. The cameras caught her—how could they not? The biggest pop star in the world was at an NFL game, losing her mind every time Joe completed a pass.

The internet went into a frenzy.

That night, Joe texted her: You made my mom’s entire year, you know that?

Y/N: Good. She’s my favorite Burrow.

It was effortless between them.

Joe loved how she made him laugh, how she pushed him out of his comfort zone without ever making him feel like he had to change. Y/N loved how steady he was, how he never let the fame get to his head, how he made her feel safe in a way she never had before.

They traveled the world together. Italy in the summer, where they drank wine on balconies and got caught by paparazzi on a yacht. The south of France in the offseason, where Joe learned (very poorly) how to dance on a rooftop with her.

And through it all, they loved each other fiercely.

There were things the cameras never saw.

Like the time Joe showed up at one of her concerts in disguise.

He wasn’t one for big public displays, but he wanted to see her perform without the pressure of being Joe Burrow in the front row. So he threw on a hoodie, a baseball cap, and sunglasses, and stood in the VIP section like a regular fan.

Y/N spotted him from the stage instantly.

The next morning, there was a viral video of her grinning mid-song and blowing a kiss toward the crowd. The internet went wild trying to figure out who she had been looking at.

Joe texted her after: That was for me, right?

Y/N: Nope. Definitely the guy next to you in the Bengals hat.

Joe: Liar.

Or the time she surprised him after a game, waiting in the locker room tunnel when he least expected it.

He had played a rough game—bruises forming beneath his jersey, exhaustion heavy in his bones. But then he saw her standing there, arms wide open, eyes shining with something softer than the spotlight.

“You did amazing,” she whispered against his shoulder.

And just like that, the rest of the world faded away.

For a while, it was perfect.

But even the most golden of couples have their breaking points.

As Joe’s season intensified, Y/N’s career soared higher than ever. There was always something—a game he had to focus on, a movie she had to fly out for. Their time together shrank, their conversations turned into quick check-ins rather than deep talks.

The missed calls, the exhaustion, the unspoken hurt—it started building.

There were nights Y/N fell asleep alone, staring at the empty space beside her, wondering if this was what love was supposed to feel like.

There were nights Joe sat in his locker, scrolling through social media, seeing Y/N at events he should have been at but couldn't because football always came first.

They were still in love.

But love wasn’t enough.

And for the first time, they both started to wonder—

What happens when you realize the person you love the most... is the one you’re slowly losing?

At first, the differences between them were exciting.

Joe was all about structure—early mornings, strict schedules, a life ruled by game plans and discipline. Y/N was the opposite. She thrived in the unpredictability of her world. Late-night studio sessions, spontaneous flights to Paris, impromptu performances under neon lights.

They were yin and yang.

And for a while, it worked.

Joe loved how she brought color into his life, how she could make even the most ordinary moments feel cinematic. Y/N loved how grounded he was, how he kept her sane in the madness of fame.

But what once felt like balance slowly became friction.

It started small—missed phone calls, text messages left on read, a growing list of "Sorry, I can't make it" and "Wish you were here."

They promised it would be temporary.

"We just have to get through the season."

"We just have to get through filming."

"We’ll make time soon, I swear."

But time never came.

Y/N’s career was exploding—new projects, new opportunities, a world waiting for her. She was everywhere. Award shows, red carpets, magazine covers. When Joe turned on the TV, she was smiling in interviews, dazzling the world like only she could.

But she was never with him.

And he was never with her.

The first time it really hurt was the premiere of her new movie.

It was supposed to be a huge night—her first leading role, a moment she had worked for since she was a teenager.

Joe had promised he would be there.

But the night before, his coach called an emergency meeting. A must-win game was coming up, and the team needed to focus.

Y/N, I’m so sorry. I have to stay for practice.

Yeah. I figured.

Soon, I promise.

But soon never happened.

That night, she walked the red carpet alone. Smiled for the cameras. Gave interviews. Pretended she wasn’t aching inside.

And when she got back to her hotel, she turned on her phone to see Joe’s Instagram story—

A picture of him at the Bengals facility, throwing passes under the stadium lights.

She stared at it for a long time.

Then she put her phone face down and went to sleep.

The next big fight came after one of Joe’s biggest games.

It was an away game against Kansas City, a prime-time Sunday Night Football matchup. The kind of game that everyone was watching. Joe had played phenomenally—four touchdowns, a game-winning drive in the fourth quarter. The kind of performance that cements a quarterback’s legacy.

Y/N wasn’t there.

She wanted to be. She had planned to be. But a last-minute industry event pulled her away.

Joe called her after the game, still buzzing with adrenaline.

“I saw the highlights!” she said, her voice bright but distant. “You were incredible.”

He exhaled. He wanted her there.

“It would’ve been nice to see you in the stands.”

Y/N bit her lip. “I know. I tried, Joe, I really did. But—”

“There’s always a ‘but.’”

Silence.

The kind of silence that held too much weight, too much unsaid emotion.

Y/N sighed. “What do you want me to say? You miss things too, you know.”

“I know,” Joe said quietly. “And I hate it.”

The next day, there were headlines: Joe Burrow celebrates huge win, girlfriend nowhere to be found.

She tried not to let it sting.

She tried not to notice that he didn’t text her goodnight.

It was after an argument—one of those quiet, devastating fights that lingered even after the words stopped.

Y/N had left for an event, and Joe had stayed home.

He sat on the couch, flipping through channels, half-watching some meaningless TV show, when his phone buzzed.

A text from a teammate.

"Damn, your girl is everywhere tonight."

Joe frowned, opening Twitter.

And there she was.

Standing next to some famous actor, both of them smiling under the bright lights. Her hand rested on his arm. It was nothing. But at the wrong angle, the wrong moment, it looked like everything.

The next morning, when she came home, she found him sitting at the kitchen counter, staring at his coffee like it held all the answers.

He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“Are you happy?”

Y/N stilled, setting her purse down. “What?”

Joe exhaled, finally meeting her gaze.

“Are you happy?” he repeated. “With me. With...this.”

Her stomach twisted.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was—she didn’t know.

And Joe? He could see it in her eyes.

Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but in that moment, they both knew—

The love was still there.

But the timing? The world they lived in?

That night, Y/N climbed into bed beside him, curling into his warmth like she always did.

Joe wrapped an arm around her out of instinct, but something had shifted.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them said, "We'll fix this."

Because for the first time, they weren’t sure if they could.

They just laid there in the dark, both pretending they didn’t feel the weight of what was coming next.

And for the first time in their relationship, the silence wasn’t comfortable.

It was the sound of something breaking.

It happened in the offseason.

They had both known it was coming for weeks, maybe even months. The missed calls. The late replies. The exhaustion in their voices when they did talk. Everything that once felt effortless had turned into something they had to work for. And while love was always worth fighting for, neither of them could deny that they were fighting more than they were loving.

But even with all the signs, knowing doesn’t make it easier.

It was supposed to be a night to fix things. Joe had just come back from a much-needed vacation, and Y/N had cleared her schedule for the weekend. They agreed on dinner at a quiet restaurant, away from the flashing lights, away from the outside world.

But from the moment they sat down, the air felt different.

Joe tapped his fingers on the table, his mind somewhere else. Y/N stirred her drink absentmindedly, barely touching her food.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.

This wasn’t them.

Y/N sighed, placing her fork down. “Joe…”

He looked up, his blue eyes tired in a way they never used to be.

“We can’t keep doing this,” she whispered.

His jaw tensed, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. He had known this was coming. He had felt it deep in his bones for weeks, but that didn’t mean he was ready to hear it.

“We’re just… not the same anymore,” she continued, her voice careful. “I feel like we’re always missing each other, even when we’re in the same room.”

Joe exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “So that’s it? You’re just giving up?”

Y/N’s throat tightened. She didn’t want to give up. She wanted to hold onto him, to tell him that they could fix this if they just tried a little harder. But how long could you keep holding onto something that was already slipping through your fingers?

“I don’t want to walk away,” she admitted, tears burning behind her eyes. “But Joe… when was the last time we were really happy?”

Joe swallowed hard, looking away. That question shouldn’t have been so hard to answer.

Y/N reached for his hand across the table, squeezing it gently. The way she always had. But this time, he didn’t squeeze back.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His eyes flickered to hers, something raw and unspoken flashing behind them. He loved her, too. He always would. But love wasn’t enough.

He let out a long breath, nodding slowly.

“I love you, too,” he said. And just like that, it was over.

They didn’t make a scene.

They left the restaurant separately—Joe through the side door, Y/N through the front. The paparazzi were waiting, cameras flashing as they shouted questions she didn’t have the energy to answer.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Joe.

She swallowed, pulling it out to see the text.

Get home safe.

She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry.

Y/N: You too.

She wanted to say more.

Wanted to tell him that she didn’t regret a second of it. That she would always root for him. That he would always be her favorite story, even if they didn’t get a happy ending.

But instead, she tucked her phone away and got into the car, leaving behind the only person who ever made her feel like home.

Joe didn’t go straight home.

He drove around the city for hours, his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

His phone buzzed again. A text from Ja’Marr..

“You good?”

He stared at it for a long time before finally typing back:

“No.”

That night, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every part of him ached—but not in the way it did after a brutal game. This was different. This was the kind of pain that sat in your chest and refused to leave.

For the first time in his life, he had lost something he couldn’t win back.

Y/N didn’t sleep that night.

She sat on her couch in a hoodie that still smelled like Joe, knees pulled to her chest, phone clutched in her hand.

She kept expecting a call. A text. Something.

But it never came.

And she didn’t reach out either.

Because deep down, they both knew—there was nothing left to say.

The worst part wasn’t the breakup itself.

It was everything that came after.

It was waking up and realizing there were no more good morning texts waiting on her phone. It was scrolling through Instagram and seeing a picture of Joe at practice, looking focused, looking fine—like she hadn’t just walked away from him.

It was reaching for her phone after a bad day, only to remember that he wasn’t hers to call anymore.

For Joe, it was even worse.

Football had always been his escape. The one thing that never let him down. But even in the middle of practice, between drills and film sessions, his mind would drift to her.

He’d hear a song playing in the locker room—one of hers—and his stomach would tighten.

He’d catch himself reaching for his phone, tempted to text her, only to stop at the last second.

He’d drive past a place they used to go, and suddenly, it felt like he couldn’t breathe.

Love doesn’t just disappear overnight.

It lingers.

It haunts you.

And no matter how much they tried to move on, there were still nights when they both lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if they had made the biggest mistake of their lives.

But they never reached out.

Because they both knew—

It would hurt too much to talk.

Joe didn’t think about her.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

Training camp started, and he threw himself into football harder than ever. Early mornings, late nights, extra drills—anything to keep his mind busy. The media praised his focus. Locked in. Unshakable. Ready for the season of his life.

What they didn’t see was the way his thumb hovered over her contact some nights.

Or how he still wore the bracelet she gave him—a simple leather band, hidden beneath his wrist tape.

Or how, when the team played in Los Angeles, he caught himself looking for her in the crowd, even though he knew she wouldn’t be there.

Y/N, on the other hand, convinced herself she was free.

She threw herself into work, into new projects. New music, new opportunities, new people. She let herself be photographed at industry events, wearing the kind of radiant, effortless smiles that made it look like she had never been in love with Joe Burrow.

But behind closed doors?

She still hesitated before playing his highlights when ESPN aired them.

She still wore his oversized hoodie when she was home alone.

And sometimes, when the world was quiet, she’d catch herself thinking about calling him. Just to hear his voice. Just to see if he was okay.

But they didn’t talk.

Not when she was nominated for a Golden Globe.

Not when Joe led the Bengals to another playoff win.

Not when they were in the same city, just blocks apart, but worlds away.

It happened at a charity gala in New York.

Y/N hadn’t planned on going, but her team convinced her. A good PR move. A chance to show the world she had moved on.

She had spent the night mingling, smiling, doing what she did best—commanding the room.

And then, she felt it. A shift in the air. Like someone was watching her.

She turned her head, and there he was.

Joe Burrow, across the room, standing near the bar, his hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey.

Her breath caught in her throat. He looked… different. The same, but different.

The suit was sharp, the same cool, composed expression on his face. But there was something in his eyes—something softer.

For a moment, it was like time folded in on itself.

Every late-night conversation. Every whispered “I love you.” Every fight, every apology, every moment that had made them them.

Joe’s grip on his glass tightened.

Their eyes met, held. And then—just like that—he looked away.

He turned, said something to the person beside him, took a sip of his drink.

Like she wasn’t even there. Y/N felt something crack inside her chest.

She knew this was how it was supposed to be.

They weren’t together anymore.

They didn’t owe each other anything.

But wasn’t it strange?

That after everything, they were just two people in the same room, pretending they had never been anything more?

She didn’t look at him again for the rest of the night.

And when she got home, she locked herself in her hotel bathroom and cried for the first time in months.

The headlines started soon after.

Joe Burrow Spotted in NYC, No Y/N in Sight—Are They Finally Moving On?

Y/N Looking Radiant at Charity Event Amidst Split From Joe Burrow.

Has Joe Found a New Leading Lady? NFL Star Seen with Mystery Woman.

Y/N didn’t click on the articles.

She didn’t let herself wonder if Joe had really moved on.

She focused on her work.

She poured herself into writing new music.

And for the first time in months, she felt something close to herself again.

Until one night, when she found herself sitting at her piano, fingers hovering over the keys, a melody forming before she even realized what it was.

The words spilled out before she could stop them.

“…Did you get anxious though, On the way home?, I guess I'll never, ever know, Now that we don't talk.”

“You grew your hair long, you got new icons… and from the outside, it looks like you’re trying lives on.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to cry.

Even when they weren’t speaking, Joe was still in everything.

Joe saw the song before he heard it.

He was sitting in the Bengals’ film room, scrolling through his phone during a break when he saw the trending topic.

Y/N Y/L/N Shocks With New Song: Is It About Joe Burrow?

His stomach tightened.

He should have ignored it.

But instead, he put his AirPods in and hit play.

The first notes hit, soft and aching, and suddenly, he wasn’t in the locker room anymore.

He was back in the car with her, driving down the coast with the windows down.

He was in their hotel room in Italy, tracing circles on her skin while she hummed the melody to a song she hadn’t written yet.

He was on the phone with her at 2 AM, whispering ‘I love you’ before hanging up.

And then he heard the lyrics.

You grew your hair long.

You got new icons.

And from the outside, it looks like you’re trying lives on.

Joe exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face.

It was about him.

It was always about him.

And wasn’t that the cruelest part?

That even after all this time, after all the nights they had spent apart, after all the silence—

They were still haunting each other.

Joe hadn’t been looking for it.

He had just finished practice, his body sore, his mind exhausted. The locker room was buzzing with post-practice energy—teammates joking around, music blasting from someone’s speaker. He pulled his phone out, scrolling through notifications absentmindedly, until—

There it was.

A headline from E! News, pushed to his phone by an algorithm that clearly didn’t give a damn about how much he didn’t want to see this.

"Y/N Goes Public with New Romance: A Red Carpet Debut with Superman Star David Corenswet!"

Joe froze, his thumb hovering over the screen.

He shouldn’t open it.

He should swipe it away, pretend he never saw it.

But his hands had a mind of their own.

The article loaded, the first thing he saw was a photo.

A picture of her.

Y/N, sitting in the back of a sleek black car, wearing a stunning gown that looked like it had been made just for her. Her hair was styled perfectly, her makeup soft but radiant. She looked beautiful. Effortless. Happy.

And beside her—him.

David Corenswet. The new Superman. A literal superhero.

He was leaned in close, whispering something in Y/N’s ear. And Y/N?

She was smiling.

Not just any smile. That smile. The kind Joe hadn’t seen in what felt like forever. The kind that lit up a room. The kind that used to be reserved for him.

Joe’s grip on his phone tightened.

A sharp pang shot through his chest, something bitter settling in the back of his throat.

Y/N and the actor had revealed their relationship on the red carpet of her new movie.

A premiere. Something Joe had never gotten to do with her.

Because of football.

Because he was always too busy.

Because he never made the time.

And now? This man was there. Supporting her. Walking beside her with his hand on her waist, proudly standing by her side, looking at her like she was the most important thing in the world.

Like she deserved. Joe never gave her that.

He had been too caught up in his world, too focused on his career, always thinking there would be time later.

But later never came.

Because he had lost her.

And now, she had moved on. She had forgotten him.

Joe felt something tighten in his chest, a slow, suffocating kind of realization creeping in.

She’s happy without me.

The words echoed in his head, loud and unforgiving.

The article went on about how they had been spotted together for weeks, how David had been at the premiere, supporting Y/N like a real partner should. It even mentioned how the two of them looked completely in love.

Joe couldn’t read anymore.

He turned his phone over, resting his elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor of the locker room.

Around him, the noise of his teammates laughing, talking, living their lives carried on. Like nothing had just shattered inside of him.

“Yo, Burrow, you good?”

Joe blinked up at Ja’Marr, who was standing in front of him, helmet in hand, brows raised.

Joe forced a shrug, masking it. Because what was he supposed to say?

"No, actually. My ex, the love of my life, just soft-launched her new relationship with Superman, and I think I might be having a breakdown."

So instead, he exhaled, shaking his head. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Ja’Marr smirked. “Man, get some sleep. You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Joe let out a humorless chuckle.

Ghosts were easier to deal with. This?

This was watching the person he once thought he’d spend forever with, moving on as if he never existed.

And the worst part? She deserved it.

She deserved someone who would show up for her. Someone who wouldn’t make excuses. Someone who could love her out loud, the way he never could.

Still, the realization left a sour taste in his mouth.

Because no matter how much she had moved on—Joe hadn’t.

And now? He wasn’t sure if he ever would.

#imagine #imagines #joe burrow x you #joe burrow x y/n #joe burrow bengals #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow

670 notes · View notes

lifeisbutadream444 · 4 months ago

Text

Playing Games - Part 2

Aaron Pierre x Reader

Summary: After finally committing to a monogamous relationship, distance, fame, and the ever-watchful public eye put cracks in the foundation of what was once unshakable trust.

Warnings: toxic af, smut, angst

Aaron is in New York. You are in L.A. And for the first time since taking the leap into a monogamous relationship, you’re waking up alone.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That this is normal. That this is what happens when you date someone just as deep in the industry as you are. There will be press tours, there will be events, there will be distance. You both knew that. You both prepared for it.

But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Especially when your phone screen is flooded with images of him with her.

The first time you see it, you’re on set, tucked into your trailer between scenes. It’s innocent enough at first—a random post on Twitter with a grainy shot from a gala, Aaron seated next to her. You scroll down, trying not to care, but then the clearer pictures appear.

She’s whispering in his ear. He’s laughing. Their heads are close together, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Then, worse��posed photos. Beautiful, perfectly lit shots of them standing together, her hand resting lightly on his chest, his arm grazing her back. And then the Instagram post:

A night well spent with the one and only @AaronPierreOfficial. More to come.

More to come!?

Your stomach twists as you stare at the post, your thumb hovering over the screen. Your first instinct is to check his account—to see if he’s posted her too, to see if there’s anything, any indication that this is just PR, just networking, just a fucking coincidence.

Instead, you see something worse.

They’re following each other now.

You lock your phone and throw it across the trailer like if it burned you.

——————

For the next few days, you do everything in your power to ignore it. You tell yourself not to be that girl, the insecure one who starts a fight over social media when you know—deep down—you have nothing to worry about. Aaron has been nothing but perfect during his time in New York. Loyal. Devoted. He calls you when he can, always with a tired but eager voice, always telling you how much he misses you. He’s never out longer than he needs to be, only focused on work.

But he doesn’t mention her.

And then, a few nights later, it happens again.

Another event. Another flood of pictures. Another Instagram post—this time a carousel of professionally shot photos of them at a fashion show, laughing, posing, her head tilted toward him in a way that makes your blood boil.

This time, you don’t ignore it.

You see the post as you’re lying in bed, your script abandoned on your nightstand. The moment your eyes land on the images, your entire body stiffens.

Your phone is in your hands before you can talk yourself out of it, fingers already dialing before your pride can stop you.

Aaron picks up on the third ring, his voice warm but tired. “Hey, sweetheart.”

There’s a pause. A deep inhale.

Then—flatly, coldly—“So you and that bitch are a thing now? Thanks for letting me know.”

Aaron sighs. Actually sighs. Like this conversation was inconvenient.

“Oh, come on, babe, not you too.”

The sheer casualness of his voice makes your irritation flare. “Not me too? Are you fucking serious? I’ve been sitting here trying to be the perfect, understanding girlfriend while the internet is convinced you’re already replacing me!”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Do I?” Your voice wavers, and you hate it. “Do you have any idea what that’s like, Aaron? Watching someone else with their hands all over you while I have to sit here in silence, pretending it doesn’t bother me?”

Aaron exhales sharply. “You’re acting like I have control over this.”

“You do! You don’t have to pose with her, you don’t have to entertain whatever the fuck she’s trying to do. And you sure as hell don’t have to follow her on Instagram to give her even more validation. Why are you trying to stay in touch with her?”

There’s a pause. Then, voice lower—“I followed her back because I didn’t want to make things awkward at the event. That’s all.”

You laugh bitterly. “Oh, well, as long as she’s comfortable, who gives a fuck about me, right?”

Aaron groans. “Come on, don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what, Aaron? Have feelings? Be pissed that my boyfriend is being treated like some eligible bachelor while I have to sit here and keep my mouth shut?”

Aaron exhales sharply, the frustration clear in his voice. “I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.”

You let out a bitter laugh, gripping your phone tighter. “Oh, you can’t believe it? Try sitting on my end, watching the whole world act like you’re single while I have to pretend none of it matters.”

“Pretending I’m single? You know that’s not true.”

“Then why does it look like it?” The words come out sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. “Do you have any idea how humiliating this is for me? Seeing you all over the internet with her—”

“Oh my God, we were just talking.” His voice rises, defensive, impatient. “Do you seriously think I’m fucking other women when I spend every minute of my free time with you?”

You hesitate, your chest tightening. “No.” Your voice is quieter now, but the anger hasn’t left. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, Aaron. That doesn’t mean it’s not messing with my head.”

He lets out a humorless chuckle, and something about it makes your stomach drop. “You know, for someone who’s always saying she trusts me, you’re really fucking bad at showing it.”

Your pulse spikes, and before you can think, you snap, “And for someone who claims to love me, you’re really bad at acting like it.”

Silence. Thick, heavy, suffocating.

You can hear his breathing through the phone, hear the way he’s trying to rein himself in. But you don’t take it back.

Finally, his voice comes, low and tight. “I don’t have time for this.”

Your heart clenches, but you force yourself to match his tone. “Yeah, but you probably have time to fuck other bitches.”

And then, just like that before you can finish your sentence, he hangs up.

You stare at your phone, your pulse ringing in your ears, your chest aching in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.

For the first time since choosing him, you wonder if you made a mistake as you cry yourself to sleep.

———

You should stop looking. You know you should.

But the moment you wake up, the ache in your chest still fresh, you reach for your phone out of habit. And there it is. Everywhere.

A new interview with her.

The headline alone makes your stomach twist:

“Pop Star Dodges Question About Rumored Romance with Aaron Pierre – ‘We’ll See’”

Your heart pounds as you press play, the video loading instantly. She’s sitting on a talk show couch, all smiles, dressed in something sleek and effortless. The host leans in, grinning.

“So, I have to ask—you and Aaron Pierre. The internet is obsessed. Is there anything going on there?”

She laughs, tilting her head. “Aaron is such a gentleman.”

Your stomach churns.

The host pushes. “So, is he your man or what?”

She smirks. “I mean… we’ll see.”

Your blood runs cold.

We’ll see?!

Not a denial. Not a correction. Not even a casual “Oh, we’re just friends.” Just enough mystery to keep the speculation going, to keep the headlines spinning.

You lock your phone, your hands shaking.

But it’s not over. Because not even an hour later, another clip starts circulating.

This time, it’s Aaron.

A red carpet interview, all flashing lights and polished charm. The reporter brings her up, because of course they do.

“So, you and Sophia Saturn, is there any possibility for a romance”

Aaron huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, man.”

Your chest tightens as the reporter pushes, eyes gleaming. “Come on, give us something. The people want to know.”

Aaron shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, we’re not together,”

Your shoulders sag slightly. Okay. That’s… good. That’s—

Then he shrugs, smiling a little. “But she’s cool, man. I’ve got a lot of respect for her.”

That’s it. That’s all he says.

Not a strong denial. Not a “No, I have a girlfriend.” Just vague enough to let the rumors keep going.

The interviewer grins. “So you’re saying there’s a chance?”

Aaron laughs. And you feel like you might actually throw up.

———

You don’t hear from him that night.

Or the next day.

You don’t text. You don’t call. You refuse to be the one to reach out first.

But the silence kills you.

You cry yourself to sleep again, torn between heartbreak and fury. Between wanting to believe in him and wondering if you’ve been an idiot this entire time. You feel like one.

———

The following night, you wake up to the sound of knocking.

At first, you think you’re dreaming, the dull thud thud thud blending with the haze of your half-conscious mind. But then it comes again, louder, more insistent.

Your heart lurches.

You stumble out of bed, barely processing, your body moving on instinct. You open the door—

And there he is.

Standing on your doorstep, hoodie pulled over his head, bags under his eyes, looking tired as fuck.

Your breath catches. “What are you—”

Then, voice low, hoarse, like he hasn’t slept, he murmurs, “I came back early.”

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “Congratulations.”

Aaron sighs, running a hand down his face. “I needed to see you.”

You shake your head, your chest tightening. “Funny. You didn’t seem to need me when you were laughing about your maybe relationship with another woman on a red carpet.”

His brows furrow, jaw flexing. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Oh, really?” You let out a bitter laugh. “Because it looked like that.”

Aaron steps forward, voice more urgent now. “Baby—”

“Don’t call me that,” you bite out, your voice breaking slightly. “You don’t get to come here in the middle of the night and act like a few apologies will fix this.”

Aaron exhales harshly, raking a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the tension in his shoulders. “I fucked up, alright? I know that. But you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

Your head jerks back, something inside you snapping. “Out of proportion?” You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, rage searing through your veins. “You let the entire world think you were single, Aaron. You let her feed into it. You sat there laughing, smiling, making me look like a fucking idiot while you act thirsty as fuck over this bitch. And I’m blowing it out of proportion?”

Aaron clenches his jaw, shifting on his feet, but he doesn’t argue.

You take another step back, shaking your head. “You don’t even know how to be in a real relationship.”

His eyes darken, something unreadable flickering across his face. “That’s not fair.”

“Am I wrong?” Your voice wavers, but your anger doesn’t falter. “You’ve spent years doing whatever you wanted, being with whoever you wanted, never once worrying about how it affected someone else. That’s who you are, Aaron. You don’t think about anyone but yourself.”

His entire body tenses, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. “That’s not true.”

You scoff. “No? Then tell me—when did you think about me these past few days? Was it when you let some other woman act like she had a claim on you? Was it when you barely denied it? Or was it when you ignored me for two fucking days because you were too pissed to face what you did?”

Aaron’s nostrils flare, his frustration boiling over. “I didn’t ignore you because I didn’t care—I ignored you because I do! I knew if I called, we’d fight, and I’d say some stupid shit, and I—” He cuts himself off, exhaling harshly. “I knew I fucked up, okay? But I didn’t know how to fix it. And I needed time to think.”

You shake your head, a bitter laugh bubbling up. “Right. Because you needed time. And meanwhile, I got to sit here, spiraling, watching everyone talk about how you have a new girl, feeling fucking delusional for thinking I ever had you in the first place.”

Aaron flinches. His lips press into a thin line, his gaze flicking to the floor.

You step forward now, your fury rising like a tidal wave. “You don’t know how to consider someone else’s feelings before your own. I should’ve known better. I should’ve fucking known that I was just another woman you’d make feel special until it got inconvenient.”

His head snaps up, his eyes burning into yours. “That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” Your voice cracks. “Because right now, it just feels like I’m another woman who thought she could change you.”

Aaron’s face hardens, his jaw ticking, but he doesn’t speak.

Tears sting your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not in front of him. Not when he still can’t say what you need to hear.

You inhale shakily, taking another step back. “Just leave me alone, Aaron. You apparently don't have a problem with that.”

You reach for the door, pulling it open, your voice barely above a whisper. “Go home, please”

But he doesn’t move.

He stands there, staring at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, his jaw tight. His entire body radiates tension—like he’s forcing himself to stay still when every part of him is screaming to do the opposite.

“No,” he says, voice rough, unwavering.

You blink, anger flaring. “Aaron—”

“I’m not leaving.” His tone is low but firm, his blue-grey eyes dark with determination. “I’m not letting you push me away like this. Not after everything.”

Frustration bubbles in your chest, but there’s something else too—something warmer, deeper, something that makes your stomach clench. Because this is who he is. Stubborn, relentless, unwilling to let things break without fighting first. And even now, when you’re furious with him, when your heart is still aching, you can’t pretend that doesn’t mean something.

“Aaron,” you start again, voice shaking, “I told you, I don’t even want to see you right now.”

His gaze softens slightly, but the determination never wavers. “Then don’t look at me. Just listen.”

You exhale sharply, gripping the edge of the door, fingers digging into the wood. “I’ve been listening to you for days, Aaron. Listening to you not deny her hard enough, listening to you brush everything off like it’s not a big deal, listening to nothing from you when I needed to hear from you the most.”

His expression tightens, like every word is a punch to the gut. “I know I handled it wrong. I know I should’ve done more, said more, made it clearer—”

“Then why didn’t you?” The words burst out of you, raw and desperate. “Why didn’t you just say what you needed to say when it mattered?”

Aaron steps closer, closing the space between you, his presence overwhelming. “Because I’ve never done this before,” he admits, his voice quieter now, rough with something vulnerable. “I’ve never had to think about how my actions affect someone else. Never had to protect something real like this.” He exhales, eyes searching yours. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Your breath hitches.

Aaron shakes his head, jaw clenching. “I don’t know how to be perfect in this, but I do know I love you. I know I can’t fucking breathe knowing you’re sitting here thinking I don’t care, thinking I’d risk losing you for a goddamn headline.” His fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you. “And I know I’m not leaving until you believe me.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away, your walls still up, still guarded.

“I came back early for a reason. I came straight here for a reason. Because if I wanted to take the easy way out, I would’ve. But I’m standing here because I don’t want easy. I want you.”

You swallow hard, your breath uneven. “I don’t know if that’s enough, Aaron.”

His jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists. “Then tell me what is enough. Tell me what I have to do, and I’ll fucking do it. I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care how long it takes. If you need me to shout it from the rooftops, I will. If you need me to cut off every single woman in my life, consider it done. Just tell me what you need.”

Your throat tightens, because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? For him to fight for you. To prove that this is different. That he’s different.

And God, you believe him.

But you’re still hurting.

You look away, exhaling shakily. “I think I just need some space.”

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice dropping to that low, rich tone that always turns your brain to static.

Your pulse stutters. “Aaron—”

“You want space?” His fingers graze your hip, just barely, the contact so light it makes you shiver. “Then why haven’t you stepped away?”

You should. You should push him off, make him suffer, make him work for the privilege of touching you.

But you don’t move.

Aaron smirks, like he knows, like he’s already won. He leans in, his breath warm against your skin, lips hovering just above your ear. "You missed me," he whispers, his voice so deep and smooth it nearly undoes you. His nose skims along your jaw, slow, teasing. "Just admit it, sweetheart. You missed me, so now you’re acting out."

Your breath hitches. "I—"

But then his hands are on you—gripping your waist, tugging you against him, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Whatever argument you were about to make dissolves into a shaky exhale.

Aaron hums, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "That’s what I thought."

You want to fight him, want to hold onto the anger that still simmers inside you. But then his lips find your neck—slow, deliberate—his hands sliding down to grab your ass.

"I can make you forget all of this," he murmurs, voice thick with promise. Then, his grip tightens, his breath hot against your ear. "You can be as mad as you want, baby," he rasps, his voice low, rough with hunger. "You can hate me, curse me, swear you’re done—but we both know you’ll still end up right here."

His fingers dig into your hips, owning you. "Because no one makes you feel the way I do. No one ever will."

Your stomach clenches, heat pooling low in your body. “Aaron…”

“Shh,” he soothes, kissing his way down to your collarbone, his hands gripping your hips tighter, grounding you. “Let me make it up to you, baby.”

And then he lifts you effortlessly, his soft, thick lips crashing onto yours, stealing every last bit of resistance you thought you had.

You should make him earn you, make him wonder—just for once—if you’ll ever let him have you again.

But as he presses you against the door, his tongue sliding against yours, his body solid and hot against you—you don’t want to.

You’ve always been powerless against him. And he knows it.

He groans into the kiss, one hand tangling in your hair, the other gripping your thigh tightly as he holds you pinned against the door. He pours all his regret, all his love, into the heated caress of his lips and tongue against yours.

“Mmm, you taste even better than I remembered, he murmurs huskily as he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips along your jaw and down the column of your throat. “I missed you so fucking much, baby. Missed this. Missed you.”

He nips at your pulse point, soothing the sting with his tongue before suckling hard, intent on leaving his mark on your skin. His hips grind against yours, letting you feel the evidence of his arousal.

“Tell me you missed me too, sweetheart. Tell me you forgive me.”

You whimper and arch into his touch, your hands fist in his shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. “I... I did miss you. So much.”

He captures your mouth in another searing kiss, “Fuck, baby, I needed to hear that. Needed to feel you.”

His hands roam your curves greedily, mapping out every dip and swell he's missed so desperately.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. So fucking sorry for hurting you, for making you doubt me. You're the only one I want, the only one I need.”

He starts walking you backwards towards the bedroom, never breaking the kiss, his body hard and insistent against yours.

Breathless and dizzy with need, you let him guide you, stumbling into your bedroom.

He lays you down on the bed, covering your body with his own, pinning you with his weight. He gazes down at you with dark, hungry eyes, a wicked smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

He slowly puts his hand down your silk pajama shorts, your slick heat coating his fingers as he teases your sensitive bud, groaning approvingly. “Damn, baby. You're fucking dripping for me already.”

He circles your clit slowly, deliberately, reveling in the needy whimpers spilling from your lips. “Was my greedy girl imagining me touching someone else? Wondering if I’d touch her like I touch you, make her beg the way you beg?”

Aaron hums, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to your throat. "You know better, sweetheart. No one else ever comes close. Even when you try to push me away."

Aaron's fingers continue their maddeningly slow circles around your clit, stoking the fire building low in your belly. He chuckles darkly at your needy whimpers, clearly enjoying the effect he has on you.

"No, baby girl. You're the only one who gets to experience this," he purrs, punctuating his words with a particularly firm press against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

"The only one who gets to scream my name in ecstasy." His other hand slides down to grip your hip, holding you in place as he sinks two long fingers knuckle-deep inside your dripping heat, pumping them steadily.

"Aaron!" you gasp, hips bucking involuntarily into his touch. He just smirks, knowing exactly what he's doing to you.

"That's it, sweetheart. Let me hear you." He purrs as he curls his fingers just right, hitting that special spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Please, I need…I need…" you babble incoherently, too far gone to form proper sentences. All you can focus on is the exquisite torture of your fingers and the overwhelming ache between your thighs.

Aaron groans at the desperate, needy sounds falling from your lips, his own arousal skyrocketing at the evidence of your desire. He loves reducing you to this state - pliant, wanton, completely at his mercy.

"What do you need, baby? Tell me," he coaxes, voice a low, seductive rasp. His fingers never cease their torturous movements,. He returns to circling and pressing and rubbing your clit until you're a writhing mess beneath him.

Aaron dips his head to capture one pebbled nipple in his mouth, sucking hard as he laves the sensitive bud with his tongue. His teeth graze the tender flesh, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain straight to your core.

"I've got you, sweetheart. Gonna give you everything you need," he promises darkly, releasing your nipple with a wet pop.

"Please Aaron, I can't take it anymore. I need you inside me." You're practically sobbing with need, too far gone to care how desperate you sound. All you can think about is having him buried deep inside you, claiming you, owning you in the most primal way possible.

Aaron's eyes darken with primal hunger at your desperate pleas, a feral grin spreading across his face. He finally removes his clothes, settling between your trembling thighs.

"Such a perfect little slut." he groans, voice rough with barely restrained desire.

With a powerful thrust of his hips, Aaron sheathes himself fully inside you, stretching you deliciously around his thick length. He hilts inside you, grinding his pelvis against your sensitive clit.

"Ahhh, shit! So fucking tight," he grits out, fighting the urge to move.

You moan loudly, your walls clenching greedily around his thickness. "Yes, yes, please! Fuck me hard!" Lost in a haze of lust, you wrap your legs tightly around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back to urge him deeper.

Aaron sets a punishing pace, hips snapping against yours with bruising force as he pounds into your welcoming heat. The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with your wanton moans and his guttural grunts of pleasure.

"Yes, fuck! Take it, baby." he snarls, angling his hips to hit that special spot inside you with each deep thrust. Each powerful thrust sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your entire body.

"This pussy belongs to me, understand? No one else gets to have you like this." One large hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he rails you relentlessly. The other tangles in your hair, tugging your head back to expose the column of your throat. Aaron latches onto the sensitive skin, sucking a vivid hickey into the flesh - marking you as his.

"Yes, all yours! Only yours, always!" You babble deliriously, too consumed by sensation to filter your words. You can feel your release barreling towards you like a freight train, your inner walls starting to flutter and clench around his pistoning cock.

"Please Aaron, I'm so close! Don't stop!" You keen desperately, your hips meeting his thrust for thrust.

Aaron feels your walls starting to quiver and squeeze around his shaft, signaling your impending orgasm. He wraps his hand around your throat, applying just enough pressure to heighten your pleasure while still allowing you to breathe.

"That's it, baby. Come for me." he commands huskily, his hips never faltering in their relentless rhythm.

He leans down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your desperate cries as he drives into you with renewed vigor. The hand on your hip slides around to rub tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

"I've got you, sweetheart. Let go for me,." Aaron murmurs against your lips, his own release coiling tighter in his gut.

With a keening cry, your body convulses in ecstasy as the most intense orgasm of your life crashes over you. Your vision whites out momentarily, waves of pure bliss radiating from your core. Your walls clamp down on Aaron's cock like a vice, rippling and squeezing as you come undone.

"AAARON!!" you wail, not caring who hears your rapture. In this moment, nothing exists except the feeling of him moving inside you, prolonging your high. Tears of relief and overwhelming emotion leak from the corners of your eyes.

Aaron groans long and low as your velvet walls spasm around his cock, milking him expertly. The feeling of you coming apart beneath him, crying out his name so beautifully, proves to be his undoing.

"Shit, I'm gonna... Ahh, fuck!" His words dissolve into a guttural moan as his orgasm slams into him like a tidal wave.Aaron buries himself as deep as physically possible, grinding against your cervix as he empties himself inside you. Thick ropes of his hot seed paint your insides, marking you as his from the inside out.

He collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you with his weight. Panting heavily, he peppers your face with soft kisses - your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. "God, I love you."

Aaron rolls to the side, pulling you with him so you're draped across his sweat-slicked chest. He cards his fingers through your hair soothingly as you both catch your breath, basking in the afterglow.

"That was... incredible," he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to the top of your head. "You're amazing, you know that?" His hand traces idle patterns on your back, occasionally dipping lower to squeeze the curve of your ass possessively. Even in the aftermath, he seems reluctant to let you go.

You nuzzle into his chest, relishing the strong arms wrapped around you and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. A contented sigh escapes your lips as you savor the feeling of his skin against yours after being apart for so long.

"I love you too," you murmur softly, placing a feather-light kiss over his heart.

The air in the room is thick, warm, humming with the remnants of everything he just did to you—everything you let him do despite your best intentions to stay angry.

You groan softly, tilting your head against the pillow as his lips trail up to your neck, slow and teasing. “You’re annoying as fuck.”

Aaron chuckles, low and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle patterns against your bare skin. “Mmm, is that what we’re calling it now?”

You roll your eyes, still dazed, still trying to regain some semblance of composure after the way he wrecked you. “You think this fixes everything?”

He hums, his mouth grazing the shell of your ear. “No. But it definitely helped, didn’t it?”

You exhale sharply, biting your lip to keep from smiling. He knows it did. But you refuse to let him get away with everything so easily.

After a pause, you shift slightly beneath him, your fingers trailing up his spine as you murmur, “I’m starting to think you like making me jealous on purpose.”

Aaron chuckles, his thumb tracing a slow, lazy line along your hip. “I like reminding you that no matter how mad you get…” He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You’re still mine.”

A sharp shudder runs through you, your body betraying you as you press into him without thinking.

Aaron hums, satisfied. “See?” His breath is warm against your skin, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing over your bare waist. “All that anger, all that fire—burning just for me.”

You hate how easily he unravels you, how he can read every little reaction like he wrote the script for you.

Your breath is unsteady, your nails digging into his chest. “You’re insufferable.”

Aaron grins. “And yet,” he whispers, lazily pressing a kiss to your jaw, “here you are.”

You should stop this. Make him beg for forgiveness. Make him pay for how easily he plays you.

But then his teeth scrape along your pulse point, his hands sliding up your ribs, his body pressing even closer—

And just like every time before—

You lose.

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black reader #terry richmond x black oc #terry richmond smut #terry richmond fic #aaron pierre smut #aaron pierre x reader

297 notes · View notes