#Thing to do in Denver when you're dead | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

honeyncherry · 23 days ago

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all good things ii - joe burrow

summary you thought you'd mastered the art of letting go, turns out you'd just gotten really good at looking the other way

content angst, fluff, idk what im talking about in half this

part one

"Why are you here?"

You don't look up from the glass you're drying when you ask it, but you can feel him settling onto the barstool across from you. Same spot as always—third from the left, close enough to the corner that he can see the door but far enough from the other customers that conversation stays private.

"For a drink," he says, and there's that familiar hint of amusement in his voice, like he knows you already know the answer but enjoys the routine anyway.

Without thinking, your hand finds the bourbon, muscle memory from months of the same dance. The bottle feels heavier tonight, or maybe it's just you. Maybe it's the report waiting on your laptop at home, or the way certain thoughts have been circling back when you least expect them.

“How was Denver?” you ask, sliding the glass his way.

He catches it without looking, thumb brushing along the rim before taking a sip. “Great. Got a good win.”

You lean in, resting your elbows on the bar, giving him your full attention now. "Yeah? How good are we talking?"

"Really good." He grins, the kind that reaches his eyes and makes him look younger than he is. "Like, career-defining good.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, the pride bubbling up quicker than expected. “That’s incredible. I’m so happy for you.”

He drops his gaze a little, almost shy about it. Compliments still make him weird. But you can tell it means something—coming from you, maybe, or maybe just being heard out loud.

“Actually,” he says, reaching into his jacket, “I got you something. Well, two things.”

That makes you pause. He's holding out a small wrapped box, the kind that comes from hotel gift shops or airport stores. The paper is slightly wrinkled, like it spent the flight home pressed against other things in his carry-on.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He places it on the bar top between you and then grins. "But I saw it and thought of you. Plus, I have some news." There's something sweet about it, the casualness of the gesture with no hidden agenda.

You peel the paper back carefully, and inside is a snow globe, tacky and perfect in the way only tourist gifts can be. Denver’s skyline is centered in the middle, suspended in that fake snow that never quite swirls right.

“It’s terrible,” you say, but you're already smiling.

"Absolutely hideous," he agrees, sipping his drink. "But you collect weird shit, so I figured you'd appreciate it.”

He’s right. Your apartment’s full of it—odd little trinkets that don’t belong anywhere but somehow belong with you. Salt shakers shaped like ducks. Postcards from places you’ve never been. That cracked ceramic owl from your grandma that you still won’t throw out.

"Thank you," you say, setting the snow globe on the shelf behind you, next to the register where you can see it while you work. "Okay, so what's the news?"

"Remember that California project I mentioned? The sports coverage thing?" He's trying to play it cool, but you can see the excitement barely contained behind his eyes. "I got you the spot."

Your heart stops. "What?"

"I put in a word with the hiring manager. Told them about your work, how good you are with people." He leans forward slightly. "They want you to fly out next week. Production assistant role, technically, but it's exactly the kind of experience you need."

You stare at him, mouth slightly open. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. You're going to California." Quinn's fingers drum once against the bar, a nervous habit you've taken note of over months of Thursday nights. Sometimes Tuesdays too, when his schedule allows it. He'd started showing up around the time you stopped flinching every time you heard calls of a certain name, when you could make it through a shift without checking your phone for messages that never came.

That was just over a year ago now, right when everything felt like it was crumbling—when you'd left that hotel room and came home to an apartment that felt too quiet and a life that suddenly seemed smaller than it had before. You'd been serving drinks like you were underwater, going through the motions of existing without really living in any of it.

The first few times, Quinn was just another regular. Bourbon, two fingers, splash of water. He was the best tipping regular you’ve ever had and never lingered too long. But then one night you'd been particularly frustrated, slamming glasses a little too hard after another rejection email, and he'd asked if you were okay.

"Just job hunting," you'd said, the bitterness leaking through despite yourself.

"What kind of work?"

"Anything that uses a communications degree, apparently." You'd laughed, but it came out hollow. "Four years of college to be really good at serving drinks."

He'd been quiet for a moment, then: "My company's always looking for interns," he'd said, casual as anything. "Might be good experience."

That conversation lives in your mind now, growing roots in the spaces between doubt and possibility. Three months of showing up to offices that smelled like expensive coffee and ambition, of learning that your degree wasn't worthless after all, just misplaced. Quinn had opened a door you didn't even know existed, and now here he is, trying to push it wider.

"I don't know what to say."

"Say you'll pack a bag." He finishes his drink and leaves cash on the bar, always exact change plus fifty percent, never more or less, and stands to go. "They'll email you the details tomorrow."

He hesitates for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then seems to think better of it. Instead, he just nods and heads for the door.

"Thank you," you call after him. "Really. This means everything."

"You earned it," he calls back over his shoulder. "I just made sure the right people knew."

When he's gone, you’re left with the rich smell of bourbon and the snow globe that glimmers under warm spotlights. Underneath it all lies the strange, fluttering feeling that comes with being cared about in small, uncomplicated ways.

───

The folder hits your hands like something dropped from a height, thick enough that the pages buckle under their own weight. Sarah's already talking, words streaming past in that efficient way people have when they've explained the same thing a dozen times before.

"So you'll be handling athlete transport today," she says, gesturing vaguely toward the folder while her attention drifts to her phone. "Everything's in there—pickup times, studio assignments, the usual."

You flip the cover open to pages of schedules and headshots, names printed in blocks that your eyes catch without really processing. Sarah keeps talking about the logistics and backup plans, but her voice becomes mumbled as you scan down the list.

Micah Parsons - 9:30 AM pickup, Studio A

Lamar Jackson - 10:45 AM pickup, Outdoor Setup

Cooper Kupp - 12:15 PM pickup, Studio A

Tua Tagovailoa - 1:30 PM pickup, Studio B

Names that mean little to you, faces that melt together in professional headshots. You're half-listening, trying to make sense of time slots and meal breaks, when Sarah's voice sharpens.

"—and Quinn should be here any minute with an early arrival."

The sound of voices approaching makes you glance up from the folder. Quinn appears in the doorway, that easy smile already in place, talking to someone just behind him. You look back down automatically, eyes finding the next line on the schedule.

Joe Burrow - 3:00 PM pickup, Studio B

Your stomach drops like you've missed a step in the dark. The letters blur, then sharpen, then blur again. You blink hard, certain you've misread, but the name sits there like something burned into the page.

When you look up, he's standing three feet away.

And he's already looking directly at you.

The folder stays open in your hands, but the words might as well be written in a language you don't speak. Everything else in the room—Sarah's voice, the hum of equipment being tested, the distant sound of someone setting up lights—fades into white noise. There's just him, standing there in dark jeans and a jacket that probably costs more than your rent, looking exactly like he does in your memory of that morning in the hotel room, except somehow more solid. Real this time.

His expression doesn't change when your eyes meet his. No surprise, no recognition he'd let anyone else see. Just that steady, unreadable look that used to make you feel like he could see straight through you.

"Perfect timing," Quinn says, completely oblivious to the way everything seems to have tensed up around you. "This is our impromptu production assistant I was telling you about." He gestures toward you with the kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to disappear. "She'll be handling your schedule today, making sure you get where you need to be."

Quinn turns to you, still smiling. "Joe got here early—his flight landed ahead of schedule, so I figured we'd get him checked in now instead of making him come back later. Hope that's okay?"

You force yourself to close the folder, to stand up straighter, to remember that you have a job to do. That you're not the same person who used to fly across the country for crumbs of attention.

"Of course," you manage, extending your hand in what you hope looks like professionalism and not the careful choreography of someone trying not to fall apart. "Hi."

Joe's eyes flick down to your outstretched hand, then back to your face. For a second, you think he might not take it. That he'll let you stand there with your arm extended like an idiot while Quinn watches.

But then his hand closes around yours, warm and familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Nice to meet you," he says, voice perfectly polite like you're a stranger. As if he's never traced the curves of your body with his tongue in the dark.

The handshake lasts exactly as long as it should and no longer, nothing that would make Quinn raise an eyebrow or Sarah look up from her phone. But his thumb brushes across your knuckles once before he lets go, so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

"She's fantastic," Quinn continues, either missing the tension entirely or choosing to ignore it. "Really knows her stuff. You're in good hands."

The irony of that statement sits heavy in the space between you and Joe. You've been in his hands before and you know exactly how that story ends.

"Alright," Sarah pops her head up suddenly from beside you. "Let's get you set up for hair and makeup first, then we'll run through the shot list." She's already guiding Joe toward the door with the kind of practiced authority that doesn't leave room for argument.

Joe follows, but his eyes find yours once more before he disappears into the hallway. The look lasts maybe two seconds, but it's long enough to remind you of every sleepless night you spent wondering if he thought about you at all.

"Ready for Micah?" Quinn asks, already checking his watch. "He should be set by now." You nod, grateful for something to focus on. Something that doesn't involve navigating the minefield of seeing Joe again.

Quinn studies your face for a moment, "you good?"

"I'm good," you say, forcing a smile that feels more convincing than it probably looks.

"Good. Because we had to shuffle things around. Lamar's flight got delayed, so we bumped Joe up to right after Micah." He pats your shoulder in that paternal way that makes you remember why you trust him. "You've got this, kid."

───

Micah Parsons turns out to be exactly the kind of interview subject that makes your job easy. Charismatic without being overwhelming, thoughtful in his answers, the kind of natural storyteller that probably makes every journalist he talks to feel like they're getting something special.

You escort him from hair and makeup to Studio A, making small talk about his off-season training while mentally taking in the way he carries himself—confident but approachable, the kind of details that might matter for the piece you're supposed to be writing.

Because that's the thing Quinn arranged that makes this more than just a production assistant gig. You're not just managing logistics; you're also shadowing the main journalists, taking notes that will help with a behind-the-scenes article to accompany the video content. It’s what manages to turn this little side gig into real experience that could actually matter for your future.

It had been Quinn's idea, pitched to his partners as a way to get more comprehensive coverage without stretching the budget. "She's sharp," he'd told them, according to what he'd shared with you later. "Give her the PA duties but let her gather material too. Two birds, one stone."

He'd stuck his neck out for you in a way that meant something. Which is why you're sitting in the back of Studio A with a notebook, jotting down observations about Micah's interview style and the way he deflects certain questions with humor while being surprisingly vulnerable about others.

Quinn had been right—you were good at this. At reading people, at catching the moments between the soundbites that revealed who someone actually was.

Which is exactly why seeing Joe again feels like such a potential disaster.

By the time Micah wraps up, you've filled three pages with notes and feel like you're truly starting to understand the rhythm of this kind of work.

"Joe should be ready now," Quinn says, appearing at your elbow as you escort Micah to his next location. "Studio B."

Your stomach tightens, but you nod. This is your job. This is the opportunity Quinn fought for you to have and you can't let seeing Joe ruin it.

The walk to Joe's dressing room feels dreadful. Each step is like walking through quicksand, carrying you toward something you're not ready for but can't avoid. When you knock and push the door open, he's sitting in the chair by the small mirror, scrolling through his phone with careful focus.

"Ready?" you ask, the word coming out more clipped than you intended.

He looks up, nods once, and stands with no acknowledgment beyond basic professionalism.

The hallway to Studio B stretches ahead of you both, and the silence that follows is different from anything you've experienced today. Not comfortable like it had been with Micah, who'd filled the space with easy conversation. This quiet feels intentional. Measured like you're both working very hard not to disturb something that might break if handled wrong.

"Studio B," you say when you reach the door, gesturing unnecessarily.

"Thanks."

He disappears inside, and you take your position in the back corner. Notebook ready, pen poised. The same setup as for Micah's interview; professional and focused, gathering material for the article.

But something shifts the moment Joe starts talking. His voice carries that familiar cadence, the one that used to lull you to sleep during late-night phone calls when distance felt manageable. You find yourself leaning forward, pen moving across the page in ways that have nothing to do with journalism.

The little things catch your eye. The way he touches his jaw when considering an answer. How his shoulders settle when he's comfortable with a question. The pause before he responds to anything about pressure, weighing what's safe to share versus what's true.

You catch yourself, redirect your attention to actual content. This is work. Quinn's faith in you made everything tangible, you can't let this pull toward someone who used to matter ruin what you've been given.

But it's difficult to ignore the familiarity, the way certain moments remind you of hotel rooms and conversations that felt bigger than they were.

This is likely the only time you'll see him again. A one-off encounter that doesn't have to mean anything beyond coincidence. You've made progress, moved forward. You can't let a single afternoon undo the work it took to get here.

When the interview wraps, you've filled two pages with notes—half meaningless observations about Joe rather than context about the content. You close the notebook as he thanks everyone with practiced grace, then finds you in the corner.

"All set?"

"All set."

The walk back is similar to the walk there in every way. By the time you reach his dressing room, you're almost convinced you can end this cleanly. You open the door and stand to the side.

"You're done for the day. Someone will coordinate transport when you're ready."

Joe settles back into the chair by the mirror, phone already in hand. You should leave now. You've completed your assignment, same as with Micah. But professional courtesy demands you ask. The same question you'd posed to Micah, the same standard you'll maintain.

"Is there anything else you need?"

Joe hums to himself then looks up, and for the first time all day, really looks at you. Not the careful glances he's been offering, but the kind of direct eye contact that used to make your heart race.

"Just curious," he says, voice level but edged with something sharper. "Are you supposed to say that, or am I just special?"

The question hits hard. You feel it in your stomach first, then spreading outward, a slow recognition that you're not getting out of this room without acknowledgment.

Because that’s the thing: he was special.

In the way you still dream about his voice. His hands.

In the way you never really got around to donating the shirt he left behind, even though it stopped smelling like him months ago.

In the way you still scan for his face on the screen when a game is on at work, even when you tell yourself you’re not supposed to.

Something shifts in your face, you can feel it happen. The twitch of your eyes, the press of your teeth into the inside of your cheek, just a second too long. Like your body is betraying the careful neutrality you’ve been maintaining all day.

He catches it, of course he does.

"Just part of the job, Mr. Burrow." The formality tastes wrong in your mouth, but you need the distance it creates and the reminder of where you are, what this is supposed to be.

You're already turning away before the words fully settle, hand reaching for the door handle like it might save you from whatever comes next. "Have a good rest of your day."

───

The wine tastes expensive in a way that makes you hyper-aware of everything. From the conversations flowing around you that you can't quite step into, to the way everyone else seems to belong here without thinking about it.

"Market yourself," Quinn had said earlier, straightening his tie in the mirror of his hotel room. "There are some serious people here tonight. Network. Make connections. This is how careers get built."

Easy for him to say. He moves through crowds like he was born into them, shaking hands and remembering names and making everything look effortless. You feel like you're wearing a sign that says imposter in flashing neon letters.

The venue is exactly what you'd expect from Quinn's company—all exposed brick and elegant lighting fixtures, floor to ceiling windows, the kind of casual that costs more than most people's rent. Servers weave between clusters of well-dressed people holding wine glasses that catch the light just right.

You take a sip of wine and scan the room for someone who might seem approachable. Someone who won't immediately see through whatever facade you're trying to maintain. The conversation nearest to you is about market projections and quarterly reports, which makes your experience feel even more inadequate than usual.

"Why are you standing by yourself?"

The voice comes from beside you, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them. You don't have to look to know who it is, you've been hyperaware of his presence since the moment he walked in twenty minutes ago.

"I'm supposed to be marketing myself," you say, not turning toward him, voice dry with the kind of sarcasm that feels bitter. "Networking. Making connections."

There's a pause. You can feel him looking at you.

"Well, you shouldn't have any problem doing that looking like that."

Your fingers tighten around the stem of your wine glass. The comment slides under your skin in a way that makes you feel uneasy. It’s like you're back in some hotel room where his opinions about you mattered.

You turn to look at him and something in your expression must give you away because his face changes immediately.

"No, no, that's not—" He stops and runs a hand over the bottom half of his face, looking genuinely panicked. "That came out wrong. I just meant you look good. Like, really good. Not that—fuck. That was all wrong."

And despite everything, despite the way your jaw is still tight with irritation, you have to bite back something that feels dangerously close to a laugh. Because Joe Burrow, who takes hits from three-hundred-pound linemen without flinching, who never seems rattled by anything on or off the field, is standing here stammering like a teenager who just got caught red-handed.

You compose yourself, finding that professional tone again. "Okay. Well, thank you." You set your wine glass on the nearest table, already turning away. "Have a good night."

His hand catches your wrist before you can take a step, gentle but insistent enough to stop you. "Wait." You follow his gaze to a quieter corner near the windows, away from people.

“Can we talk?”

Part of you wants to say no, to keep walking and maintain whatever distance you've managed to create. But a bigger part knows that if you don't do this now, you'll spend the rest of the night, maybe longer, wondering what he would have said.

"Okay," you say, and let him guide you toward the windows.

The space feels more intimate immediately, the noise of the party fading to background hum. Joe runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit you remember, and looks out at the city lights for a moment before turning back to you.

“I was an asshole,” he says. The bluntness of it surprises you, how he doesn’t sugarcoat it or try to spin it. "This afternoon, I mean. And just now. I was just��I was doing what I always do, being defensive because seeing you here threw me off, and I didn't know how to handle it."

You wait for him to continue, watching the way he struggles with words that don't come as easily as the ones he uses for interviews.

“I was hurt,” he says, a little softer now. “When you left. Not just because you did. But how fast it felt. Like one second we were figuring things out and the next... you were just gone.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you says anything. You’re not sure what breaks you down first—his voice or the fact that it’s not angry in the way you last remember it.

“I didn’t leave because of that night,” you say eventually. “If anything… I stayed because of it.”

Joe finally looks at you and your hands tighten around your arms.

“I meant what I said,” you continue, slower now. Like the words are heavy in your mouth. “I believed you. What you said. How it felt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you like that before.”

The words keep coming even though your mind is already starting to regret opening your mouth. You should stop. You should just stop.

“I think part of me was already bracing for the quiet,” you say. “For things to go back to normal the next day. I don’t know. It’s like… the moment was everything I wanted, but it didn’t feel safe.”

You see the flicker in his eyes. You almost backpedal, almost say never mind, but you’ve already gone too far.

“It's not that I didn’t trust you,” you continue. “I just didn’t trust that version of us to last. And I didn’t want to stay long enough to watch it fall apart again.”

Joe’s silent. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how exposed you feel, how fast your heart is beating now that the words are out there.

“I didn’t stop feeling it,” you murmur, eyes darting toward the window. “That was the problem. I finally let myself feel all of it. And once I did, it felt like too much to carry alone.”

He exhales slowly, like your words knock the wind out of him.

“So it wasn’t just the night,” he says eventually. “It was everything before.”

You nod. “Yeah. It was the before. The buildup. The silence. The feeling like I was always one step ahead of you.”

There’s a pause. Then, almost like a reflex, you add, “I know you meant what you said. I really do.” He looks at you then, something raw behind his eyes. “But I think I’d spent so long waiting for you to mean something,” you say, voice tightening, “that when you finally did, I was already halfway through learning how to let go.”

“I get that,” he says. You nod, surprised by the relief you feel at being understood. "So you left because you had to," he says, not a question.

"Because I had to."

The silence that follows feels different from all the others today. Not loaded with tension or unspoken accusations, but something closer to understanding. Like you aren’t standing on opposite sides of it anymore.

Joe straightens up slightly, and something shifts in his expression, still serious but with a hint of something lighter around the edges.

"So," he says, extending his hand toward you with a small, almost shy smile. "Hi. I'm Joe."

The gesture is so unexpectedly dorky that you feel a laugh bubble up before you can stop it. "Are you serious right now?"

"Starting fresh," he says, hand still extended. "New note."

You look at his outstretched hand, then back at his face, and despite everything—despite the history and the hurt and the complicated mess of what you used to be—you find yourself smiling.

"This is ridiculous," you say, but you take his hand anyway. "Hi, Joe,” you introduce yourself in the same manner.

The handshake lasts longer than necessary this time, in comparison to the one you shared earlier. When you finally let go, your fingers feel warm where his touched them.

"Much better introduction than this afternoon," you say, and Joe laughs—a real one this time.

"Yeah, well, I was trying to play it cool earlier."

"How'd that work out for you?"

"Terribly," he admits, grinning. "Clearly not my strong suit when it comes to you."

"Well," you say, and there's something softer in your voice now, something that feels like a door opening instead of closing. "There's plenty of time to get better at it."

The words hang between you, simple but loaded with possibility. Not a promise or a plan, just an acknowledgment that time exists now where it didn't before. That this new beginning, this fresh start, doesn't have to be figured out tonight.

Joe's smile changes, becoming something quieter. "Yeah," he says. "I think there is."

In that moment you realize the difference between starting over and starting fresh. One erases everything that came before; the other builds something new on a foundation that was always there, just waiting for the right moment to matter again.

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow angst #joe burrow x you #joe burrow fluff

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meadowfics · 4 months ago

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keep your eyes on me

berlin (song jung-ho) x f!reader

based off of this request here

warnings: threats, mentions of injury, jealousy

you've never been the jealous type, or at least that's what you tell yourself.

however, there's something about the way tokyo looks at berlin, something about the way they exchange glances in silence, the way they seem to understand each other without words even in their arguments and fury.

it's been poking at you since the heist began. it's probably nothing. berlin has been yours for years now, since the moment he crossed into south korea, bloody and half-dead, desperate for escape.

tokyo has a thing with rio anyways. however, you've stood by berlin through everything, watched him rise again, rebuild himself into something terrifyingly magnificent. y

ou've seen every inch of him, every flaw, every secret...so why does tokyo make you feel like you're missing something?

maybe it's the stress. maybe it's just the paranoia that comes with a job this big. every time you see them lock angry eyes across the mint’s floor, your stomach knots up, and your hands clench into fists.

so, you decide to do something about it.

it starts small.

you stop standing at berlin's side, opting to linger near denver instead. denver, who is easy to get along with, who doesn't have the same unreadable expressions and complicated histories as berlin. denver, who laughs with that ridiculous hyena-like cackle, who doesn't take everything so damn seriously.

he flirts easily, and you let him. even though the both of you know damn well that you guys do not like each other. denver has a thing with that beautiful hostage, and you support it.

however, denver seems to notice that you're using him and he wants to piss off berlin too as revenge.

you let yourself laugh a little louder with denver. you touch his arm when you talk, lean into him when you're standing close. it’s harmless...at first.

then you start choosing denver’s side over berlin’s.

when a small argument breaks out over how to handle a hostage trying to make a run for it, berlin says to use fear. denver says to use charm. you agree with denver.

you make a point of siding with him, nodding along as he grins. berlin’s face barely changes, but you know him. you know the tension in his jaw, the slight twitch in his fingers.

so you push further.

when denver struggles to move a heavy stack of cash pallets, you rush to help, grinning as you brace against the weight with him. berlin watches from the other side of the mint, his arms crossed over his chest.

he doesn’t say anything, but you feel the weight of his stare, burning into you like a brand.

it’s working. god, it feels good.

you don’t speak to berlin unless necessary. if he gives you an order, you act like you don’t hear him the first time. you only respond when he repeats himself, your tone clipped and indifferent.

he isn’t used to this. he’s used to controlling you, to knowing where you stand, to having you in his orbit. he doesn’t like this new distance.

by the second day, berlin has had enough.

the professor is gone, caught up in his careful dance with the inspector. the others are preoccupied. the moment he finds you alone in the office, berlin shuts the door behind him and locks it.

the sound of the bolt sliding into place echoes in the small space, and before you can react, he’s in front of you, his hand wrapping around your neck...not tight, not enough to hurt, but enough to command your full attention.

“i know what you’re fucking doing.”

jung-ho's voice is low, controlled. the man's thumb brushes against your pulse point, and you know he can feel how fast your heart is racing.

still, you tilt your chin up, keeping your expression blank.

“what are you talking about?”

berlin lets out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“don’t play dumb, barcelona. i know you too well.” jung-ho's grip tightens just slightly, just enough to make his point.

“you think i don’t see the way you’ve been throwing yourself at denver? the way you go out of your way to undermine me?”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about,” you repeat, voice steady, even though your whole body is tense.

“don’t you?” he leans in, lips brushing against your ear.

“you’re trying to make me jealous. trying to piss me off.”

you scoff, trying to ignore the way your skin burns under his touch.

“get over yourself, berlin.”

berlin hums, considering you. then, his other hand trails down your side, slow and deliberate, his fingers pressing into your waist.

“you want to know how i know?” he asks, almost lazily, “ it is because i threatened denver today.”

your breath catches.

he smiles, slow and sharp, like he can taste your reaction,

“told him if he didn’t stop entertaining your little games, i’d make sure he regrets it. and the hostages? well, let’s just say they almost suffered for your little stunt.”

your stomach twists. you know berlin. you know he’s capable of anything. your anger flares, hot and sharp.

“you’re sick.”

“and you’re reckless,” he counters, “playing with fire just to get a rise out of me? you should know better more than anyone else here.”

you glare at him, hands pressing against his chest, shoving him back just enough to breathe.

“maybe if you weren’t so fucking close to tokyo and arguing with her all of the time, i wouldn’t have to.”

berlin blinks, then exhales through his nose, amused.

“so that’s what this is about.” he tilts his head, eyes searching yours, “you’re jealous.”

“i’m not—”

“yes, you are.” berlin's fingers trace patterns along your collarbone.

“you think i want her?” he leans in again, lips just barely brushing against your jaw, “when i have you?”

your breath stutters. you hate how easily he does this to you, how effortlessly he dismantles your defenses.

“tokyo means nothing to me,” he continues, voice softening, but not losing its edge, “she’s a soldier. a piece in the game. but you?” his thumb presses against your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“you are mine.”

you hate how much you love hearing it.

berlin watches you carefully, reading every flicker of emotion across your face.

“say it,” he murmurs, “say you’re mine.”

the silence stretches between you, thick with tension. you should fight it. you should push him away, walk out that door, keep playing your game.

you don’t.

“i’m yours.”

berlin’s lips curl into a victorious smile, “good girl.”

then, he kisses you...hard, claiming, punishing. you meet him with equal intensity, fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. berlin's grip on your neck eases, sliding down to your back, pressing you flush against him.

the heat between you is undeniable, electric, all-consuming.

when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your lips, his hands finally leave your body.

“no more games, barcelona.”

you nod, but you both know better.

berlin may have won this round, but the game between you is far from over.

masterlist

#money heist berlin #money heist #money heist tokyo #money heist korea #park haesoo #cho sang woo #money heist berlin x reader #berlin x reader #la casa de papel #money heist fanfiction #money heist fanfic #money heist denver #money heist x reader

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funkychunkyjunky · 2 years ago

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oksana⛧☾༺♰༻☽⛧

main: skin, eyes, hair*, tattoos*

i: headband, earrings, necklace, acc top*, top, bag, belt 1 & 2, pants, shoes

ii: eyeliner, earrings, necklace, fur acc, gloves, dress, shoes

iii: eyeliner, headphones, earrings, necklace, coat, acc top, top, skirt, tights**, garter, shoes

iv: eyeliner, hat, earrings, top, acc thong, skirt, shoes

*TSR **simsfinds

ty cc creators!! @poyopoyosim @leahlillith @remussirion @shoestopia @cocoelleansims @greenllamas @pralinesims @poxsims @cool-content-star @belaloallure3 @babyetears @serenity-cc @dissiasims @pyxalicious @sims3melancholic @obscurus-sims @asansan3 @arethabee @sentate @regina-raven @seoulsoul-sims @sclub-privee @saruin @mssims @klubbsims @nsves @charonlee @bloodmooncc @miro-sims @savage-sims

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stabbyfoxandrew · 5 days ago

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mafia restaurant plz!

WIP Wednesday (6/18)| Mafia Front Restaurant AU (Part 332)

"Oh, what does he look like?" Ella asks, interest piqued. Andrew doesn't have the slightest notion why she suspects him of finding a man interesting. As if reading his mind, she scoffs. "I know you play for my team, I've seen you bring boys home."

"What are you, stalking me?"

"Stop deflecting! Tell me about this 'interesting' thing." Ella demands. Andrew takes a moment, trying to figure out how he can without spilling the whole pot of mafia beans. There are three different men involved, after all. Andrew tells her this and she wolf whistles. "My, my! I didn't know you had it in you, Minyard." Her voice lilts with an accent tripping over his last name, in a familiar way. "Tell me about your favorite one, then. Come on. I need details. Paint a photo for me."

"A picture." Andrew corrects.

"Whatever. Paint for me."

Andrew huffs. "He's almost my height. Auburn hair, blue eyes. Has scars on his face and hands that I can't figure out. And he always wears these nice, expensive suits that show off his ass."

"Ooh. What about the rest?" Ella asks next. Andrew can just see her waggling her thin brows with pursed lips.

"I haven't seen the rest."

"You haven't? All these weeks turning into months and you haven't bagged him! I can't believe this. I've seen you do it in under twenty minutes at the club!" Ella sounds like she's scolding him and Andrew hasn't got a clue where she thinks she's entitled to do so.

"I didn't meet him in a club. He's not somebody you blow in a bathroom stall. He's someone you talk to, get to know. He's annoyingly perceptive and bad at cards. The worst part is he's a fan of mine."

"Oh, how romantic. Just like those books I read." Ella says dreamily.

"It is nothing like the books you read." Andrew tells her. He has seen Ella's books. Most of their covers have half-naked hockey players on them. She forgot one on his couch once and Andrew couldn't resist peeking inside. That became a three-hour jaunt into one of the raunchiest things he'd ever seen in his life. He perhaps jacked it a time or two, to certain parts. No one will ever be able to prove it.

"Oh, of course not. You haven't fucked him in a locker room." Ella cackles. "Yet."

Andrew almost chokes on his tongue at the thought. He's quite sure Neil would go in for that. The locker room part, at the very least. "You're not funny," Andrew tells Ella.

"You like him, tell him!" She demands.

"I can't. He's an idiot." He's also very involved in organized crime. Andrew leaves that out. "He looks at me like I'm something special."

"You are!" Ella exclaims. "You're a fantastic goalie, Andrew. I know I don't follow exy closely, but I know how the game works. My brother used to play when we were children."

Andrew ignores her compliments. "I didn't know you had a brother."

"Mm." Ella inhales deeply and lets it out. "I don't, anymore. He is dead. It happened when I was small."

"Oh."

“Yes. It was devastating. We were very close.” Ella clicks her tongue and the conversation drops dead. The two of them linger though, just listening to each other breathe until Andrew hears the telltale sign that one of his fat cats has leapt onto her chest. An “Oof" is punched from Ella's lungs. "Oh, sweet boy. You are too heavy to cannonball me."

“Which one?" Andrew asks. Ella tells him it's Frack, the fatter of the two by half a pound.

"Are you going?"

"Going?"

"To New York City. That's where the Jaguars are, isn't it?" Ella asks, sounding sort of sad at the idea. "They're better, I hear. You would do well there."

Andrew hums noncommittally.

"Should I open it, read the contract to you?"

"No, I'm not interested. I'm fine where I am." Andrew tells her. And he means it. Sure, he has no friends in Denver except Ella. Sure, he's half a country away from everyone else he gives a fuck about. Aaron in Connecticut and Renee in North Carolina and of course, Coach and Abby and Betsy all in Palmetto. He thinks about it for a split second longer than he means to and curses himself for entertaining the idea. "Besides, I can't rip the kids away from school in the middle of the semester."

Ella laughs. "I don't think they would mind."

"You would, wouldn't you Frack? You would hate New York." Andrew says. As soon as the cat hears Andrew over the phone he yowls and yowls for him. Ella tries to explain to him that Andrew isn't actually there, but Andrew's son is a goddamn idiot. He ends up saying goodbye when Frick joins in with trilling meows, also searching for Andrew.

As he hangs up, Andrew wonders if he should've taken the cats back to the shelter and traded them in for smarter ones. Nah, he decides. He is not Aaron's mother's son. He commits to his stupid, ugly kids. (Hopefully Frick will never find a reason to murder him.)

#: )#Mafia Restaurant AU #WIP Wednesday #🕊️#answered #anon #long post

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scribblescrabbledepartment · 6 months ago

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winter break movie loggg with only a couple rewatches most of them were the first time for me. & a lot of New movies too

[ID: a collage page labeled "Winter Break 2024" at the bottom, covered with various scraps and stickers, including postage stamps, tea bag tags, and little Christmas-themed clippings. movie titles are scattered over the page, which are:

I Saw the TV Glow (2024) Baron Blood (1972) Pedro Páramo (2024) A Charlie Brown Christmas (1965) Phantom of the Opera (1943) Nosferatu (2024) Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead (1995) Terror-Creatures from the Grave (1965) City Hall (1996) Castle of Blood (1964)]

#collage #journal

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sslimbo · 1 year ago

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#Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead #1995 #Gary Fleder #Andy Garcia

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thebibliomancer · 3 months ago

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Essential Avengers: Avengers West Coast #70: The BIG ONE!

May, 1991

Guest-starring Spider-Woman! Enter: THE PACIFIC OVERLORDS!

Is that the Daidarabotchi? And we're fresh out of Cirnos.

The Avengers wouldn't let Cirno join because she looks a child. But they might refer her to the Power Pack.

But I digress.

Last time, the Avengers West Coast finally caught up on that new roster thing and booted US Agent out on his ass. So there's not a lot of last time to speak of because I think we may have turned a page.

See? Now we have Spider-Woman hanging around.

Okay, so jokes aside, one of the random comics I have is a random issue of a Spider-Woman comic where she mentions that she's with the West Coast Avengers so I'm hype.

I figure this must be how she establishes a rapport with the team, maybe even how she joins the team. Hank and Jan are quitting so they're going to be some people down.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Spider-Woman is hanging onto the Balboa Pavilion at the Newport Beach marina, wishing she was in Denver. She's literally just hanging out. She's not trying to do any superhero stuff. But she sees a boat coming into the marina under cover of darkness and figures the thing to do is investigate.

The book assumes that readers may not be familiar with Spider-Woman because how much has she even been in since then? She was in Freedom Force when they arrested the Avengers in that pair of linked annuals. And apparently, she was in some Iron Man and Spider-Man books.

Point being, Spider-Woman describes how her web works in pretty thorough detail. Her webs are made of psychic energy! So they fade away after a few seconds if Spider-Woman doesn't need them, instead of the hour that Spider-Man's chemical based webs take to break down. And because the webs are manifesting, not being webshot out of some webshooters, Spider-Woman can form webs at a distance or control their movements with her mind.

Also, manifesting the webs gives Spider-Woman a tingling senstation in her hands that she loves. Good to know.

Spider-Woman creates a web tether between the pavilion and some crates on the dock and slides down to spy on the boat coming in.

She happens to see Jawbreaker coming off the boat with Taifu slung over his shoulder and she also sees Kuroko unstealthing.

Julia Carpenter, Spider-Woman, sneaks after the two, to try and figure out whether this is a crime or not, but the dock creaks under her feet, giving her away.

Kuroko tells Jawbreaker not to let Julia get the trunk. Which she didn't even know she should be curious about before that. Good job, Kuroko.

Jawbreaker charges at Spider-Woman, who flips him into some crates. Which just makes him mad so he pops back up and pops Spider-Woman in the face.

Jawbreaker, failing to break her jaw: "Hey, you're tougher than you look, red! And faster!"

Spider-Woman: "I can type, too! Oh, yeah -- and I can do this!"

And she starts tangling him up with her psionic webs, which are described as looking like they're made of light. Buuuut, Jawbreaker is strong enough to tear through them.

When Spider-Woman tries to put some space between her and the big guy, Kuroko trips her. But that just tells Julia where the invisible woman is, which earns Kuroko a kick to the face. But getting distracted doing that earns Julia a punch into the ocean.

Kuroko criticizes Jawbreaker for punching the interloper somewhere they can't verify that she's dead but Jawbreaker don't give a crap.

Taifu wakes up and accuses Jawbreaker of having no respect for anyone, not even himself. Which earns that guy also a knockout blow. Back over the shoulder you go, Taifu.

Kuroko and Jawbreaker and also his trunk and Taifu cargo then fuck off before they attract any more attention.

Meanwhile, the Avengers West Coast finish up their first meeting with their new roster.

Tigra is all over Iron Man, declaring him even more on the ball than the original guy. Iron Man accepts the compliment awkwardly because secretly he is the original guy.

Hawkeye complains about being on probation. But, my dude, you had so many chances to not keep fighting US Agent.

Wonder Man is just grouchy.

And Dr Pym and Wasp are looking forward for things to settle down so they can quit and "get on with the rest of our separate-but-equal lives."

What a weird way to describe divorce, Hank. But Wasp agrees with the sentiment.

Apparently, Tigra has been chatting up Iron Man because she wants him to hook her up with his boss, Tony Stark.

(Oh, the ironies!)

Iron Man says he'll try but, uh, um, Stark is... out of town! Yeah, that's it!

Tigra basically shrugs that off and says since Iron Man has been standing in for Stark, he can take her on a date instead.

Oh, Tigra, you smooth operator.

Huh. It's been a minute since Tigra was trying to smooch on Iron Man. Back when her cat instincts made her hypersexual and she was trying to juggle Wonder Man, Iron Man, and Hank Pym at the same time.

But now she's got the cat soul under control so maybe these two crazy kids can make this work. Who knows?

I will say that Tigra quipping about getting a can-opener slew me.

Elsewhere, Hawkeye takes Scarlet Witch aside and apologizes. He was whining about being on probation when Wanda had her entire life implode in Byrne's run.

Wanda says that she's looking at that like another life, one she can't go back to, so she's going to focus on putting together a new life.

Hm. The Thomases are happy to undo some of Byrne's changes. Breaking up Hank and Jan again. Bringing Hawkeye officially back to the team. Booting US Agent. But I guess they don't want to revert the changes to Vision. Or can't think of a good way to do it. Or can't do it because Larry Hama now has dibs on Vision.

Who knows?

Quicksilver pops by, looking like a casual man in a sweater, and says that putting your life back together is such a Maximoff Move. And since he believes Wanda believes it, he feels it's time to move on.

He's happy to be a reserve member. Pitch in when needed. But characteristically, he's got a little bit of the wanderlust and he wants to go see the world "before your fellow humans ruin what little remains of it."

That's our Quicksilver.

Hawkeye points out that with himself, Quicksilver, and Scarlet Witch in one place, they've practically got a kooky quartet. Which leads Wanda to comment that they could use a leader like Cap to lead the Avengers West Coast. To Hawkeye's irritation because dammit, he was that leader before he quit in a huff!

Meanwhile, Hank and Jan discuss their respective plans. Jan is eventually going to move back East but she has some stuff she wants to do first that she doesn't want to talk about lest she incur bad luck.

(I suspect that the writer is just leaving her options open.)

image

Hank and Jan in this era continue to be the best at being divorced.

Of course, they don't have a lot of competition. This is before T'Challa and Storm get married and then have their marriage annulled. This is before Spider-Man sold his marriage to the devil. This is before Tony Stark fake married Emma Frost as part of a scheme. So I guess what I'm saying is that Hank and Jan are just better at being divorced than Hawkeye and Mockingbird or Scarlet Witch and Vision.

... Why are so many divorces concentrated in California?

When Wanda goes inside the Avengers Mansion, she runs into Wonder Man, who is on the phone setting up a date with a Sandra, who he met at the wrap party for "Beverly Hills Rich Persons II."

Calling a woman late at night and going 'hey you said call you anytime and this is a time, let's go on a date.'

He is very clearly doing this just to lash out at Wanda for not wanting to date him.

Scarlet Witch: "Oh, Wanda... Wanda... you really hurt him when you said the two of you shouldn't go out anymore. But it was too painful... knowing it was Simon's brain patterns that were used as the basis for the Vision... the husband who's now more lst to you than if he were in another galaxy."

I mean... Yeah!

It wasn't a great rebound relationship because Wonder Man and Vision were basically brothers.

Meanwhile, plot? Remember the plot?

Jawbreaker, Kuroko, the trunk, and the unconscious Taifu reach the Filmland in Wax museum in Costa Mesa. That's where their mysterious boss is set up.

Whose secret lair is cunningly hidden behind an Elvira.

I must admit, that's some old school hidden lair style that I really appreciate.

Although, when Jawbreaker comes into the hidden lab he loudly announces his presence, giving a minion a startle and causing him to drop a monitoring device.

The big boss yells that such a mistake will cost his life but clarifies that he means the idiot who dropped the thing, not Jawbreaker for causing it.

That's some old school villainy that I feel would be bad for morale.

Hello, Doctor Demonicus. He was a villain created for the licensed Marvel Godzilla book, a criminal geneticist with an interest in creating monsters. And now he's here!

Always fun when characters created for a licensed book make their way into the mainstream marvel stuff. See also: Machine Man and Death's Head.

Kuroko asks if it is safe for Doctor Demonicus to hide in the middle of an American city but as he explains, he tried having hidden island bases and even a space satellite base but they kept getting discovered!

He also has to admit that this base was nearly discovered, too.

When Human Torch and Living Lightning were fighting, back in issue 62, Doctor Demonicus though they were looking for him. But when he realized they weren't, he became intrigued and kidnapped Living Lightning in the instant before his apparent death at the hands of Dr Pym.

In fact, Doctor Demonicus has Living Lightning all bound up in science bondage in his lab. When he finally wakes up, Doctor Demonicus is going to give him an ultimatum to serve him or die. And since Demonicus' machines are needed to keep the unconscious Living Lightning from devolving into random electrical pulses... the or die is a very real threat.

Doctor Demonicus is very intrigued by Living Lightning. Not like the boring Taifu, who Doctor Demonicus created and knew would betray him.

And now it is time to reveal what is in the box that Jawbreaker has been lugging around.

IT'S THE LIFESTONE!

That's the radioactive meteor that Doctor Demonicus found and was using to create kaiju in his first appearance. SHIELD blasted the rest of it, so this little chunk is the last of the Lifestone.

Is he going to make a kaiju with it? That'd be fun. The Avengers haven't fought a kaiju since Acts of Vengeance. Or maybe that Tetrarchs of Entropy thing, if the giant entropy snake counts.

Anyway, elsewhere, Tigra and Iron Man return to the Avengers West Mansion from their bowling date.

They went bowling.

Amazing.

Although, Tigra doesn't seem too enthused. Impressed that Iron Man can bowl in his armor. But not enthused.

But Tigra sees a Spider-Woman shaped intruder and decides she'll get some fun this evening after all by beating up the intruder.

Tigra is just leaping to violence when Iron Man turns on his high beams to "stop you from making a fool of yourself, Tigra -- though I may be too late on that score."

You're not getting a second date, Iron Man.

Iron Man, Tony Stark, claims to have been the Iron Man during Secret Wars (he wasn't) to explain how he knows Spider-Woman. And he also ran into her in Iron Man #214.

This claim confuses Hawkeye because that would mean he met the new Iron Man during Secret Wars but new Iron Man never clarified that's when they first met.

But Iron Man badly covering up that he's the original guy is old news at this point.

Hawkeye questions what Spider-Woman is doing in Los Angeles, when she usually operates out of Denver.

She doesn't answer that.

Instead, she says she came to the Avengers West Coast because they're the only heroes she knows in the area. Then warns them about the Pacific Overlords that she ran into.

Later, Iron Man flies through the wall of the Filmland in Wax museum.

Spider-Woman clarifies that she got the impression from Jawbreaker and Kuroko's headquarters weren't far from Newport Beach but she can't be sure of that. And she definitely didn't say it was specifically here.

No, Hank Pym said it was specifically here. Using his science brain. And a device he invented that detected an unauthorized power source.

Dr Pym: "I didn't ask anybody to crash through that wall just for the thrill of watching concrete splatter."

Splatter is usually a wetter sound, I think. Maybe patter. That's a nice rubble-y noise.

Using his device, Dr Pym directs Iron Man to blast further into the wax museum, eventually finding his way to Doctor Demonicus' lab. His abandoned lab. Well, seemingly abandoned.

Because a big hand lashes out from around an equipment bank and crushes Dr Pym's device.

Iron Man and Hawkeye blast repulsors and shoot arrows at the Big One but he reflects the energy back at them as vibrational waves, that hit like a localized earthquake under their feet.

And its Scarlet Witch who susses that interaction out. Good job, Wanda! You don't often get to be the smart one in a fight when the team includes Dr Pym and Iron Man.

Spider-Woman makes an offhand comment that the Big One is so strong, "he's not gonna be beaten unless he trips himself up."

And Wanda can work with that.

She uses her probability altering power to make the floor right under Big One super slippery. How does probability alteration do that? Look... just go with it. Which allows Tigra to kick Big One so he trips and lands on his back like a turtle.

Wanda got the idea because Big One's legs were so short. In fact, his proportions are a lot like a big... baby...

Oh dangit the Avengers just beat up a giant mutated toddler.

Scarlet Witch vows that the Avengers are gonna do some avenging as soon as they figure out who experimented on a baby. And luckily, Big One happens to babble "dokk... mon-i-kuss..." cluing the Avengers who needs to be punched in the face.

Iron Man: "Dr. Demonicus!?" Hawkeye: "Sure! This kind of genetic tinkering's got his fingerprints all over it!" Tigra: "If it is him he'd better run for cover!" Dr Pym: "He already has Tigra. So now the real question is... where in the world do we start looking for him?"

In the next issue, I guess? Guest-starring Namor and Sunfire.

Well, next week time it is back to East Coast Avengers for the satisfyingly numbered issue #333. And then we look for Doctor Demonicus the time after the next time.

Follow @essential-avengers. Like and reblog. And always know where your towel is.

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