#but there's a tiny snippet that came to mind

[polinsated]

I love your fic idea about to wedding night redo. Have you started? 👀

Hello, and thank you. Yes, I have, actually. I've been writing a lot of details and dialogue ideas in my notes. It's so late for me, but I don't want to forget anything. Anyway, here's a rough little piece I've written out...

"I am sorry for my emotions. Once again, I find myself compelled to apologise to you for not allowing you to have the wedding night you deserved, in spite of my anger and worry for you during that time. I wish so much, that we could go back in time and redo that day, Pen."

"Colin..." Penelope presses her finger against his lip, silencing him. "Forgive me for saying so, but you need to stop talking."

Colin's mouth falls open just a bit, and his brow furrows in both shock and wonder at his wife's boldness. His eyes still shine with unshed tears. "But I was only trying to—"

"You do not need to keep apologising."

????? 😊

[mountaesan]

third time's the charm ; h. taesan

pairing. non-idol!taesan x reader genre. newly est. relationship au , fluff , chalant x chalant , taesan is down BAD  synopsis. when you’re a little too tipsy and a little too in love, it sometimes takes a few tries to get everything right. luckily, the third time’s the charm, right? word count. 1466 words warnings. none? kissing but they’re both drunk but it’s consensual  playlist. electric love by børns notes. cheesing like an idiot like this is ever going to happen to me

The low hum of summer crickets serenaded the quiet streets as you wandered aimlessly, shoes scuffing lazily against the pavement. Your bag dangled off one shoulder in a comical struggle to stay on, bouncing with every step like it too was tired of the night. The streetlamps blinked softly overhead, casting your sleepy figure in a patchy golden glow as the breeze curled around your body like a cool whisper, brushing against your skin and making your hair dance gently around your cheeks.

You paused, swaying slightly as you leaned dramatically against a streetlight for support, feeling the metal cool against your back. The night was gentle, the kind that felt like it had been dipped in honey—warm, unhurried, and laced with a kind of dreamy nostalgia. You breathed in deeply, the scent of asphalt and blossoms and leftover summer heat filling your lungs.

The echo of earlier laughter still clung to your mind—snippets of voices, clinking glasses, someone’s off-key karaoke rendition of a love song. You smiled at the memory, but it quickly faded into a soft groan as your head gave a tiny throb in protest. 

With a dramatic little sigh, you rummaged through your bag until your fingers curled around your phone. You brought it close to your face, squinting one eye open as the screen flickered brightly as it illuminated your face. 32%. Perfect. Just enough to call him.

Almost like he had read your mind, the phone buzzed in your palm. And then—his name. And just like that, your heart, previously snoozing somewhere near your stomach, flipped up to your throat.

Still clutching the streetlight, you lifted the phone to your ear, the cool screen brushing your cheek. “Hello?”

The line crackled softly before his voice reached you like warm honey. “Hi… where are you right now?”

“Hi…” Your voice instinctively softened, a dopey little smile tugging at your lips. You closed one eye, trying to get the world to stop moving. “Hey. I’m, uh… in front of the café. The one where you asked for my number.”

“Really? Me too.” 

You giggled, eyes sparkling. “Really? Then…” you dropped your voice to a hush, giddy and conspiratorial. “We should meet up. I miss you. Don’t you miss me?”

“Not anymore. Turn around.”

“Hm?”

You whipped your head around so fast you almost unbalanced yourself—but there he was, already walking up the sidewalk toward you, with his phone still pressed to his ear. Rushing toward you with such desperate joy, it looked like his legs might outrun his heart. The wind caught his hair, the streetlight caught the gleam in his eyes, and your breath caught in your throat.

“Haiii,” you waved both arms in the air like a doofus, grinning. He mirrored you instantly, waving back with a dramatic flourish like you were in some over-the-top romantic comedy. He skidded to a stop in front of you, cheeks tinged pink from the run or from seeing you—you weren’t sure which, but your own face burned to match.

“Hi. Did you have fun with your friends?” He was a little breathless, his chest rising and falling in gentle waves, but his gaze never wavered from you. You rocked gently back and forth, still clinging to the streetlight like a sleepy koala.

“Yeah, but I think I drank too much.” Your pout came naturally, and he responded by guiding you gently toward a bench tucked under a streetlamp. You flopped down onto it with a soft oof, the cool metal seeping through your jeans. He followed, sitting close enough that your shoulders nearly touched.

“It’s okay. I drank a lot too.” Silence settled like a blanket as he dug through his bag. You let your eyes flutter shut—just a second, just a blink—

A cold sensation suddenly pressed against your cheek and you yelped, jerking awake. Your eyes shot open to find Taesan grinning, holding a chilled can of coffee to your face like it was some kind of love offering.

“Jeez… you scared me.” you mumbled, blinking blearily. He laughed and cracked open the can before placing it reverently in your hands.

“Are you buying this for me? I’m so touched…” you teased, holding the can close to your chest like a precious gift. You both laughed, easy and breathless.

Then Taesan tilted his head, thoughtful. “Wait, this is kinda giving me deja vu. You know the last time when we went out drinking with some other friends and you and I both stepped for air at the same time? And we were super drunk?”

You squinted at the night sky, lips pursed in concentration before your face lit up with recognition. “Oh! Yeah! It kind of is deja vu, huh?”

“Oh, man. That was really funny. Do you remember? We almost ki—“

His voice faltered. Like the memory had caught up to him too fast. You could feel your ears warming up as you stared very intently at the cracks in the sidewalk. Taesan glanced away. 

You cleared your throat, trying to rescue the moment. “I mean… yeah… We were—“

“Do you want to kiss?”

“—yeah, sure, let’s kiss.”

You froze. The words had practically sucker punched you. “Huh?”

“Do you want to kiss?” He said it slowly, deliberately. Your brain stalled, unsure if you were dreaming or just tipsy enough to hallucinate.

“What… what did you just say?”

There was a moment of stunned silence between you.

Then he groaned and threw his hands over his face. “AURGH, I must be going insane. I’m so sorry. This isn’t smooth at all. This doesn’t seem right but I don’t know how else I’m supposed to be going about this. Other people tell me that it comes naturally but how am I supposed to be natural at something I’ve never done before? I don’t even know how to—I don’t even know when the timing is right.”

You watched him spiral like a tornado in real time, his words tumbling out and spinning faster and faster as his fingers pulled at his hair and his foot bounced against the ground. And even through the dizziness, you couldn’t help but smile. He was just so stupidly sincere.

“That’s why I asked,” he mumbled. “If I can kiss you.”

Feeling brave (and just a little mischievous), you leaned in slightly, lips curled into a smirk. “What if I say no?”

He looked straight ahead. “Then I’ll respect that. And be very, very sad.” His eyes flicked toward you, mouth forming the tiniest of pouts. “You don’t want to?”

You let out a small, breathless laugh. “You’re so cute.”

“Huh?”

Before he could blink, you leaned in and kissed him. Just a short one. Sweet and soft and dizzyingly real. You pulled back and saw his eyes—wide, stunned, glowing like moonlight caught in glass.

“Th—there, we did it. We kissed.” Your voice was barely a whisper, as if saying it too loudly would break the spell.

“Y-yeah. We did. We did it.”

His hands curled into excited fists in his lap, knuckles pale from the effort of staying still. “Th—that was too fast. Wait. Can we do it one more time?”

You laughed, incredulous. “What?”

Taesan looked positively giddy. You placed your hands on either side of his face, the way you’d always imagined in cheesy dramas, and pressed your lips to his again.

“AH!” Taesan immediately whipped around, hands in the air like he’d just won a gold medal. “WHAT!”

You giggled behind your hand, eyes sparkling.

“Woah… I’m only saying this because it feels surreal, but can we try one more time?”

“You…!” Your laughter came out in full now, sparkling and unstoppable, and Taesan’s grin matched yours. This time, he leaned in first—shy, but certain—and your lips met again, softer, surer.

When he finally pulled away, just enough to see your face, his smile was dazzling. You leaned in to pepper his lips with a flurry of quick kisses and he burst into a laugh, breathless and radiant.

“Are you happy now?” You asked, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“Yeah.” He leaned back, his whole body buzzing with joy. “Can, can I just take a quick lap around here? This just doesn’t feel real—“

You laughed, waving him off. “Yes! Go, go!”

Taesan pointed at you dramatically, eyes alight. “Stay right there!”

Then he launched off the bench like he’d been lit from within. Arms flailing, he let out a triumphant whoop that echoed down the empty street. You watched as he sprinted ahead—skipping, twirling, throwing his fists into the air like a man hopelessly smitten.

You sank into the bench with a breathless grin, your fingers brushing over your lips like a secret only you two knew. Your heart beat fast, giddy and light, as though it were trying to chase after him.The stars above blinked knowingly as you sighed. 

The air had turned quieter, softer somehow, as if even the crickets had paused to give the moment some room. You sat back, lips tingling and heart stammering in your chest, still tasting the ghost of his nervous laughter.

He stayed beside you, not saying a word, but everything about him spoke anyway—the way his shoulders relaxed for the first time all night, the gentle way his knee brushed against yours, the way he kept glancing at you like he couldn’t believe any of it was real. The silence wasn’t awkward.

It felt like something sacred, sealed in starlight and shared warmth.

ᰋ liked this ? consider liking, reblogging, or providing feedback !

ᰋ want more ? send in an ask to be added to my taglist !

taglist. @taylorluvation @mimimimiaa

[misspygmypie]

Meet & Greet... and more? Pt. 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x reader Words: 2492 Click here for Part 1

Please do not repost, thank you, and leave some feedback :)

It was a quiet evening at Lando’s apartment. The driver sat hunched over his laptop, his focus fixed on race strategies and upcoming circuits. His thoughts, though, were miles away from racing. They lingered on the Meet & Greet event from a few days ago, the moment he had met Y/N and her adorable 4-year-old son, Noah.

Lando had been smitten from the first minute he saw Y/N. Her genuine smile and the way she looked at Noah with such love had tugged at something deep inside him. He had given her his number with the hope that it would lead to something more, but as the days passed with no text or call, his hopes began to fade away.

Oscar had noticed the cloud hanging over Lando. During a break at the team headquarters he approached his team mate. “So, have you heard from Y/N yet?”

Lando’s eyes had lost their usual sparkle as he shook his head. “No, nothing. I’m starting to lose hope, to be honest. Maybe she just wasn’t interested.”

“You never know, mate,” Oscar had replied, “she might just be a bit shy or overwhelmed. Give it time.”

And so Lando had continued with his daily routine, a part of him still hoping, even if it was only a flicker. Then, on this particular evening, his phone buzzed, jolting him from his thoughts. It was a message from an unknown number and he frowned, unlocking the device and opening the text.

He glanced down, and his heart skipped a beat.

Y/N: Hi Lando, it’s Y/N from the Meet & Greet last week. I just wanted to say thank you again for the great time and the bear. Noah loves it and is always hugging it when he sleeps. Here’s a photo of him with his new best friend 😊

He looked at the photo and felt a huge smile instantly creeping on his face. Noah was nestled comfortably in his bed, the bear clutched tightly in his tiny arms. The sight of the peaceful sleeping child with the bear’s head peeking out from the covers made Lando’s heart melt.

He quickly started typing a response but paused, his fingers hovering over the screen. He wanted to convey how much it meant to him that Noah loved the gift but he also wanted to make sure his message came across just right. He was a professional at handling high-speed racing strategies, but this - this was a whole different kind of nerve-wracking.

Finally, he took a deep breath and typed:

Lando: Hey Y/N! Thank you for sending this, it’s absolutely adorable! I’m so happy Noah loves the bear and it was really great meeting you both. Is Noah usually this sweet when he’s sleeping or is he just showing off to his new bear? 😄 Hope you’re doing well!

He hit send and immediately felt a wave of nervous excitement. He glanced at the screen, replaying his message in his mind, hoping it didn’t sound too over the top or awkward. A few seconds later, he received a reply.

Y/N: Thanks, Lando! He’s usually a bit of a tornado during the day, so it’s nice to see him so peaceful at night 😄 We’re doing well and he keeps talking about meeting you. How about you? How’s everything going?

Lando’s smile widened and he felt a renewed sense of hope. They were actually starting a conversation and eagerly he tapped out a response with new found confidence:

Lando: Things are going great, thanks for asking! The racing is keeping me busy, but it’s always exciting. I’d love to hear more about what you and Noah have been up to?

As he hit send Lando leaned back in his chair, still smiling happily for the first time in days. The city lights outside seemed a little brighter and the race strategies on his laptop took a back seat for the rest of the night.

From that day on, each morning Lando would wake up and check his phone, eagerly scrolling through the messages from Y/N. Her texts were often filled with snippets of her and Noah’s daily life. 

One morning, Y/N sent him a snapshot of herself and Noah at a local park. Y/N was smiling brightly, looking effortlessly beautiful in a casual, sunlit setting.

Y/N: Just a day out at the park with Noah. He’s been running around non-stop!

Lando stared at the photo, struck by how stunning Y/N looked. Her natural beauty and radiant smile had him feeling a bit flustered. How does she manage to look this beautiful all the time? he wondered. And how is someone like her still single?

As their conversations continued, Lando found himself constantly impressed by Y/N. Whether it was a candid shot of her cooking dinner, playing with Noah, or simply relaxing at home she always appeared effortlessly beautiful. Another day, Y/N sent him a photo of Noah proudly showing off his latest artwork: a crayon drawing of a race car.

Y/N: Noah wanted to send you a picture of his latest masterpiece. He says it’s a McLaren, but I think he might be a bit optimistic! 😄

Lando chuckled at the message and immediately typed back.

Lando: That’s fantastic! I love it. Noah’s got quite the artistic talent. I’ll have to show this to my team, they might want to hire him for some design work!

In return, Lando shared stories from his life at McLaren, often with a humorous twist.

Lando: So, yesterday I was running late for a meeting and accidentally wore mismatched socks. Of course, I didn’t realize until halfway through the day when one of the engineers pointed it out. They’ve been teasing me about it ever since!

She replied with a laughing emoji and a playful message:

Y/N: Sounds like you’re fitting right in with the team! At least it’s not as bad as the time I tried to make dinner and ended up with something that looked like a science experiment gone wrong. Noah still teases me about it!

Their exchange of stories and photos continued and Lando loved hearing about their adventures and looked forward to the new stories they’d share. Then, one afternoon, he decided it was time to suggest an in-person meeting. He drafted a message and it took him nearly two hours to actually send it off.

Lando: Hey Y/N! I’ve been thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed our conversations these past few weeks. It’s been great getting to know you and Noah better. I’ve got a weekend off coming up in three weeks and I was wondering if you’d be up for meeting in person. I could fly out and we could grab coffee or something. Let me know what you think!

When he got Y/N’s reply it made Lando’s day.

Y/N: Hi Lando! That sounds amazing. I’ve really enjoyed our chats too. Noah would be thrilled to meet you again and it would be great to catch up in person. Let’s definitely plan for that weekend. I’ll look forward to it!

Lando: Awesome! I’m really looking forward to it. I’ll keep you updated with my flight details as we get closer to the date. Can’t wait to see you both!

________

As he settled into his apartment after a long day of working out and preparations for the next race he couldn’t wait any longer to share his next idea with Y/N. Over the past few days he had been thinking about how much he wanted to see them much earlier and he was nervous to find out what Y/N would say.

Lando: Hey Y/N! I was thinking... instead of our planned coffee date, how about joining me at the next race? I’d love for you and Noah to come. What do you think?

He hesitated for a moment before hitting send, his heart racing. A few hours later, Y/N’s response appeared on his phone. 

Y/N: Wow, Lando, that’s an incredible offer! I’m sure Noah would be thrilled to see the race but honestly, I’m not sure if we can afford the travel expenses right now. It’s a bit beyond our budget.

Lando’s heart sank a little but he was determined to make this work. He quickly typed back:

Lando: Please don’t worry about the cost, I’d really like to cover everything for you and Noah. It would mean a lot to me to have you both there. Just let me know if that works for you!

He felt hopeful. He wanted to ensure that money wasn’t an issue and that they could enjoy this experience without any worries. Minutes felt like hours as he waited for her response. Finally, Y/N’s reply came through:

Y/N: Lando, that’s so incredibly kind of you. I’m sure Noah will be ecstatic about this! I really appreciate your generosity and can’t believe how thoughtful you are. I’ll talk to him and start making arrangements. Thank you so much!

Lando’s smile grew wider as he read her message. He quickly responded:

Lando: I’m thrilled you’re excited! I’ll handle all the details, flights, hotel and race passes. I want to make sure everything is perfect for you both. I’ll send you all the information shortly. Can’t wait to see you again soon!

The next day he coordinated every detail meticulously, ensuring that everything was taken care of for their visit. He could hardly keep his excitement to himself and it didn’t take long for Oscar to notice the change in Lando’s mood.

The two drivers sat together in the lounge area, enjoying a rare moment of downtime between team talks. While Oscar sipped his coffee and flipped through a magazine Lando practically radiated with joy.

“Alright, spill it,” Oscar demanded, setting the magazine aside. “You’re practically glowing. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Lando’s eyes sparkled as he looked at Oscar, clearly unable to keep his emotions contained. “So, Y/N and Noah, right?”

“What about them?”

“Well,” Lando said, practically bouncing in his seat, “I Invited them to the race next week.”

Oscar’s curiosity piqued. “And?”

“And,” Lando continued, “they are able to make it!”

Oscar’s smile widened. “That’s fantastic news,” he beamed at his friend and meant every word. Lando had been talking about them nonstop since the Meet & Greet and especially after Y/N had finally texted him back. Lando would update him on their texts and show him the pictures he would get.

Lando’s grin widened even further. “It means a lot to me that they’re coming out. I’m really looking forward to seeing them again and showing them around the paddock properly this time.”

“I’m really happy for you, mate, it sounds like it’s going to be a great weekend.”

“Thanks! I can’t wait to see them!”

________

Y/N looked out the kitchen window, a soft smile playing on her lips as she imagined Noah’s reaction. Noah was sprawled on the floor, concentrated on arranging his small collection of toy cars.

“Hey, Noah,” Y/N called out, trying to keep her voice casual while she bubbled with excitement. “Can you come over here for a minute?”

Noah set aside his cars and trotted over to his mom, his tiny sneakers scuffing against the kitchen tiles. “What is it, Mommy?”

Y/N knelt down so she was eye-to-eye with him. “Guess what? Lando invited us to the next race!”

“Really? We’re going to see Lando again?” Noah’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“Yes” Y/N confirmed, her excitement barely contained. “We’re going to fly out to watch the race and spend some more time with Lando!”

Noah jumped up and down, his little fists pumping in the air. “This is the best day ever! Can I bring my toy cars to show Lando? And my Lando hat?”

“Of course you can bring your toy cars and I’m sure Lando will be thrilled to see your hat.”

Noah’s excitement was contagious. “Can we start packing now? I want to make sure we don’t forget anything!”

“Not just yet,” Y/N said, chuckling. “We still have a little bit of time before we leave. But we can start picking out your favorite race car pajamas and making a list of what to bring.”

Noah nodded vigorously. “I’m going to wear my pajamas every day until we go! And I’ll make a special drawing for Lando too. Can I put it in his car?”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea. I’m sure Lando will love it.”

As traveling day approached, excitement filled the air at Y/N’s home. Noah could hardly contain himself, racing around the house with his favorite race car pajamas and a carefully packed backpack full of toy cars and race-themed items. Y/N, on the other hand, was busy with last-minute preparations, ensuring everything was ready for their trip.

Finally Y/N stood in the hallway, surveying the scene: a large suitcase packed with essentials, Noah’s backpack and a neatly organized tote bag filled with snacks and travel necessities. The sight of it all made her smile, but she had one more thing to do before they left.

With a grin, Y/N picked up her phone and snapped a quick picture. In the photo, a Lando cap poked out of Noah’s backpack and next to it was a little sign that read “Ready for the race!” She made sure to include a glimpse of Noah’s favorite race car pajamas draped over one of the bags.

She typed out a quick message to Lando, her excitement evident in every word:

Y/N: We’re all packed and ready for the big race! 🏁 Noah is beyond excited and insisted on showing off his race car pajamas and Lando hat. We thought you might like to see how ready we are for the adventure. Y/N & Noah

With a satisfied smile Y/N hit send. She knew Lando was busy, but she hoped the photo would bring a smile to his face.

A few hours later, as Y/N and Noah were finishing their final preparations, Y/N’s phone buzzed with a new message. She picked it up and saw a reply from Lando, accompanied by a photo of his own.

Lando: Hey Y/N! Wow, you guys are definitely race-day ready! 😎 I love Noah’s hat and pajamas. Can’t wait to see you both. I’ve got a little surprise planned for Noah! See you soon!  

Y/N showed the message to Noah, who was practically bouncing with excitement. “Look, Noah! Lando says he has a surprise for you!”

“A surprise?” the boy’s eyes widened. “What do you think it is, Mommy?”

Y/N shook her head with a smile. “I’m not sure, but I’m sure it will be something amazing!”

_________

Click here for Part 3

Tag: @barcelonaloverf1life @remmysthings

[eightpackdiaz]

was listening to so high school and i got struck with a kingdon vision…an exes (to lovers) au

(there’s like 2k words under the cut, i dont know what came over me)

so mel and frank met in her first year of undergrad, he was already in his third year, and the way they met was…almost cliché, really, it’s the first day back from summer break, and half his classes already are swamping him with work so he walks his ass to the library because he wants to be a doctor, and he will do well in school, and he will prove his father wrong. except he gets there and the tables are full, because of course they are, it’s still summer and the library has AC so people are there and not even half of them are actively studying. But he looks for a table and there’s one little two person table right next to the back window and he can see a girl already sitting there. She has her back to him, so all he sees is a loose blonde french braid, the back of a pink tshirt, and a very neat pile of books to her right. He feels bad asking because he also doesn’t like sharing the table, but he really needs to start studying, so he walks up to her.

Once he’s in front of her, he forgets what he is going to say for a second. He can’t really see her face, but he can see glasses, and a face covered in sun-kissed freckles, and he thinks his heart is beating a little too fast, and oh fuck. she’s looking up at him with a tiny smile and, wow, okay, maybe that’s what it feels like to meet someone who is your type (even if he previously thought he didn’t have *a* type).

She says “can i help you with something?” and he white knuckles his backpack strap to keep himself from doing something stupid like reaching out and adjusting her glasses, he powers through

“Hi, sorry, do you mind if i sit here? i really need to get started on my papers, and people are here and they’re not even doing homework! how’s that okay? anyways, sorry, i know it can be annoying to share a table, but i promise i really just need to study” why is he rambling?!, he hasn’t been a rambler for years and now she’s looking at him funny but she doesn’t look put off yet, that’s good.

“of course you can! i understand, it can be upsetting that people don’t use the library for actual studying. my name is melissa, but everyone calls Mel, nice to meet you” she punctuates this last sentence with the cutest little wave he had ever seen anyone over the age of 5 make, and woah okay he’s staring, he needs to get a grip

“i’m frank! nice to meet you, are you new here? i don’t think i’ve seen you before, i would remember” okay why is he sounding flirty, he need to stop he said he was only gonna study and he really meant it, but she doesn’t seem to register it or simply chose to ignore it,

she gives him a bigger smile and says “i am! first year of undergrad, i take it you’ve been here longer?”

“i’m starting my third year of biochem, hoping to go to medical school after!”

“me too! not biochem, i mean, i want to go to medical school once i finish mine, i’m in biology!”

and so they start studying, he’s doing his best to not be fidgety and annoying, but he can’t help it and he finds himself stopping himself like four different times, until she very obviously catches him the last one.

“i understand if you need to fidget, it won’t bother me, and i’m sure it would help you focus more, i sometimes need to stim to really concentrate”

and he just looks at her, in awe, because this is the first time someone *isn’t* bothered by his fidgeting

And so they have little snippets of a conversation during their hours of study that day, at the end he tells her that he would like to do this again, and she smiles, and tells him she would too, and before he knows it they’ve exchanged numbers, with mel explicitly stating “i do prefer phone calls because i have a hard time deciphering people’s tones via text” and as he sees her walk away he gets a feeling deep in his bones that his life is never going to be the same again

during that first week they study together three times, he’s not ashamed to say he reached out the very next day after that first meeting, and actually, he’s not ashamed to say he reach out all three of those times, but every single time he called, he was met with a bright and warm “hi frank! how are you doing today?”, so all things considered he’s more than happy to keep doing it.

studying with mel is amazing, really. they’re a great team, he learns a lot from her, and tells her that. he has the wild thought that if they were to practice together, they would save s lot of patients.

they’ve been study buddies for about three weeks when for the very first time, they hang out without the pretense of homework, he invited her to go with him to try a new pizza place he heard about, and truly, he has no expectations.

he likes her, of course he does, shes so beautiful, and so smart, and her eyes are so bright, and even when he can tell that she’s missing her sister she never lets that affect the way she treats others, always so kind and patient. she’s in no uncertain terms someone who he knows he’s gonna fall inlove with, he just knows she doesn’t see him that way, and he’s okay with that.

mel is the funniest person he’s ever met. he spends half the dinner laughing and he thinks that maybe she doesn’t first get most jokes but my god her own sense of humour is amazing, and they have enough rapport now that she can appreciate some of his darker jokes, especially because since day one he now follows them immediately with “its a joke”, and it’s great, and god, he wishes this was a date.

he feels it important to note that whilst she does recoil to most people’s touch or proximity, after that very first day she has been okay with him standing or being near, he doesn’t touch her much, doesn’t want to test his luck, and also doesn’t think his heart could handle it. but he’s always near, always almost touching, and she lets him, and he feels like he has done something right.

so for about two weeks after that, they start hanging out more and more, yeah he has a friend group, and she’s making her own friends but they make time for each other. they meet for coffee on the way to campus, or meet in between classes just to talk about anything other than school, and little by little he can tell that this crush of his is becoming more.

they’ve known each other for about two months, when they’re in his apartment, his roomates aren’t there (yes he made sure of this, no not like *THAT*) and they’re watching a movie, and they’re sitting in the sofa and then she leans her head on his shoulder.

his heart is going a mile a minute, she initiated the contact and god, her hair smells like strawberries, and he can feel her breathing through his tshirt, and he feels her cheek move, so now he knows she’s smiling.

the movie ends, and she looks up, they hold eye contact for about 5 seconds before he blurts out “wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme” before he chickens out

she just blinks, and he sees her trying to process it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

“yes, i would like to go on a date with you. i like you, and i could tell that you liked me too, but figured maybe i was confusing signals because you didn’t ask”

and so he explains, that no, he very much does like her but he is a coward. she just smiles and says “i would never call you a coward”

and so they go on a date, he’s had a handful of first dates in his life, but he has never felt this at peace in one before, there’s nerves of course there’s nerves, but it’s like his system knows, it’s like it’s saying “there you are, i’ve been waiting for you” and it lets him feel calm.

the date is amazing, he asks if he can hold her hand, and her answer is to take his hand and swing their joined hands between them and he thinks his heart will explode. at the end of the date, he walks her to her house. he asks if he can kiss her, and he sees her thinking about it, but he waits, he will always wait for her.

she nods, short and determined. he leans in, projecting his movements so she knows what to expect.

he swears he can see fireworks when he closes his eyes, he feels like floating, her hands are clutching the front of his shirt and he decides that it’s his favourite thing ever. they part, he bids her good night and takes a deep breath after she enters her house, he feels delirious to think it, but one day he’s going to marry that girl.

he meets becca after dating mel for six months. becca’s funny, and crazy smart. she tells him in no uncertain terms “i told mel to find someone to kiss at college, so you’re welcome” the responding blush in mel’s checks is what frank’s dreams are made of.

they have a lot of firsts, firsts for him, firsts for her, and firsts together.

they date for about two years. he knows this is it, he knows he’s never going to love anyone the way he loves her, he’s known it from the very first time he sat in front of her.

then he gets accepted to med school on the other side of the country, and he knows she won’t want a long distance relationship because they’ve talked about it, and she loved him but this was a boundary for her, and he applied there because his mom moved to pittsburgh last year after the divorce, and he misses her, and because he really likes their medical program, and because mel from the very beginning told him to stick to his life plan because as much as they love each other, they both have dreams, and those dreams might be similar but they’re not the same.

The day he gets the acceptance letter, they both know their relationship has an expiration date. They are officially together right until the morning he’s set to move away. They wanted to break up amicably, they still love each other so deeply, he thinks knows she will always be his one true love. They kiss goodbye, and they’re both crying, and as soon as they part she says “i love you, and i want you to be happy, so please. try to move on, we can be friends in a few months, but first, we need to try to move on”

the day they become friends again never comes. he loves her so much it aches, but he knows she’s right, and he also knows they might never see each other again, and he needs to focus on med school, and if he can do something is make his mom proud and prove his dad wrong, and…

goddamn it, its been two years and he still can feel the ghost of her touch, he can still hear the way he used to call her name, he can still….he needs to stop. he needs to get laid, he needs to move on. she probably has moved on already, he doesn’t know, because he’s been too much of a coward to check, and because she said to be friends when they move on, and he hasn’t moved on so why even try to reach out.

abby is the polar opposite of mel, she’s also clearly into him and he thinks she’s fun and attractive so he goes for it, he knows there’s a saying about getting under someone to get over someone, and he’s drunk enough that he doesn’t care that she’s not who he really wants her to be.

“i’m pregnant” abby says into the phone, it’s late, and he was studying for an exam, and he’s in the middle of his third year of med school. what the fuck is he going to do.

abby and him are friends, they like each other, they fuck sometimes, and she wants to keep the baby, and he likes her enough to think that he might convince himself one day that he loves her.

so life goes on, they get married because her parents want that, they have tanner and he loves his son, and there’s a pandemic, and he’s just starting his residency and the world is falling apart, but things get better, him and abby are still really good friends, he tells himself he’s not lying to her when he says he loves her, because he’s not, she’s the mother of his kids, and he does love her, she’s just not. well.

it’s just another random thursday, and he’s leaning on the desk in front of him because his back is killing him and he’s only been here like 20 minutes, but he’s trying to space out his pills so, he is doing his best, and then robby wants to introduce the….

he knows that braid. he hasn’t seen her face, and robby is talking but he knows that…

“…second year resident, dr melissa king, fresh from the VA” robby says, like this isn’t taking the air straight out of frank’s lungs. he blinks, looks away and at the computer because this can’t be happening, she’s here. his life is falling apart, his back is killing him, abby is angry at him for god knows why, but shes here, his mel is here.

“everyone calls me mel. i’m so happy to be here” he wonders if she hasn’t realized he’s right behind her. he’s looking at that braid, he’s standing behind her and he can’t stop staring, and he’s suddenly 20 years old again.

[gremlin-girly]

Dorky & Do-able

For @yenzys-lucky-charm 's Cranky! Grumpy! Stabby! Oh my! Challenge

Pairing: Jake Jensen x f!reader

Prompt: "Are you trying to turn me on or are you just that oblivious?"

Not beta'd and I don't give permission for my work to be reposted, copied, translated or put through an AI machine.

Tags/warnings: Highly Suggestive Content, no smut but hoe thoughts ✊🏻😔, fluff, a sort of confession, Jake being an oblivious dweeb (bless him), 18+

Summary: Aisha's cute friend Jake drives you insane with impure thots thoughts. And there's only so much a girl can take.

Word count: 1.6k

A/N: I had a few prompts lined up (because this was so fun!) But I just had so many wips I couldn't make it through 🥲 shout out to @bigtreefest who I word associated with Jake and @brandycranby for sandwich one snippet!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

Jake Jensen Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Alisha had warned you about flirting with her other friends - about Clay's Cassanova Cowboy charm, Roque's brtuish tough-guy facade, Cougar's silent sultriness, how Pooch was happily married... however, she had omitted to warn you about one adorably dorky and utterly do-able Jake Jensen.

He half trips over himself when he greets you and beams a smile so bright you swear puppies and rainbows magically surround him. You were smitten at first sight and tried so very hard not to flirt or flounce every time you saw him, per Aisha's warning glare.

That did not mean, however, that Jake made it easy on you for the week you spent visiting your best friend.

The first time it happens - you can kind of blame yourself. You were staring. It's not your fault he was a snack, or your fault you'd used your laptop as a bath bomb and asked him to fix it, but the way his tongue runs over his bottom lip ought to be a crime.

His eyes are fixed on your motherboard - you think that's what that is anyway - focused with an intensity that surprised you and it did things to you that was only spoken about in books.

"How did you learn to do this?" You ask more dreamily than you intend - not that Jake notices. He has to shake himself from his thoughts to give you a smile and an answer.

"Oh... you know - I was just always good at fixing stuff like this." He shrugs and turns back to the pieces of your laptop.

"Uh huh."

He picks up a tiny screwdriver and gently pries under a piece of metal. "It came in handy when my mom or sister needed me to do something."

"That right?"

Jake peeks up at you, smiling again and you want to tackle him. "It was nice to feel useful. Like a handyman or something."

"Well, it's nice to jnow you're more than a pretty face." You're about to wink at him, but the slam of Aisha's mug on the countertop startles you both, and you resign yourself to an apologetic smile her way and watch Jake's cheeks grow pink in your peripheral.

Chin in your palms you continue to watch him work, hoping he or anyone else in the room, didn't suddenly develop the power of telepathy.

You feel cursed. Wanting something you can't have is one thing but craving something you've never had is an entirely different ball game.

You had popped to the store for some snacks and had totally accidentally bumped into Jake. Well, he bumped into you. You were too busy trying to look nonchalantly to the snacks at the very top of the shelves - ones you certainly could not reach.

"Hey!" Jake greets, again with that goofy grin. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Hi." You try not too excited. "What a coincidence."

"Yeah!" Jake clears his throat and looks up to where you'd been staring before looking back at you. "Want me to grab those chips for ya?"

"Oh, if you wouldn't mind!"

You couldn't care less about the chips. They weren't even your favourites. Any excuse to talk to him without Aisha present was a chance worth taking.

However, as he reaches up, your eyes catch on his bright graphic tee just in time for the material to rise up and reveal his snail trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his jeans.

Time stops. You wish you could rewind time. The unbearable throb of want coursing through your body like a drug makes you want to scream in the middle of the store. You dont even notice, in your stupor, that Jake is holding the chips to you until he says your name.

"You okay?"

He looks so concerned, bless his cotton socks and you have to wipe your mouth to make sure you haven't drooled anywhere.

"Headache." You lie quickly. "I'll be fine."

"Oh, man, uh... do you want me to drop you back?"

You cant think of anything worse than being trapped in a close space with him at this moment in time so you wave your hand and tell him you'll enjoy the stroll back alone (with your impure thoughts).

The following day, everyone is gathered for a late lunch. Jake had promised the sandwiches from a local deli were the best around and the comment had gone uncontested so, suffice to say you were excited to try what was on offer. However, once again, you were only here to suffer.

"Oh fuck -" Jake moans around his sandwich loudly and as he moves it back, he's licking away sauce from his lips and fingers. "Tastes so good."

The table creaks under your white knuckle grip. You are close to your fucking limit with this guy. Your jaw sets, your thighs clamp shut and you beg for mercy on your soul. Someone this hot cannot know what he's doing.

You are seconds away from slamming your face against the table when Jake's blue eyes flick up from his sandwich (which does look ridiculously good) and meet yours with an innocently curious gaze.

"You not gonna eat?"

There is only one thing on your mind right now that you want to eat and that is one Jake Jensen.

"It's good I promise." He continues when you only stare at him wide eyed as he licks a finger again. "It'll blow your mind."

"Are you trying to turn me on or are you just that oblivious?" You blurt suddenly, causing Pooch to almost choke on his sandwich and Roque to gag on the straw of his drink.

Jake's cheeks go pink and he half gapes at you like a fish unsure of what to say while you continue to stare him down waiting on an answer. You then point at Aisha who's sat across from you.

"Did she put you up to this?"

"I - what - no!" Jake blunders looking around the table for help but his friends are either being rescued from choking or snickering to themselves.

"I didn't do anything." Aisha protests and fixes you with a sarcastic smile. "But watching your brain break has been great."

"I hate you." You say flatly, staring at your best friend in disbelief, trying not to let the corners of your lips twitch. "This week has been torture."

"Uhhh, can I ask what this is about?" Jake says quietly, taking another bite of his sandwich and looking between you and Aisha.

"To answer your previous question; yes he is just that oblivious." Aisha says, leaning back to pop a fry in her mouth. "And your ban is lifted."

"Oh wow," you raise your eyebrows. "That's.... wow."

Jake shakes his head slightly going back to his sandwich. He'll just have to make sure he asks you later.

Later, as you pad to the bathroom ready to complete your nightly routine, you bump into Jake on his way out; hair and skin sparklingly moist, taut muscles and tats on display all the way down to the towel cinched around his slutty waist like nobody's business. Without his glasses he looks just as good, if not better. You can't help as your tongue darts out across your lips, it's the best you can allow otherwise you would be licking him.

"Hey."

"Hi." You eke out, mouth dry. You force your eyes to stay on his face but there's taunting rivulets of water running down the lines of his muscles, following his snail trail and into the towel.

"I need to-" he points past you to his room and you jump out of his way.

"Sorry."

As you enter move to enter the bathroom, he calls your name and you turn back and he's studying you closely, as if trying to catch you out.

"Earlier today, at the table." He begins slowly. "What was that about?"

This is the worst interrogation ever.

"Uhhh... when?" Playing dumb was a dumb play.

"About me turning you on?" He presses, making both of your cheeks grow hot.

"Maybe don't... say it like that." You wince a little but somehow managed a smile. "But look at you! You're gorgeous! Who wouldn't want a piece of that?"

Jake's blush deepens, spreading pink splotches over his neck and chest too. But this was an opportunity to get it all off your chest, you couldn't not take it! Anything to make that boy blush...

"Aisha made me promise not to flirt with you - since I have a bad habit of collecting cuties." You lean against the doorway, hoping the shift in your legs draws attention to them (it does) but giving a half chuckle of relief. "I stuck to my promise but holy shit, you did not make it easy."

"I didn't?" Jake is a strawberry now, clutching his towel in a death grip.

"Nah," you snort. "But since Aisha lifted the ban; you're fair game now lover boy."

He blinks for a moment and then a grin spreads across his face. "You're gonna put the moves on me?"

"Not just the moves," you say proudly. "My moves."

"I think you're going to eat me alive." He chuckles, raking a hand through his wet locks; inadvertently flexing his muscles.

"And then some." You add quietly, glancing up at him to catch a delightful deer-in-headlights look. "But I should let you get to bed..."

You sigh dramatically before fixing him with a smirk and sultry gaze. "Unless you want to jump into mine?"

Jake swallows thickly and has to adjust his towel while you try not to giggle. "Yeah, um, that... that works."

"Let me brush my teeth and I'll see you in five." You wink at him and skip into the bathroom feeling higher than life. This week just got so much better.

End

A/N: if you haven't seen this post, @buckyys-babydoll and I are trying to boost engagement across fics in the writing community. If you liked this fic, please reblog - you dont have to leave a comment. You can leave a reaction image, gif or emoji(s)!

Support writers. Support artists. Support the fandom.

Love ya! 🫶🏻

A/N 2: I didn't think this was 1.6k - it was supposed to be a drabble! 😩 but that's 2 of 13 fics done 💪😌

Taglist - add yourself here

@stargazingfangirl18 @late-to-the-party-81 @irishhappiness @looking1016 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @almostglitterybear @blackhawkfanatic @peaches1958 @alicedopey @brianochka @steviebbboi

[enhaflixer]

Sined sealed and undone is such a beautiful story! I loved it! It would be lovely if we could get some more snippets of their lives someday! Maybe about the pregnancy or when the baby is born???

First Trimester

Jay doesn’t know how to react at first. Not really. He’s not shocked—he’s prepared on paper. They talked about children. They were careful. But deep down? He always knew Mina was going to come early. And yet somehow it still knocks the breath out of him.

He doesn’t celebrate at first. He calculates. Sits up late reading medical journals and government maternity policies. Makes a spreadsheet of every hospital in a 100km radius. Sends your doctor a thank-you gift after every appointment.

You find him one night in his study, staring blankly at a half-done nursery mood board, his phone open to an article titled “Intergenerational Trauma and Pregnancy Outcomes.”

“Jay,” you say gently, stepping into the room. “You’re allowed to be excited, you know.”

He blinks at you like he forgot how to breathe. Then:

“I don’t want her to inherit anything broken.”

You kneel in front of him.

“She won’t. She’s getting the best of you.”

Then, softer:

“And the rest she’ll learn to survive. Like we did.”

He wraps his arms around you so tight you can barely breathe. But you don’t mind. He needs this more than you do.

Second Trimester

Jay gets weirdly charming during this time. Like, glowing. He stops answering calls after 6PM. Starts making dinner. Starts… humming while folding laundry???

You ask him one day, “Are you nesting?”

“I’m stabilizing our home environment,” he says, dead serious, as he alphabetizes the spice rack.

He talks to your belly every night, even before you can feel movement. His voice goes low, affectionate, incredibly gentle—like he’s already protecting Mina from the world.

“Hi, Baby,” he whispers against your stomach. “It’s Appa. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll handle it.”

You cry the first time you hear him say her name.

He panics and tries to call your OB.

You have to explain that these are happy tears.

Later, you find a leather-bound journal hidden in his drawer. Inside: handwritten letters to Mina. Every week. Every milestone. Every fear. Every dream.

Third Trimester

Jay is officially in full Dad Mode™. He speaks to your belly in boardroom Korean. You swear Mina kicks harder when he starts using his “negotiation voice.”

He buys three diaper bags. Tests the car seat installation seven times. Has every caregiver within his family vetted by a private firm.

But also? He’s scared. You catch it in quiet moments—when he watches you sleep with a crease between his brows. When he lingers at the hospital lobby longer than necessary.

“I don’t know if I can protect you both,” he admits one night, forehead pressed to your shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” you say softly. “You just have to love us.”

And he holds you tighter. Doesn’t say a word. But later that night, he changes your contact name in his phone from just your name… to My Family.

The Birth

Jay doesn’t cry. Not until they place Mina in your arms, all tiny fingers and sleepy squints and scrunched-up nose that definitely came from him.

Then he’s gone. Sobbing silently, shoulders shaking, forehead pressed to the edge of your hospital bed like he’s trying to keep himself from collapsing.

“She’s real,” he says. “She’s here.”

And you nod, exhausted, whispering, “She’s perfect.”

Jay kisses Mina’s forehead, then yours. His voice cracks when he says, “Thank you. For giving her to me.”

Postpartum / First Months

Jay doesn’t sleep. Not out of stress—he just can’t look away. He watches Mina breathe. He learns how to swaddle from six different sources and compares their efficiency. He insists on doing midnight feedings because “you carried her for nine months, I can carry her through a few nights.”

He works less. Holds more. Laughs more.

One night, Mina won’t stop crying no matter what either of you do. You’re both exhausted, on the edge. You find Jay in the living room with her on his chest, softly singing a lullaby his mother used to hum to him.

“Please sleep, Mina,” he whispers. “Appa needs to believe the world is good again.”

She finally settles.

And you know, in your bones, she already believes it is.

Because he’s here.

And he loves her.

And you.

More than anything.

[honeydippedfiction]

Joe x Angel prompt “This is wrong.” “So wrong.” While continuing to pull at each others clothes, mind fogged with nothing but lust and arousal.” With prompt #7 “finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)”

1k & Birthday Bash nav | main navigation | reqs | table of contents

#7. finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc). & “This is wrong.” “So wrong.” While continuing to pull at each others clothes, mind fogged with nothing but lust and arousal

Joe Burrow x Angel

• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The early spring air just outside Cincinnati carried a faint breath of warmth—an early promise of summer yet to fully arrive. Trees stood in soft bloom, the scent of magnolia teasing the edges of the breeze. But inside the Burrow household, the atmosphere radiated something far more potent than seasonal change. Not sunlight, not warmth from the weather, but from something else entirely: anticipation.

The Met Gala was just five days away.

In the heart of the sun-dappled living room, a tranquil sort of chaos had settled. Plush cream-colored rugs blanketed the hardwood floor, and in the center of it all sat Joe Burrow, cross-legged and relaxed, his gaze entirely focused on the tiny queen commanding his world. Zariyah Jasmine Burrow—six months old, round-cheeked and ruling their household with a dimpled iron fist—was far too consumed by her current obsession to notice the bright neon-green teething ring her father waggled in front of her.

Instead, she had discovered her toes. Soft, chubby, impossibly bendy feet that she had brought triumphantly to her mouth and was now gnawing on with intense, drool-heavy concentration.

Joe chuckled, brushing a hand across his jaw as he watched her. “Z,” he murmured, leaning in closer. “You’re about to have the coolest parents at this whole thing.”

She responded with a gurgle and a kick, not breaking eye contact with her beloved toes.

Joe kissed her cheek—slowly, intentionally—his lips lingering a second longer than necessary as he breathed in her scent: baby lotion, milk, and something tender and unmistakably hers. The kind of smell that could ground you. That could eclipse headlines, game stats, and award buzz in an instant.

“Not that I think you care,” he added with a crooked smile. “You’re gonna sleep through the whole red carpet anyway.”

Her grin came then—big, toothless, and dazzling, the kind that could melt glaciers. It broke something open in him, as it always did. For a moment, it felt like the world was just the two of them, sun pouring through the windows, time suspended in a golden hush.

Then came the sound: a faint giggle echoing down the hallway, followed by the muffled chatter of yet another FaceTime call.

Joe tilted his head toward the guest room. Behind the closed door, Angel was in her element.

Her voice filtered through in snippets—bright, animated, decisive. “No, no, we are not doing that lip.” Laughter. “Yes, that train, not the one from last week. What? Girl, no. This is Met, not a brunch.”

She’d been camped in that room every morning for the past week, turning it into mission control. The door remained locked without exception. Inside, racks of fabric and sketches lived beside shoes that cost more than some of Joe’s rookie-year suits. Her stylist, makeup artist, and designer had created a mobile headquarters, and Angel? Angel had taken the helm like a seasoned general.

Joe could still picture the conversation that had set the boundary in place.

It was two nights earlier. Zariyah had been balanced on Angel’s hip, blinking drowsily at the TV while Angel pointed a perfectly manicured finger at Joe with all the seriousness of a coach delivering a fourth-quarter play.

“We are not seeing each other’s outfits until the night of,” she said, brows raised. “No hints. No sneak peeks. I want the reveal to hit, you hear me? I want drama.”

Joe had raised both hands in surrender, laughing. “Alright, alright. We’ll do it your way. No spoilers.”

“And no cheating!” she added over her shoulder as she disappeared into the guest room with Zariyah and a swath of silk.

He hadn’t seen her dress. Still hadn’t. She meant it when she said she wanted a reveal.

And honestly? He loved her for it.

Joe sat back on his hands now, glancing at the hallway door with a quiet sort of pride. This wasn’t just about fashion or photos. Not really. This was Angel’s first Met Gala. Her first moment on a carpet that shimmered with legacy and legacy-makers. She was building something—her story, her identity—one stitch, one silhouette, one fearless beauty choice at a time.

And Joe? He was content to be the man beside her when she stepped into that light. Not as an accessory, not as a headline, but as her partner. Her anchor.

Behind him, Zariyah let out a triumphant squeal—either because she’d managed to fit three toes into her mouth or simply because she could.

Joe laughed softly and scooped her into his arms. She squirmed a little, making a sound that might’ve been protest or might’ve been joy. With Zariyah, the line was thin.

“You gonna let Mama finish getting famous?” he asked her as he cradled her against his chest.

Zariyah gave no answer, her eyes already starting to flutter shut, soothed by the warmth of his body and the cadence of his voice.

Joe stood, swaying slightly with her in his arms as he looked once more toward the hallway. The door remained closed, the laughter still drifting through in bursts. Somewhere on the other side, Angel was plotting something brilliant.

And here, in the quiet glow of morning, Joe held the future in his arms, waited on history to unfold, and smiled.

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

Friday Morning – Fittings and Feels

The morning sunlight filtered through gauzy curtains, casting gold-tinted streaks across the bedroom walls of the Burrow home. Outside, the world was waking up slow and soft, but inside, the energy was anything but sleepy. It buzzed like an amp turned too high, all nerves, excitement, and caffeine-fueled adrenaline.

“Hold still, baby,” Angel murmured, gently nudging Zariyah’s chubby leg into place as she fastened a tiny silk bow onto the shoulder of her onesie. The fabric was smooth, almost absurdly elegant for infant wear, but Angel insisted: her daughter was going to be Met Gala ready even if she only lasted ten minutes in it before spitting up.

Perched on the edge of the bed in one of Joe’s oversized white t-shirts—bare legs crossed, her makeup half-done—Angel moved with the fluid precision of a woman balancing three things at once: a baby, a beauty routine, and a transformation.

The Dolce & Gabbana suit hung nearby, suspended on a brass rack like an exhibit. It was a vision of sharp tailoring and cultural boldness—bold turquoise embroidery cascading over rich black pinstripes, cut to slice through air and doubt with equal force. The pants were tailored to the inch. The jacket, slightly oversized in a deliberate, almost masculine nod, still cinched at the waist like it knew who it was dressing. There was a matching wide-brimmed hat, sitting on the dresser like it had opinions of its own.

“It’s giving power,” Monica declared from the chaise lounge by the window, one hand clutching an iced coffee and the other scrolling through a playlist she was curating for the car ride to New York. “You’re gonna have Vogue calling you Revolution in Heels by midnight.”

Angel glanced up in the mirror, one eyebrow lifting. “I’m not even wearing heels.”

“Even better,” Monica said, grinning. “Makes it revolutionary and practical.”

Karis, her stylist and now spiritual life coach by default, stepped in from the hallway, a roll of garment tape in one hand and a critical eye already scanning the room. Her dark curls were piled high in a silk wrap, her all-black outfit punctuated only by the diamond studs in her ears. She stopped in front of Angel, arms folded.

“The tailoring came back even cleaner than we hoped,” she said, approvingly. “That silhouette on you? Lethal. No one’s ready.”

Angel exhaled through her nose, looking back down at Zariyah, who had, in true diva fashion, already wriggled halfway out of her onesie and was now trying to stuff her entire fist into her mouth. Angel smiled faintly.

“You think it’s too much?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “The hat, the grills... I mean, it’s kind of loud.”

“It’s the Met, Angel,” Karis replied, her tone firm but not unkind. “Loud is the dress code. Besides, this year’s theme? Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. You’re not just dressing for the carpet—you’re honoring a whole legacy. Black women in suits? That's protest and poetry in motion.”

Monica nodded in agreement. “Exactly. You’re channeling Donyale Luna, Diana Ross, Solange in that Thom Browne moment. You’re walking in with all of them behind you. And in front of you? Girl, a moment.”

Angel looked at herself again. The mirror didn’t lie—it rarely did. Her long, black wig fell sleekly down her back like a silk waterfall, not a strand out of place. Her real hair was wrapped beneath it, her natural coils nourished from hours of deep conditioning and tucked away like sacred history. But tonight wasn’t about reality—it was about image. Illusion. Control.

She ran a finger across her bottom lip, touching the grill that spelled out a single word: Zari.

The name shimmered in silver and ice, cut in sharp cursive, a tribute and a talisman.

“I want Joe to be surprised,” she said softly, almost to herself.

Karis didn’t miss a beat. “Girl, he’s gonna faint.”

“Not faint,” Monica said, waving a manicured hand. “He’s gonna cry, propose again, and call you by your full government name.”

Angel laughed, and the tension finally cracked. She let her shoulders drop and reached for the lip gloss sitting beside the mirror. “It’s just... I don’t know. I want it to feel like me. Not like I’m trying to do the most. Not like I’m putting on for someone else.”

“You’re not,” Karis said gently, stepping forward and meeting her eyes through the mirror. “This is you. This is just you turned all the way up.”

Zariyah let out a squeal at that moment, perfectly timed, as if seconding the statement. Angel glanced down and grinned, pressing a kiss to her daughter’s forehead.

“You approve, huh?” she murmured.

Zariyah responded with a bubble of spit and a noise somewhere between a giggle and a growl.

“She said, ‘Slay, Mommy,’” Monica translated, sipping her coffee. “In baby language.”

Angel stood slowly, brushing imaginary lint from her t-shirt as she approached the rack. She ran her hand over the jacket’s fabric—smooth, structured, unyielding. She’d fought for this version of herself. For the right to stand in a space like the Met and not shrink. To be more than someone’s plus-one. To be seen.

Joe didn’t just get that—he backed it. No questions asked.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Joe.

You got Z? Or did she run off to plan her own outfit?

Angel smiled as she typed back:

She’s fine. She said you better bring it.

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

Meanwhile

Across town, on the twentieth floor of a glass-paneled boutique hotel that caught the morning light like a spotlight, Joe Burrow stood in front of a full-length mirror, arms slightly lifted, posture straight, eyes calculating.

The suite was modern—sleek furniture in tones of slate and cream, designer water bottles stacked neatly by the minibar, a Bluetooth speaker humming lo-fi jazz in the background. Still, it had the clinical energy of a pre-game locker room: quiet tension, nerves held just beneath the surface, clothes laid out like armor.

Joe’s reflection stared back at him: a sharp silhouette in blue-gray. The suit’s tailoring was impeccable, the fit leaning slim but not tight, precise in the way a quarterback liked his routes—disciplined, smooth, with just enough flair in the shoulders to say I showed up to be seen, not just play support.

The fabric moved like liquid when he adjusted the lapel, catching the morning light with a soft gleam. The buttons were jet black, understated. The collar had a slightly exaggerated peak, modern, almost architectural.

“Stand still a sec,” said Remy, his stylist, crouched low and tugging gently at the hem of his pants. She had a pencil tucked behind one ear, a tape measure draped around her neck like a stethoscope. “I’m going to lift the cuff just a touch more. These shoes are loud, and they need room to breathe.”

Joe grinned as he looked down. The Gucci-printed sneakers—ice white with deep blue accents—were a deliberate choice. Not everyone’s idea of Met Gala footwear, but they were his. They felt like home.

“You sure about the sneakers?” Remy asked, rising to full height and tilting her head like she was framing him through a lens. “I mean, it’s still the Met…”

Joe chuckled, that low, gravelly laugh that managed to be both easygoing and unshakably confident. “Yeah. I’m sure. I’m not trying to pretend I’m something I’m not. It’s Black style we’re celebrating, right? This feels more real to me. I’m not showing up in tap shoes and top hats.”

Remy gave a small, approving smirk. “Fair. And honestly? You look sharp, man. Relaxed, but present. Like you belong.”

Joe nodded, but his eyes drifted back to his phone on the windowsill. One missed FaceTime call. From Angel.

He swiped to redial, stepping away from the mirror as the screen rang. It cut to voicemail before the second tone.

He exhaled. “Classic,” he murmured, pocketing the phone.

She’d probably gotten distracted wrangling Zariyah or fine-tuning some last detail of her look. He hadn’t seen the outfit—by strict instruction—but he could feel its presence, like some massive cosmic event building in the distance. It was Angel, after all. She didn’t just step into rooms; she ignited them.

Joe paced slowly to the window, taking in the skyline of downtown Cincinnati. It stretched beneath him like a living grid—quiet now, but beginning to hum with Friday movement. He placed one hand on the glass, the other brushing lightly against his Cartier frames—deep blue lenses that matched the suit’s undertones.

He remembered when she first told him about the invite.

They were in the kitchen—Angel in leggings and an oversized hoodie, Zariyah in a bouncer seat kicking wildly at some hanging giraffe. Angel had said it so casually, like it wasn’t the biggest deal in the fashion world.

“I got confirmed for the Met Gala,” she’d said, spoon in hand as she stirred oatmeal on the stove.

Joe had blinked. “Like… the actual Met Met?”

“Yes, Joseph. The one with the stairs and Anna Wintour and the paparazzi screaming for Rihanna.”

He’d smiled then, slow and wide. “You’re gonna burn the place down.”

Now, standing here in his finished look, he felt the weight of that moment again—but it had evolved. It wasn’t just about glam or spectacle. It was about Angel stepping into a space that hadn’t always been built to welcome her. And about him standing beside her, not in front of her, not above her—just beside. Equal footing. Matching energy. Proud support.

He was already imagining the first look. Her stepping out of that car. The gasp. The silence that always came before the flashbulbs started.

Remy walked back into view, holding a lint roller like a weapon. “Don’t move.”

Joe laughed again but froze in place obediently as she did one last once-over. “You good on timing?” she asked. “We’re set to head to the car in forty.”

“Yeah. I’m good,” he said, checking his watch. “Waiting on Angel anyway.”

Remy grinned knowingly. “Bet she’s making it worth the wait.”

“Oh, no doubt.”

Joe checked his phone one more time. Still nothing.

So he opened their text thread and sent one word:

Ready.

No punctuation. No emoji. Just the word.

Then he picked up the baby-blue pocket square from the bed—embroidered with Zariyah’s initials—and tucked it into his breast pocket. A quiet nod to the most important girl in his life.

Until tonight.

Tonight, Angel was taking center stage.

And Joe? He’d be right there in the wings. Smiling, steady, hers.

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

Monday Evening – The Reveal

The hotel lobby was a study in understated elegance—sleek marble floors, tall gold-framed mirrors, and soft jazz curling through the air like smoke from an expensive cigar. The kind of place that whispered instead of shouted, where even time seemed to slow out of respect.

Joe stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, his hands tucked loosely in his pockets, shoulders relaxed—but his heart was doing something else entirely. It thudded, steady but sharp, like the low beat of a halftime drumline. He'd stood in tunnel entrances before Super Bowls with less adrenaline. This wasn’t the roar of a stadium or the hum of a crowd.

This was the stillness before something holy.

The elevator dinged softly.

He turned.

And for the briefest moment, everything else ceased to matter. Noise, nerves, expectations—they fell away in a single blink.

Angel stepped into view.

She moved like time itself slowed to let her pass—each stride measured, intentional, like she’d rehearsed her entrance in dreams. The turquoise and black suit clung to her like smoke and thunder—tailored to perfection, with every seam whispering power. The embroidery glimmered under the golden chandelier light, intricate turquoise thread swirling like jazz riffs across the sleek fabric. Her hat was tilted just slightly off-center, a nod to ‘70s noir and unapologetic cool. Her wig, smooth and sharp, framed her face like a sculptor’s final touch.

And those nails? Lacquered, flawless, catching the light like tiny mirrors. The grill on her bottom lip caught him next—Zari, spelled in silver. Every inch of her was curated with the kind of vision that made fashion houses write odes and photographers lose their breath.

Joe did exactly that—lost his breath.

His mouth opened slightly before he even realized it. He blinked once, twice.

“Angel…” he exhaled, voice low, reverent. “You’re not playing fair.”

Angel grinned, sauntering down the last few steps, hips swaying with unapologetic rhythm. “And you’re still breathing, so I must’ve held back.”

She didn’t stop until she was in front of him, her eyes sparkling like she’d known he’d be speechless. Joe reached out instinctively and took her hand, spinning her gently. She let him, her coat tails flaring slightly, her eyes never leaving his.

“You look…” He stopped. Words failed in the face of her. “Incredible. That suit? That hat? I’m not gonna be able to keep my eyes on anything else tonight.”

“And you,” she said, voice velvet-dipped with teasing, tugging lightly at his lapel as she circled him with mock scrutiny. “Look like a Cartier ad and a quarterback had a baby.”

He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “You roasting me at the Met?”

She didn’t blink. “Joe, you showed up in Gucci sneakers. You're lucky you’re fine.”

He let out a soft laugh, running a hand over his hair. “Told you I wasn’t showing up in church shoes.”

“Mm,” she hummed, stepping closer, tapping his glasses lightly. “And the blue shades? You trying to be mysterious now?”

Joe shrugged, lips curving. “They match the suit.”

“They also scream, ‘Hi, I just came from a GQ shoot in Milan, but I still drink Muscle Milk.’”

He laughed louder now, the tension rolling off his shoulders. He loved this part of her—the way she could cut him down and lift him up in the same breath, keep him grounded even while they both floated.

Angel leaned in, resting a manicured hand against his chest. “You clean up well, Burrow. But tonight?” She raised an eyebrow, eyes gleaming. “I’m the one they’re gonna fall for.”

He looked at her, pure affection radiating in his expression. “They’ll be lucky just to catch a glimpse.”

She softened for a heartbeat, then kissed him on the cheek. “Good answer.”

They stood like that for a moment—just the two of them, quiet inside the grandness of it all. The lobby felt distant now, like a movie set. Outside, black SUVs were already pulling up to the curb. Paparazzi were assembling behind velvet ropes. The Met carpet was waiting. Cameras. Flashbulbs. A thousand eyes.

But here, in this moment, it was still just Joe and Angel.

He leaned down, kissed her forehead gently. “Ready to shut it down?”

She stepped back, adjusting her hat just slightly, her expression poised and unreadable in the way only true stars manage.

“Let’s go,” she said.

They walked out together, hand in hand, their silhouettes sharp against the marble. And when the doors opened and the cameras began to pop, Joe didn’t even blink.

Because he knew.

Tonight didn’t belong to him.

It belonged to her.

And he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

Monday Night – The Met Gala

Outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the night bloomed electric.

The blue carpet shimmered beneath the blaze of strobes, stretching up the grand staircase like a path into Olympus itself. Photographers shouted names like spells, summoning celebrities in silks, sequins, plumes, and impossible couture. Each arrival was a moment—tailored spectacle timed to the flash of a thousand bulbs. The air was thick with perfume, high fashion, and the breathless energy of culture in motion.

And then, just as the rhythm seemed to settle into predictability, a new presence stepped from a sleek black SUV—and the atmosphere shifted.

It was like a sudden intake of breath.

Angel Burrow.

She stepped out first, boots clicking against the stone, each stride measured and regal. Her turquoise and black suit gleamed beneath the floodlights, the embroidery catching the flashes in flickers like firelight. The wide-brimmed hat sat tilted just off-center, casting a shadow that danced across her cheekbones. Her grill sparkled as she smiled—Zari, the name of her daughter, refracting in silver.

She wasn’t just dressed for the theme.

She was the theme.

Black elegance. Black legacy. Black resistance tailored into fabric, walking forward like it had something to say—and it wasn’t asking permission to speak.

Joe followed her, a breath behind, his fingers naturally slipping into hers. He was every bit the calm to her storm: minimalist in his blue-gray suit, a Cartier coolness radiating from his frames and the quiet confidence in his stride. The Gucci sneakers—his one defiant wink—grounded him in authenticity.

Together, they were contrast and complement. Fire and water. Sharp edges softened by shared grace.

“Angel Burrow! Joe! Over here! Over here!”

The shouts came in waves from every direction. Flash, flash, flash.

They stopped, posed. She tilted her hat slightly, her smirk radiant but restrained. Joe stood beside her with an arm lightly at her back, smiling, relaxed, but visibly proud. Not performative. Just present.

And inside her chest, under all the silk and steel, Angel’s heart beat faster than any camera shutter.

Joe adjusted his cufflinks with one hand and ran the other across his buzzed hair. The nerves weren’t game-day level, but they hovered somewhere between “post-season overtime” and “the first time he met Angel’s mother in her church heels.”

Beside him, Angel stood tall—shoulders back, hat tilted just so, her turquoise and black suit catching every flicker of light like a living sculpture. Her hand found the inside of his elbow, grounding him with the smallest touch.

The Variety correspondent approached them with a wide, practiced smile, heels tapping lightly on the carpet. “Joe Burrow! NFL’s golden arm on the blue carpet tonight!” Her voice sparkled beneath the LED rig. “Tell us—what went into this look?”

Joe gave the same quiet smile he wore in post-game interviews, the kind that said I know what I’m doing, but you don’t need me to say too much about it.

“Well,” he started, glancing briefly at Angel, “I wanted something that felt like me, but still respected the theme. Tailored, but relaxed—kind of a streetwear elegance. If that makes sense.”

The reporter gave an approving nod, eyes moving over the crisp lines of his slate-blue suit and the Gucci sneakers anchoring the whole thing. “It definitely does. You didn’t go too flashy, but it’s smart. The textures, the glasses—very clean. Very current.”

Joe looked down at his shoes with a soft shrug. “I wasn’t gonna come out here pretending to be something I’m not. I love suits. I also love sneakers. Felt like the honest version.”

The reporter smiled, then shifted slightly. “And are you here solo tonight or—?”

Joe didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped aside half a beat, one hand gently resting at the small of Angel’s back as if to frame her. “Solo?” he repeated, feigning confusion. “Nah. I brought the real headliner with me.”

Angel lifted her chin slightly and offered a coy smile, the brim of her hat casting her eyes in a dramatic half-shadow. It wasn’t the spotlight she sought—but when it found her, she knew exactly what to do with it.

The reporter's jaw dropped slightly, audible even through her grin. “Oh my God. Angel Burrow, you look absolutely unreal. This suit—this whole moment—it’s giving classic, power, movement… like you just stepped out of a Gordon Parks frame.”

Angel chuckled softly. “I’ll take that,” she said, adjusting the cuff of her sleeve with a glint of silver on her grill. “Tonight’s about legacy, so… I wanted to show up like I belong to one.”

Joe glanced at her like he’d just heard a highlight reel in real time. “She’s the main event tonight,” he added, voice low, proud.

The reporter beamed. “Honestly? I believe it.”

Flashbulbs went off again, a fresh wave. Angel tilted her hat just enough for the light to catch her grills—"Zari" spelled across her bottom lip—and Joe’s hand stayed at her back, a steady presence.

They were only minutes into the carpet, but it was already clear: they weren’t just attending the Met Gala—they were carving out their place in it.

The air along the steps of the Met was heavy with flashbulbs and whispered awe. The crowd was swelling again—paparazzi clicking in rapid staccato, reporters angling for quotes and candids, assistants whispering touch-up notes. Through all the shimmer and shuffle, Joe Burrow stood calmly beside Angel, one hand resting on her waist, thumb brushing over the fine lines of her tailored jacket.

Angel adjusted the tilt of her wide-brimmed hat ever so slightly, lips parted in a soft smile that never quite left her face. She wasn’t performing; she was owning.

Joe leaned in, eyes scanning the clusters of velvet ropes and couture chaos up ahead.

“Yo,” he murmured under his breath, lips near her ear. “You see who just pulled up?”

Angel turned slightly, following his gaze as he dipped his chin toward the far end of the carpet.

There, walking like he owned the runway and had the stats to back it up, was Justin Jefferson—draped in a bold, oversized gray suit with dramatic puffy shoulders and a flower broach. Clean, sharp, intentional.

Angel smirked instantly, her eyes lighting with recognition. “Mmm, of course he showed out.”

Joe chuckled, nudging her gently. “You wanna go say hey?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, already stepping forward.

They moved in rhythm, gliding past a swirl of stylists and soft-spoken photographers. Joe’s stride was relaxed, but there was a quiet energy in his eyes—a genuine excitement. And beside him, Angel’s presence sharpened like a blade. They didn’t just walk together. They arrived together.

As they approached, Justin looked up—mid-conversation with Tasha Riley, who stood in front of the ESPN camera crew, mic in hand, face radiant. Her Sergio Hudson gown hugged her like royalty. Her box braids framed her face perfectly, and her eyes sparkled with warmth and wit. To viewers, she was one of the sharpest minds in sports media. To Angel, she was family—one of the few women at ESPN who had taken her under her wing early on. His grin widened like someone spotting family across a busy street.

“Ayyeee!” he called out, breaking away with open arms. “Look who it is!”

Joe stepped forward, and the two locked into their signature handshake—quick clasp, pull, shoulder bump, fluid like they’d practiced it the day before. Which, of course, they hadn’t. That’s just what years of brotherhood did.

Then Justin turned to Angel with warmth and swagger. “Angel, stop. You didn’t have to end the whole carpet like this.”

Angel laughed, hugging him like they were back at a post-game celebration. “You know I had to balance the quarterback energy. Can’t let him get too comfortable.”

Justin looked between them, nodding. “Y’all look good—real good.”

Joe clapped a hand to Justin’s shoulder, still grinning. “You’re not doing too bad yourself, man.”

“You two better stop,” Tasha teased as they walked up. “I had to tell my producer to zoom out so we could get both y’all in the frame. Joe, this suit? And Angel, this hat? Listen…”

Angel laughed, reaching out to hug her. “You know we had to show out a little.”

“A little? Girl, you walked out here looking like you write fashion commandments in your sleep,” Tasha said, stepping back and grinning.

“I was just asking him,” she said, gesturing at Justin, “who’s the best-dressed NFL player outside of himself. And our boy was… struggling.”

Joe raised his brows and looked at Justin. “You having a hard time?”

Justin laughed, giving Joe a once-over. “I mean… you’re definitely sharp. You always put it on.”

They both looked down instinctively. Justin clocked the Gucci sneakers, jaw ticking with amusement.

“Ooooh—look at the kicks,” he said, stepping back slightly.

Joe took a cool half-step to the side, just enough to show them off. “You like that?”

The whole circle cracked up.

Justin dapped him again. “Every time, man.”

Joe turned back to the camera with a mock-serious expression. “He says me. You don’t even need to ask him.”

Tasha raised a brow. “Now Joe, would you say Justin?”

Joe didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely. Since college. JJ’s been consistent. Man dresses like he’s got GQ editors in his group chat.”

Angel leaned in, a teasing grin on her lips. “That’s facts.”

Then Tasha turned the question to her. “Okay, Angel. Let’s settle this. You’re the real style expert here. Who’s winning the fit game tonight?”

Angel tilted her head, eyes dancing between them like a judge on a runway panel. “Joe’s giving luxury streetwear. Confident, controlled, vibey. JJ’s serving tailored power, like he's about to close a deal and hit a gritty in the same hour.”

They waited.

She smirked. “It’s a tie. Y’all can fight it out later.”

Justin laughed, throwing his hands up. “That’s fair. That’s love.”

Joe nodded. “We’ll allow it.”

Tasha turned to the camera, laughing. “There you have it—clean cuts, elite shade, and fashion chemistry. Joe and Angel Burrow, Justin Jefferson—looking like a first-round draft pick for the Met.”

As they shared one more laugh and a few more pictures, the cameras didn’t just capture three NFL stars and a rising ESPN icon—they captured culture in motion. Style with soul. Brotherhood. Black excellence stitched into every thread.

And Angel? She stood in the middle of it all—smiling, steady, exactly where she belonged.

As the interview wrapped, Angel leaned into Tasha again, lowering her voice just enough. “You look stunning, sis. We need a girls' dinner soon. Somewhere without cameras.”

Tasha squeezed her hand. “Absolutely. After this madness.”

As the ESPN crew moved on, the three stood together for another moment—friends, colleagues, culture-bearers—and the lights flashed again like stars being born.

They moved up the steps, then through the great glass doors and into the Met—where the world shifted again.

Inside, reality gave way to surrealism. The main exhibit hall had been transformed into something dreamlike: floating tapestries, curved metallic sculptures, curated tableaus that celebrated Black artistry and heritage in every stitch and panel. There were dancers performing slow, rhythmic movements in custom-made suits from Harlem ateliers. Lights cast shadows in deep blue and gold.

Angel felt it all—the awe, the scale, the history being both told and made around her.

The cameras were outside. Inside, it was artists and peers. Her people.

Well—almost.

Once inside, the museum transformed from architectural wonder into a living canvas. The galleries had been repurposed with fashion installations, light sculptures, and soundscapes echoing with Nina Simone, Kendrick Lamar, and Fela Kuti. The air felt rich with history and heartbeat.

Angel had just exhaled a quiet breath of awe when she felt a ripple of energy beside her. She turned—and froze.

Zendaya. Coco Jones. Janelle Monáe.

They moved like constellations in orbit. Three women who were less “celebrities” and more forces.

Zendaya floated toward them in a custom Louis Vuitton white three-piece suit. The vest was cinched to perfection; the flared trousers moved like smoke as she walked. A wide-brimmed white hat completed the look—Pharrell’s design—and gleamed under the overhead lights. Her Bulgari jewels glittered at her throat and wrists, elegant and unbothered.

Coco Jones followed, a vision in a cream and white Manish Malhotra two-piece with intricate embroidery that seemed to shift with every breath she took. The long-sleeve coat trailed behind her like royalty, and the matching trousers balanced the drama with grace. Her floor-length braided ponytail was practically a myth in motion, and the oversized jewels on her neck and fingers shimmered with untouchable confidence.

Janelle Monáe stood just to their left, dressed in a conceptual masterpiece by Thom Browne and Paul Tazewell—a celebration of Black dandyism and diasporic identity. Her trompe l’oeil overcoat depicted a full suit and briefcase, and her bowler hat was adorned with a working clock monocle. The diamond brooch at her lapel? Crafted from 1800 Tequila, because of course it was.

And they were all—smiling at Angel.

“Oh my God,” Angel whispered, her fingers tightening slightly around Joe’s. “Babe, that’s... that’s all three of them.”

Before Joe could answer, Zendaya reached them first, her eyes gleaming.

“Angel Burrow,” she said with a knowing grin. “It is so good to finally meet you.”

Angel blinked. “You—you know who I am?”

Zendaya laughed softly. “Girl, I follow your ‘Game Day Chic’ posts with Zariyah like they’re runway drops. Half my inspo folder is you in sunglasses holding that baby like a fashion accessory.”

Coco laughed, stepping in for a hug. “Same here. The matching headwraps? The sneakers and stroller combo? Obsessed.”

Angel’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened slightly before she could remember how to close it. “I... I don’t even know what to say. You ladies are literally on my vision board.”

Janelle leaned in, her voice lower, more intimate. “And I love how you speak up. ESPN can be loud with a lot of noise—but you cut through all that. When you talk, people listen. You bring culture into sports coverage in a way that honors who we are.”

Angel flushed, touched beyond words. She wasn’t used to this. She had faced stadiums, critics, trolls in her mentions—but here she was, shy in front of three women she’d admired for years.

“I just… I never thought y’all would know me like that,” she said finally, her voice softer now. “I’ve looked up to all of you since... forever. You paved the way for women like me to even be at something like this.”

Zendaya stepped in, touching her shoulder gently. “That’s the thing. Now you’re paving the way. This look?” She nodded at Angel’s suit. “This is history. You are the moment.”

“Period,” Coco echoed, giving her a gentle wink.

Janelle tilted her head, admiring the cut of Angel’s suit. “The tailoring? Precision. And that hat? Criminal. You’re giving protest and pageantry, sis.”

Angel blushed—actually blushed—and laughed again, softer this time. “Coming from you? That means everything. I’ve had your music in my college playlists, like, permanently.”

Zendaya stepped in closer, eyes kind but electric. “It’s giving story. Like, you didn’t just dress for tonight—you came to say something. That’s what this whole thing is about.”

Angel tried to breathe evenly, her voice steady even as her knees threatened to betray her. “I just… wanted to wear something that felt like me. Something my daughter could see years from now and know her mom didn’t shrink.”

All three women paused for a moment, then nodded—an unspoken exchange of sisterhood and knowing.

“I’m glad you showed up like this,” Coco said, smiling. “You remind us why we keep showing up too.”

Angel swallowed, the moment bigger than anything she’d imagined. She offered a grateful nod and a quiet, “Thank you. Really.”

Janelle tilted her hat. “Glad to finally be in the same room with you.”

The women offered hugs and cheek kisses, brief but genuine, before they were swept away into the current of curated chaos again.

And just like that, they were swept away, carried into the buzz and brilliance of the night. Angel stood frozen for a beat, blinking like someone trying to remember how to breathe.

Joe leaned closer, whispering against her temple, “You okay?”

She turned to him, dazed, her voice high with disbelief. “They knew who I was. I thought I was gonna pass out when Zendaya said my name.”

He grinned, eyes full of affection. “You looked like you were trying to levitate out of your body.”

“I was! I did!” she laughed, then looked down at herself. “Do I look like I belong?”

Joe didn’t even hesitate. “You look like this entire night was built for you.”

Angel exhaled slowly, brushing her hands over her hips, gathering herself.

She turned toward him fully. “Alright. Let’s go be legends.”

She turned toward him, her voice quiet now. “Think we did okay?”

Joe didn’t answer immediately. He looked at her—really looked. Not just at the suit or the hat or the shimmer in her grill, but her. The way she held herself now, taller somehow, fuller.

“You didn’t just show up tonight,” he said. “You told a story. I’m proud of you.”

Angel softened, her hand brushing his cheek with quiet affection. “You’re part of that story.”

They stood together for a moment, right there amid fashion’s most elite and the hum of curated glory, their fingers intertwined, eyes speaking in a language of their own.

And together, hand in hand, they stepped further into the magic, surrounded by legacy, light, and the quiet revolution they’d come dressed to honor.

And then, together, they walked deeper into the dream.

Angel had arrived.

And the world was finally watching.

Angel kept one hand tucked into the crook of Joe’s arm, her other occasionally lifting to wave, to hug, to accept compliments with a graceful smile that never slipped into pretense. It was her, just dialed up—a little sharper, a little more golden, but still unmistakably Angel.

And Joe? Joe was barely holding it together.

Not in a bad way. In a how did I end up marrying the most incredible woman in the room kind of way.

Every time Angel laughed—really laughed, head tilted, dimples flashing, grill catching the low light—Joe felt his chest do this warm, dangerous squeeze. It had nothing to do with the setting and everything to do with her being so fully herself.

They were mid-conversation with Michaela Coel—who’d stopped to tell Angel, “Your suit? A sermon. Honestly, I want to frame it”—when Joe’s mind began to wander.

Not far. Just enough to feel his pulse quicken.

It was the way Angel’s suit hugged her waist just right, how the lapels drew the eye to her collarbones and the chain resting there like punctuation. The hat sat tilted like a wink, and Joe couldn’t stop picturing how she’d take it off later—slow, with a look in her eye that said she knew the effect she had.

And Lord, her confidence. That sharp, effortless fire. The way she moved through the space like she was born for it—spoke up with grace, gave out compliments like confetti, held her own with Zendaya, Gabrielle Union, Yara Shahidi, Tracee Ellis Ross.

She was elegance with edge. A walking contradiction. A quiet storm.

Joe leaned in, lips brushing her temple. “You know you’re killing me, right?”

Angel smirked without turning. “Good.”

He chuckled low, letting his hand drift briefly to the small of her back. Not quite inappropriate—but definitely more possessive than before. A whisper of later tucked into the gesture.

She turned to him with a slow once-over, and for a beat, her eyes softened. “This suit,” she murmured, fingertips brushing the crisp line of his lapel. “It brings out your eyes. Like… a lot.”

Joe raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Angel leaned in just enough so her breath grazed his jaw. “If I didn’t have to worry about messing up my makeup, I’d be dragging you into one of these ancient marble corners.”

His jaw flexed slightly. “Say the word. We’ll find an exhibit with low foot traffic.”

She laughed, swatting his chest with her gloved hand. “Behave.”

“I’m trying. You’re making it real hard.”

“Literally?” she teased.

He grinned but didn’t answer. Just dipped his head close again. “You are... everything tonight.”

“You say that like it’s new.”

“It’s not. But it’s louder now.”

Before Angel could offer a smug reply, they were interrupted by none other than Pharrell, trailed by Keke Palmer and Donald Glover in matching earth-toned tailoring.

“Yo, Joe,” Pharrell greeted, offering a handshake and nodding toward Angel. “And you—man, I saw your look on IG before I even got here. Y’all came to represent.”

Angel offered a warm handshake. “It’s an honor, truly. Your work’s been a blueprint.”

“Likewise,” Pharrell said, gesturing to her grills. “That detail? That’s love.”

Donald Glover dapped Joe up with an approving nod. “Quarterback who knows how to wear a suit. That’s rare.”

Joe glanced sideways at Angel. “I’ve got good taste in stylists. And in wives.”

Keke let out a smooth, impressed hum. “Whew. That’s the right answer.”

As the group continued through the hall toward the first installation, Angel reached for Joe’s hand again, threading their fingers together like it was muscle memory.

“You alright?” she asked softly, her tone changing for just a breath.

He looked down at her, blue eyes brighter than the diamonds pinned at her collar.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low and real. “I’ve never been better. Watching you do your thing? I’m just trying not to make it obvious how gone I am for you.”

She smiled, then kissed his cheek just below the glasses. “You’ve never hidden it well.”

“Good,” he said. “I don’t plan to start.”

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

The soft chime of jazz filtered through the suite speakers, the kind of low, velvety music that wrapped around the room like silk. Outside the Met Gala madness had begun to melt into memory, but inside their hotel suite, a different kind of energy buzzed—intimate, playful, and unmistakably them.

Angel stood in front of the full-length mirror, slipping a delicate gold bracelet around her wrist. The corset-style bodice of her dress hugged her like a second skin, the smooth black velvet drawing the eye to her waist, while the dramatic rosette skirt gave her the kind of silhouette that could stop a clock. She tilted her head, letting her loose waves fall over one shoulder, and caught her reflection smiling.

Behind her, Joe emerged from the bathroom, toweling his curls and wearing nothing but a white hotel robe—loosely tied, of course, because of course. His sleeveless sweater vest and pleated trousers were laid out neatly on the bed, along with his chain and wristband. But he was in no rush.

He leaned against the doorframe, towel slung over his shoulder, and let out a low whistle. “You’re really gonna make me walk into that party looking like your plus-one?”

Angel turned slowly, lips curving into a sly grin. “You are my plus-one.”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head as he walked toward her. “I look like the dude who drives the woman in that dress.”

She laughed, stepping toward him, heels clicking softly on the polished wood floors. “You are so dramatic.”

He didn’t flinch. “You’re the one looking like an editorial spread came to life. I’m just trying to keep up.”

Angel smoothed a hand over his chest through the robe, eyes playful. “Please. You’re about to have the internet breaking down your outfit piece by piece. The curls? The chain? Those trousers that hug just right?”

Joe smirked, a brow lifting. “You noticed that, huh?”

“Oh, I noticed,” she said, letting her fingers slide from his chest to the knot of his robe. She gave it a little tug—not enough to undo it, but just enough to make her point. “You’re wearing dangerous energy tonight.”

He leaned in, close enough that his voice dropped to a murmur against her cheek. “You talking about my outfit or something else?”

Angel gave him a slow once-over, tongue peeking out as she smiled. “Both.”

Joe backed up a step, finally dropping the robe to change. “You keep talking like that and we’re gonna miss the whole party.”

“We already won the party,” she said over her shoulder, returning to the mirror. “This is just the victory lap.”

He pulled the sweater vest over his head, adjusting the deep V just so, the subtle fraying at the armholes giving his look a rough, designer edge. “You like it?” he asked, turning toward her once the light gray trousers were on.

Angel turned again, this time genuinely taken aback.

Her voice softened. “It brings out your eyes.”

Joe blinked. “What?”

She stepped closer, adjusting the lay of his chain against his collarbone. “The black makes your eyes pop. You look… stupid good right now.”

He tilted his head, smiling slowly. “Stupid good?”

“Dummy good,” she repeated, placing a kiss on the side of his neck. “Like... it should be illegal for you to show up this fine without a warning label.”

He laughed, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her in gently, careful not to crush the volume of her skirt. “So what you’re saying is... I should be worried about you trying to drag me back to bed after the party?”

Angel gave him a faux-innocent look. “Oh, I’m not dragging you anywhere.”

Joe kissed her, slow and sweet but with that familiar heat just beneath it. When they broke apart, he whispered, “Let’s give them something to talk about.”

Angel smiled. “Let’s give them something to remember.”

She grabbed her clutch, Joe tucked his chain just so, and with one last look in the mirror—her dramatic nails catching the light like tiny chrome sculptures—they stepped out of the suite, hand in hand, ready to shut the night down again.

Together.

❀. ˚◞❤ ⃗ ೃ༄.·:¨༺༻¨*:·.❀

The rain had softened to a mist by the time Joe and Angel arrived at the Cartier-hosted after-party at Bemelmans Bar in The Carlyle Hotel. The venue, renowned for its old-world charm and timeless elegance, was aglow with the soft shimmer of Cartier jewels and the hum of jazz that filled the air. 

Inside, the atmosphere was intimate yet electric, a blend of Hollywood glamour and high fashion. Celebrities like Rihanna, Halle Berry, and Bad Bunny mingled effortlessly, their laughter and conversation adding to the night's allure.

As they entered the bar, heads turned. Joe couldn't help but feel a surge of pride as Angel moved gracefully through the crowd, her presence magnetic. He leaned in close, his voice low and teasing. "You know, every time I see you, I think you couldn't possibly get more beautiful. And then you do."

Angel shot him a playful glance, her lips curling into a smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

They made their way to the bar, where Joe ordered a classic Old Fashioned, and Angel opted for a glass of champagne. As they sipped their drinks, they exchanged lighthearted banter, their chemistry undeniable.

"How do you do it?" Joe asked, his tone genuine. "Every time we step out, you steal the spotlight."

Angel shrugged modestly. "Just trying to keep up with you."

Their laughter was interrupted by a familiar voice.

"Well, well, if it isn't the power couple of the night."

Turning, they were greeted by Jon Batiste, who was holding court at the piano. He flashed them a charismatic grin. "You two are lighting up this place. Mind if I steal a moment?"

"Of course," Angel replied, her smile warm.

Jon leaned in, his eyes twinkling. "You know, I was just telling the crowd—if I had a dollar for every time I saw a couple as stylish as you two, I'd be able to buy this hotel."

Joe chuckled, raising his glass. "Well, if you do, make sure you get us a room with a view."

Jon laughed heartily. "Deal. But only if you promise to keep bringing that energy."

As the night unfolded, Joe and Angel continued to mingle with the who's who of the fashion and entertainment world, their bond evident to all. They shared stories, laughter, and moments of quiet connection amidst the glamour and glitz.

Later in the evening, as the crowd began to thin, Jon returned to the piano, his fingers dancing over the keys. The soft strains of a familiar melody filled the air, and Angel leaned into Joe, her voice barely above a whisper.

"This night... it's perfect."

Joe kissed the top of her head, his arm around her waist. "As long as you're by my side, every night is perfect."

They stood there, lost in the music and each other, a testament to their enduring love and the magic of the evening.

The velvet walls of Bemelmans Bar glowed gold in the candlelight. Laughter clinked against the rims of crystal flutes. The scent of rare perfume and aged bourbon lingered in the air, mingling with the notes of a live jazz trio that had just slipped into a dreamy version of Let’s Stay Together.

Angel stood near one of the banquettes, her drink in one hand, her free arm looped casually over Joe’s shoulder. Her nails caught the light every time she moved—each chrome swirl reflecting a kaleidoscope of candle flames and chandelier gold.

Joe hadn’t stopped looking at her since they walked in.

And not just looking—watching. Like someone trying to memorize something sacred.

They were deep in conversation with Zoe Kravitz and Lenny S., both of whom had just praised Angel’s look. Zoe tilted her head and said, “It’s giving Harlem couture meets warrior goddess,” while Lenny pointed at Joe and said, “I ain’t gonna lie—you’re holding your own, but your wife is outdressing you.”

Joe didn’t blink. “She outdresses me every day. I’ve accepted my role.”

Angel just gave Joe a side glance, subtle but unmistakable, as she took a sip from her glass. Her lips closed around the rim with slow deliberation, and she let the silence between them stretch for just a beat too long.

Joe caught it. Oh, he definitely caught it.

When the conversation shifted and the group moved toward the piano, Angel brushed past him—lightly dragging her hand across the back of his neck as she passed. Barely a touch. Just enough to raise the hairs there. Just enough to say I know what I’m doing.

He swallowed once, slowly. Smirked. Followed.

The room buzzed with more familiar faces now. Bad Bunny, dapper in a silk emerald suit, gave Joe a nod across the room. Anya Taylor-Joy stopped Angel to compliment her nails—“They’re a whole sculpture,” she said with awe—and asked who did them. Angel was mid-response when Joe came to stand behind her again, close enough that she could feel the heat from his chest through her dress.

She leaned back just slightly, letting her shoulder brush his abdomen, acting like she didn’t notice the way he exhaled a little slower than usual.

"You're playing dangerous," he murmured low, just for her, breath grazing the shell of her ear.

Angel turned her head just a little, letting her lips nearly brush his cheek. “Only if you’re losing.”

He chuckled, and she could feel it through her spine.

They broke apart again when Daniel Kaluuya walked over, clapping Joe on the back and giving Angel a grin. “Y’all shut the whole Gala down and came here to finish the job?”

“Something like that,” Angel answered smoothly.

As they chatted, Joe reached for a fresh drink from a passing tray, handing one to Angel without even glancing. She took it, brushing his fingers with hers like it was an accident—except they both knew it wasn’t.

“You’re flirting,” he said under his breath as the others laughed at something Daniel said.

“You’re imagining things,” she whispered back.

Joe tilted his head, grinning. “Nope. I know your games.”

Angel stepped away then, but not before looking over her shoulder—slowly, over her bare shoulder—and giving him a look that held promise and warning in equal measure.

Across the room, Keke Palmer caught the glance and raised her eyebrows with a smirk. “Oooh,” she said, sidling up beside Angel. “You’ve got that I’m-gonna-ruin-him-later look in your eyes.”

Angel didn’t even pretend to deny it.

Twenty minutes later, they were seated together in a semi-private lounge near the back of the bar. Angel’s heels were kicked halfway off under the table. Joe’s arm was slung across the velvet banquette behind her, his fingertips occasionally tapping her bare shoulder.

There were no more words.

Just that tension. That heat. That growing electricity that said: we’re not staying here long.

“You ready to dip soon?” Joe asked finally, voice low and smooth, the kind of voice that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with secrets.

Angel looked over at him, lashes sweeping low. “You tell me.”

Joe leaned in, brushing his nose along her cheek, just shy of a kiss. “I’ve been ready since you walked out of the bathroom.”

She grinned. “I knew that neckline would do something to you.”

He laughed softly, eyes tracing her mouth. “It’s not just the neckline. It’s the whole damn problem.”

Angel tilted her head. “Then let’s go find the solution.”

Joe stood first, offering his hand. She slipped hers into his with a practiced ease, the whole world fading behind them as they made their way to the elevator—two people dressed like royalty, walking like they were chasing the clock.

Because some after-parties don’t happen in bars.

It started with a look.

Not loud. Not obvious. Just a glance across the room while a Cartier publicist thanked a table full of A-listers for coming. Angel caught Joe’s eyes mid-conversation with someone from GQ, and he didn’t even need to say a word. His expression said it all: You feel this too, right?

She gave the smallest nod—then tilted her head toward the far side of the bar, where a narrow hallway disappeared behind a velvet rope. He didn’t hesitate.

Like two teenagers at prom sneaking out of the gym, they slipped away—quiet, smooth, deliberate. Angel’s heels tapped softly against the marble as Joe placed a casual hand at her lower back. They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. The party’s hum faded behind them, the velvet rope swinging back into place like a secret.

They found the balcony at the end of the hall—a tucked-away terrace overlooking the side of Madison Avenue. The heavy double doors groaned slightly as Joe pushed them open, and then… peace.

The chill of the spring night kissed her bare shoulders. Lights from the avenue below spilled upward, painting soft gold across her dress, making the rosettes look like they were blooming in moonlight.

Joe followed her out and quietly closed the door behind them.

Angel leaned against the railing first, letting the city breathe against her skin. “You ever notice,” she murmured, “how quiet New York can feel when you’re just high enough above it?”

Joe stepped in behind her, chest nearly touching her back. “Only when I’m with you.”

She smiled. Didn’t say anything. Just closed her eyes for a moment, feeling him there—his body heat soaking into her, the energy between them still pulsing from across the room. From all night.

When she turned around, it was slow. Intentional. The space between them was minimal—his hands found her waist, hers slipped beneath the hem of his sleeveless knit vest, fingertips brushing his warm skin beneath.

“You keep touching me like that,” he said quietly, “we’re not gonna make it back inside.”

Angel’s voice was low. Velvet. “Who said we were going back inside?”

Joe’s eyes darkened a shade, just slightly. Enough to betray the patience he was barely holding onto.

She reached up, lightly tugging on the silver chain around his neck, pulling him closer. “You’ve been looking at me all night like you wanted to fuck me stupid.”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He kissed her.

Hard at first, then slow. Then hard again.

It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t staged. It was wanting—the kind of kiss born from hours of silent teasing, fingers brushed across hands, shared glances across rooms, subtle touches that sparked like wires snapping under tension.

Angel’s back met the railing as Joe deepened the kiss, one hand coming up to cradle the side of her jaw while the other stayed firm at her hip. Her fingers slid into his curls, tugging lightly—just enough to draw a low groan from his throat.

She pulled back first, breathing shallow, lips swollen. “That’s what I thought.”

Joe rested his forehead against hers, smiling now, playful again. “You’re trouble.”

“And you love it.”

He kissed her again, slower now, and when they broke, he looked down at her—eyes soft, voice gravelly. “You’re the only part of this whole night that’s real.”

Angel exhaled, brushing his cheek with the back of her hand. “Then let’s stay here a little longer.”

Somehow, they found themselves on a balcony that overlooked a glittering city, all of New York at their feet.

It was the kind of balcony that was designed for romantic moments. The kind that was meant for kisses that made your toes curl and your heart ache and your lips go numb.

The kind of kisses that they were having right then.

Angel was pressed against the wall, Joe between her legs, their bodies flushed together, mouths moving like the world was ending. She could feel his hands under her skirt, skimming up her thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She could feel the press of his teeth against her lips, the way he kept nipping at her, like he wanted to devour her whole.

His mouth moved to her neck, sucking a mark into her skin. “Fuck,” he hissed, lips moving against her throat. “I can’t get enough of you, baby.”

Angel whimpered, fingers curling in his shirt, holding him close. “Don’t stop.” She could feel every inch of him, the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his arms. The way he was so strong and yet so gentle, like he was afraid of breaking her.

It was too hot.

It was too much.

It was everything.

Angel had never been this way with anyone before. So desperate. So hungry. So out of control.

She wanted to rip his shirt off, wanted to taste his skin, wanted to feel the heat of his body against hers. She wanted him to touch her everywhere, to fill every inch of her until she couldn’t take anymore.

Joe’s hand slipped under her skirt, fingers tracing the edge of her thong. Angel gasped, her hips jerking forward. She was so wet already, so ready for him.

“Joe,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

“I know, baby,” he murmured against her neck. “I know.”

He pushed her thong to the side, his fingers finding her center. Angel cried out, her head falling back against the wall. He stroked her clit, his touch light and teasing, and she couldn’t help but buck her hips, seeking more.

“You’re so wet, baby,” Joe said, his voice low and husky. “You want this so bad, don’t you?”

Angel nodded frantically, her hands clutching at his shirt. “Yes, please. Please, Joe.”

He chuckled, the sound sending shivers down her spine. “Since you asked so nicely.”

He pushed a finger inside her, and Angel cried out again, her body arching off the wall. He pumped his finger in and out of her, adding a second one, and then a third. Angel was a whimpering mess, her legs shaking, her hips grinding against his hand.

Joe leaned in, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. Angel kissed him back with abandon, her tongue tangling with his, her moans muffled against his lips. He fingered her faster, harder, his palm grinding against her clit.

Angel could feel the tension building inside her, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter. She was so close, so close.

 She just needed a little more.

“Joe,” she gasped, breaking away from the kiss. “Please. I’m so close.”

“I know, baby,” Joe murmured, his lips trailing down her neck. “Come for me. Let me feel you come apart.”

Angel cried out, her body tensing, her orgasm crashing over her like a tidal wave. Joe didn’t stop, pumping his fingers in and out of her until she was limp against the railing, her body shaking with aftershocks.

He slowly withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean. Angel watched him, her eyes wide with amazement.

“You taste so good, baby,” Joe said, a wicked glint in his eye. “I could eat you out for hours.”

Angel laughed, her cheeks flushing. “Maybe next time.”

Joe grinned, pulling her close and kissing her deeply. Angel melted against him, her arms wrapping around his neck. She could taste herself on his lips, and it made her feel dirty and sexy and so incredibly turned on.

She broke away from the kiss, looking up at Joe with a mischievous glint in her eye. “My turn.”

Without another word, Angel sank to her knees in front of him.

“Oh, fuck,” Joe breathed, his hands tangling in her hair. “Baby, you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Angel said, looking up at him through her lashes. “Let me make you feel good too.”

She reached for his belt, unclasping it with a deft movement. She undid the button and zipper of his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and heavy, and Angel couldn’t help but lick her lips.

She took him in her hand, stroking him slowly. Joe let out a strangled groan, his hips jerking forward.

“Fuck, Angel,” he breathed, his hands tightening in her hair.

She leaned in, swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock. Joe groaned again, his hips bucking forward. Angel took him deeper, her mouth sliding down his shaft, her tongue teasing the underside.

“Shit, Angel,” Joe hissed, his hands guiding her head. “Your mouth feels so good.”

Angel hummed around him, taking him deeper with each stroke. She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, could taste the salty tang of his precum. She sucked him harder, her hand stroking the base of his cock.

“Angel,” Joe groaned, his hips snapping forward. “I’m gonna come if you don’t stop.”

Angel pulled away, looking up at him with a wicked grin. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Joe let out a shaky laugh, his hands cupping her face. "As much as I love your mouth, I need to be inside you baby."

Joe pulled her up, capturing her lips in a deep kiss. Angel melted against him, their tongues tangling together, the taste of him still on her lips.

They didn’t stop.

They couldn’t.

They kissed like there was no one watching, like they weren’t two people who were supposed to be anywhere but there, like the whole world hadn’t been waiting for them to leave the party together.

Angel didn’t care. She couldn’t. Not with the way Joe’s hands were gripping her hips, pulling her closer to him. Not with the way his lips were trailing down her neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses that made her skin tingle. Not with the way she felt like she was about to explode into flames, like every touch, every breath was pushing her closer to the edge.

“This is wrong,” she murmured, her fingers tangling in his hair.

“So wrong,” he agreed, his mouth moving to the hollow of her throat, sucking, nibbling. “So fucking wrong.”

She should have pushed him away. She should have stepped back. She should have remembered that they were in public, that there were paparazzi waiting downstairs, that anyone could see them.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

All she could do was feel.

His hands were under her skirt again, and this time, he wasn’t teasing. This time, he was all business. He pushed her thong to the side and slid a finger inside her without warning. Angel gasped, her back arching, her hips pushing into his hand.

“Shit,” he hissed, his finger pumping in and out of her. “You’re so tight, baby. So soaked.”

Angel could barely speak, barely breathe. She could feel everything, every touch, every sensation. She was so close to coming undone, and he had barely touched her.

“Joe,” she whispered, her nails digging into his shoulders. “Please.”

He added another finger, curling them inside her, hitting that spot that made her see stars. Angel cried out, her legs trembling, her body shaking. She was so close. So close.

“Please what?” he teased, his fingers stilling. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to beg. She wanted to tell him to fuck her until she forgot her own name.

But she couldn’t form the words. Not yet. Not until he was touching her again, making her feel things she had never felt before.

“Please,” she begged, her voice breaking. “I need you. I need you inside me. Now.”

He didn’t waste any time.

He didn’t bother with words.

He just turned her so her back was against his front before bending her against the railing. Her hands gripping the cool metal of the railing. The wind caught the layered skirt of her dress, lifting it just enough to tease, just enough to spark something wicked in Joe’s gaze.

He stepped up behind her, one hand resting on her lower back, the other curling lightly around her hip. Her silhouette framed by the skyline, her spine arching with quiet intention—it was almost too much. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes daring, mouth curved in that half-smile she wore when she knew she had him undone.

Joe leaned in close, voice low, words just for her. “You really trying to test me out here?”

Angel tilted her head, the city lights dancing in her eyes. “I already know the answer.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “Yeah? What’s the question then?”

She didn’t say a word.

Didn’t need to.

Her breath caught when his lips found her shoulder, his fingers slipping just beneath the edge of the corset’s back. His touch wasn’t rushed—never rushed—just firm enough to say you’re mine, gentle enough to say I know exactly how to love you.

For a few moments, time stopped. It was just the soft sound of the wind, the shimmer of Manhattan, and two people tangled in each other with a tension that hadn’t let up all night—and never would.

Joe pressed a kiss to the center of her spine, his hands trailing slowly down her sides. “You’re gonna get us caught out here.”

Angel’s laugh was breathless. “Then don’t take so long.”

She could feel the cold breeze against her skin, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was the way Joe was grinding against her, the way she could feel how hard he was through his pants.

“Fuck,” he hissed, reaching between them to free himself from his pants. “I can’t wait. I have to have you now.”

Angel nodded frantically, her arms tightening around his neck. “Yes,” she breathed. “Now. Please.”

He didn’t need any more encouragement.

He pushed into her in one long thrust, bottoming out, filling her completely. Angel cried out, her nails digging into the metal. He was so big, so thick. She could feel him stretching her, filling her to the brim.

“Fuck,” Joe groaned, holding still, letting her adjust. “You feel so good, baby. So tight. So perfect.”

Angel couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think. All she could do was feel. Feel him inside her, filling her, stretching her. Feel the way he was gripping her hips, holding her in place. Feel the way she was about to come apart at the seams.

“Move,” she begged, her hips rolling against his. “Please. I need you to move.”

Joe didn’t need to be told twice. He pulled out slowly before thrusting back in, hard, deep. Angel cried out, her back arching, her body shaking. He set a brutal pace, pounding into her, filling her over and over again.

Angel couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t do anything but take him, all of him, over and over again. She had never felt anything like this before. Never.

“Shit, baby,” Joe hissed, his thrusts becoming erratic. “I’m not going to last long. You feel too good.”

Angel moaned louder, her head dropping forward.

“Fuck,” Joe growled, his pace slowing. “We can’t get caught.”

He pulled out of her, ignoring her whimper of protest. She could feel him behind her, could feel the hard length of his erection pressed against her ass. He pushed her thong down her legs before shoving it in her mouth.

“Suck,” he ordered, pressing her face against the iron railing. Angel obeyed, sucking on her underwear, her eyes wide, her breath coming in harsh pants.

“That’s it, baby,” Joe encouraged, running his hands over her ass, parting her cheeks. “Just like that.” Angel moaned around her panties, her hips bucking back against him. Joe chuckled, the sound low and dark.

“Do you like this?” he asked, pressing the tip of his erection against her entrance. “Do you like being fucked like this?” Angel nodded frantically, unable to speak. Joe leaned over her, his chest against her back, his lips brushing her ear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I fucking love it.” He slammed into her, bottoming out in one thrust. Angel screamed against her panties, the sound muffled by the fabric. Joe didn’t stop. He pounded into her, hard, fast, his hands gripping her hips tightly.

The wet sound of skin on skin slapping drifted through the air around them along with Angel's muffled moans and Joe's groans.

 Angel's knees were buckling, her body shaking, her mind foggy with pleasure.

“Shit, baby,” Joe grunted, his pace increasing. “I’m close. I’m so fucking close.”

Angel moaned, her body tensing, the tension inside her building, building.

“Come with me,” Joe growled, reaching around to rub her clit. “Now, baby. Come for me now.”

Angel screamed, her orgasm crashing over her. Joe thrust into her one last time, groaning her name, filling her with his release. They stayed like that for a moment, both breathing heavily, both trying to come back to earth.

They both collapsed against the railing, their bodies shaking, their chests heaving. Angel pulled her panties out of her mouth, gasping for air. Joe pressed his forehead against her back, his breathing ragged.

“Fuck,” he groaned, slowly pulling out of her. “That was…”

“Amazing,” Angel finished for him, pushing herself upright. She turned to face him, a small smile playing on her lips.

Joe slowly pulled out of her before turning her around, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her deeply, his tongue stroking hers. Angel melted into him, her arms wrapping around him tightly.

When they finally pulled away, Joe rested his forehead against hers. “Are you okay?”

Angel grinned, biting her bottom lip. “I’m better than okay.”

Joe chuckled, brushing his thumb over her swollen lips. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

Angel’s eyes widened, a thrill of excitement running through her. “Oh, really?”

She licked her lips, tasting him there. “What else do you have in mind?”

He grabbed her hand and placed it over the front of his pants, letting her feel his hardness. “This,” he said, voice low and rough. “You. Again. As many times as we can make it happen.”

Angel bit her lip, her heart pounding. “And where exactly are we going to do this?”

Joe grinned, that wicked, sinful grin that made her stomach flutter. “Wherever we want. Wherever we can. I have a few ideas.”

“Oh, you do?” Angel raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Like what?”

Joe didn’t answer. Instead, he scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. Angel let out a surprised yelp, her arms wrapping around his neck.

“Joe!” she protested, laughing. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you somewhere more private,” Joe said, carrying her back inside. “Somewhere we can be alone. Somewhere we can do whatever we want, without worrying about getting caught.”

Angel’s cheeks flushed, a thrill of excitement mixed with apprehension running through her. She knew what they had done was wrong. She knew they shouldn’t have been together like that at least in public. But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

All she cared about was Joe. About the way he was holding her. About the way he had just made her feel.

 About the way she wanted more of him. Needed more of him.

“You ready for this?” Joe asked, stopping in front of the elevator.

Angel looked up at him, biting her lip. She knew what he was asking. She knew what she was agreeing to. She knew that once she stepped into that elevator with him, there was no going back.

But she didn’t care.

She didn’t want to go back.

She only wanted to move forward.

With him.

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm, her heart racing. “I’m ready.”

He carried her into the elevator, pressing her against the wall as soon as the doors closed. His mouth was on hers again, hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping inside, taking, claiming. Angel wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, holding him close as he devoured her mouth.

Angel felt like she was floating, like nothing else existed but him, his touch, his taste. She couldn’t get enough. She would never get enough. And neither would he.

[monstersandmaw]

a biker orc has spawned in my drafts... here's an unedited snippet from what I have so far. Lemme know if you want the rest and I'll do it.

male orc, modern fantasy setting, gn reader who uses a cane as a mobility aid but their disability, while accommodated for later in the story, isn't the focus, or an issue.

___

You were used to your dog getting stares from people in the park. Tiny as a teacup, and as ugly as they came, Tinkerbell had been a rescue three years ago, and the two of you had pack bonded better than most werewolves who grew up together. The little chihuahua cross (crossed with what, no one knew and it would take an entire mage’s laboratory to unravel the DNA of your mystical little creature anyway) was sort of sandy coloured, with white socks and a hint of Jack Russel about the tail, but her bug-eyes and little teeth were all chihuahua. There was a tuft of longer hair on her head that made her look like a gremlin after midnight, and she had the attitude to go with it.

She also hated everyone.

It didn’t matter if they were the cutest, sweetest little fawn, or the gentlest fairy, she hated them.

So when you were taking a break on a chilly bench at the edge of the park after walking her as far as your body would let you that day, and three orcs on obscenely loud motorbikes drew up to the curb only a few metres away and cut the engines on their bikes, you fully expected her to go absolutely ape shit on them.

One of the orcs removed his helmet and propped it on his bike’s mirror, and pointed at The Creature. A very un-orcish giggle escaped him and he began to make little cooing noises over her, so much that you found your mouth curling into a smirk at his antics.

The others kept their helmets on, but you could tell the were orcs too just by their build. They were laughing at their mate, who was rapidly losing his mind over your dog. Quite why, you had no idea, but there it was.

“She’ll eat you for breakfast, buddy,” you called over to them, and the orc without his helmet froze.

His expression turned from gooey-eyed to comically devastated and you couldn’t help the laugh that erupted out of your chest.

Tinkerbell looked up at you and then over at the bikers.

“I’m warning you,” you said with mock-seriousness. “She’s a killer.”

The orc without the helmet swung his leg over his monster of a sports bike and came round the front to stand, staring at her from a distance. You, in turn, stared at him.

Where his mates had perhaps more stereotypical clothing for the kind of bikes they rode — both choppers — he had on a baggy black hoodie which you hope was armoured underneath. By contrast though, his faded black jeans were tight around his tree trunk legs, and there was a slight rip in the thigh that showed his dark, olive green skin. The jeans clearly had knee armour though, and he had sporty looking biker boots instead of the scuffed, black work boot style shoes his friends had on. His black hair was plaited back off his gorgeous face in a complicated braid that was studded and adorned all the way down with charms made of bone and metal and wood, and it ended below his waistband. His tusks were rounded at the tip, unlike the more traditional orcs, but he did have a cuff of engraved silver around each one, showing he was over the age of twenty five.

His hands were covered by black, armoured gloves that did unreasonable things to your sex drive for some reason, and he crouched down and held one hand out towards Tinkerbell, though at that distance he couldn’t possibly hope to pet her. He was a good six or seven metres from the bench, but Tinkerbell took notice. They were all hard to miss, after all.

The orc’s mates were snickering openly, and one of them had got out their phone to record their friend. You hoped they wouldn’t get you in the frame. You had no inclination to become some prop on a stranger’s social media, though you didn’t mind if Tinkerbell had her five minutes in the limelight.

Propped up beside you on the bench, your walking cane started to slide slightly along the wooden seat, toppling slowly towards the ground, and you grabbed for it and tucked it up against your thigh. The movement freed up your hand for a moment, and it was all the excuse Tinkerbell needed to yank herself free of your clutches and launch herself at the orc.

“Oh shit,” you gasped, but the dog was off like a guided missile, trailing her pink leash behind her as she tore across the grass towards him, yapping wildly.

Instead of sinking her tiny little dagger teeth into his armoured arm though, she bounced up like a wayward baked bean and hurled herself at his chest — honestly, you couldn’t blame the girl — and he caught her, giggling like a small child. You stared, astonished, as the creature who had once fought a five year old at a birthday party for a single square of cheese proceeded to charm the hell out of a seven and a half foot orc with a litre sports bike that looked like it could eat a dragon for breakfast.

“What the actual fuck?” you hissed as the orc continued to fuss your minuscule dog and make little baby noises at her as he held her up like he was presenting a well-known lion cub to an audience while she squirmed in his frankly illegally huge hands before lowering her again and nuzzling his flatter nose against her pointy one and setting her down on the ground with surprising care for someone so bulky.

Baffled by her betrayal and change in personality, you stood awkwardly — painfully — leaning on your cane for stability, and the orc’s green eyes tracked the movement, his attention sliding from the dog to her owner as you eased yourself to your feet.

There is a bit more written but this felt like a good spot to leave it for now. Lemme know if you want the rest!

(EDIT: Chapter One is now up on Patreon - free to access from 21st Feb 2025)

[strangesuki]

shades of love

&team members as day6 love songs makes sense even if you don't know the songs don't worry – snippets of them in love

genre : songfic, fluff. some have specific scenarios, some are general

w.c. : around 150-250 for each member, k's turned out to be just a tiny bit longer oops

a/n : me? uploading somewhat regularly? i know, i'm surprised too xD. i will also be making an angsty version of this – &team members as day6 breakup songs *insert evil smile* (a little later tho). also day6 are an amazing k-band guys you should check them out if you haven't already <3

♡ euijoo

♪ beautiful feeling

euijoo has had crushes before, sure. but nothing has ever felt like this. like you. he is so absolutely giddy in love, but even love feels like an understatement. he thinks the word ‘love’ is thrown around way too casually to encapsulate all that he feels for you, which is a LOT – he doesn't even know where to start. it's honestly fascinating, even to himself: he doesn't think he's ever smiled so much in all his life. his cheeks hurt whenever he's around you. heck, he even finds himself smiling when he's alone, and nicholas teases him endlessly but he couldn't care less. he's just so genuinely happy at the mere thought of you and he loves it. it's also like the world has suddenly become more enchanting because of you; he sees beauty wherever he goes. it's all very cliché, but who cares when cliché feels this good? he loves this almost overwhelming wave of joy and peace and comfort and love that he feels in your presence. he loves every minute of you.

(other members under the cut!)

♡ fuma

♪ man in a movie

fuma is a very practical person. he doesn't believe in things like destiny or love at first sight. but one serendipitous meeting with you is all it took to change his mind. it has been months, and he's still in awe about the fact that if you both hadn't happened to be at the same place at the same time on that one particular day, you might've never met! how insane is that? he still remembers the incredible moment he first saw you, it was like in the movies – like time stopped and everything around you blurred and all he could see was you. and he hasn't been able to take his eyes off of you ever since. with you in his life, everything sounds like music, you make him feel like the main lead in a romcom. the first time you kissed, he could almost swear he heard fireworks. or maybe it was just the sound of his heart.

♡ kei

♪ dance dance

it started with something you told him in passing once: that you wished you could dance the way people do at parties – without any inhibitions and solely for the purpose of enjoying themselves. you wished you weren't so self-conscious so you could just let go and have fun without worrying about whether you were any good. and your wish became his command. the next weekend, he takes you to a party. he drags you to the dance floor and shouts over the music, his body already moving to the rhythm, “let's dance!” you stare at him incredulously, although it's a little hard given the dim and flashing lights. “c’mon, what's the worst that could happen? nobody here knows you, and you don't know anybody. heck, you can't even see people's faces properly! everyone's here just to have fun. dancing is about losing yourself in the music. don't worry about anything else!” and then he proceeds to dance like an idiot so you won't feel embarrassed by whatever moves you want to try out. it works. when it's over, you're so elated and happy that you don't even realise that you're the only one who's tired and sweaty while he still looks almost the same as he had when he came, because he's barely been dancing, he was too caught up in watching you. he's never seen you this unguarded and free. messy hair, crazy moves, but in his eyes you've never been prettier. you leave feeling a little more in love with life. he leaves feeling a lot more in love with you. on the way home, when you're still riding on the high of what happened, he quietly confesses to you.

♡ nicholas

♪ be lazy

this man is so cocky as well as clingy when he's in love (insane combo btw good luck surviving), and mornings with him are when both sides are at their peak. as soon as he hears your alarm go off, his hold on you tightens and he whines when you try to free yourself. “don't go today,” he mumbles right into your neck in his deep morning voice, managing to give you goosebumps even in your groggy state. when you eventually (and reluctantly, because you hate that you've to be responsible when all you wanna do is just give in and snuggle up close) free yourself from his grip, he frowns with the most adorable pout on his lips which you're tempted to kiss away. “the world outside is cold and cruel. stay with me,” he holds his arms out. you shoot him a look and he spouts some nonsense about how he had a dream that it’d be dangerous to go outside today. “who are you, caesar's wife?” you mutter with a roll of your eyes. when clingy doesn't work, he turns flirtatious. he holds himself up using his elbow, and pats the empty spot beside him, “you're missing a piece of heaven, babe,” he says with a smirk, “everything you need is right here.” you try, unsuccessfully, to suppress your smile.

♡ yuma

♪ chocolate

yuma knows it's not right, but he can't stop thinking about what it must feel like to kiss you. which is why, lately he's been wondering if he ever saw you as a friend or has unconsciously always wanted something more. and it feels like he has to work harder each time you meet to keep himself in check, though nothing more than the occasional glances stolen at your lips when you aren't looking has transpired so far. today, you have been yapping away about some show you've just finished watching, and yuma is listening. at first. and then he becomes extremely conscious of the fact that he's looking at you. sure, that’s what one normally does when someone is talking but this is you. and you're so close. and you're looking at him too as you speak. and suddenly he doesn't know where to look. it feels too intimate to look into your eyes, so he focuses on the spot between them. but that doesn't feel right either. shit, he's not even listening to you anymore. for heaven's sake pull yourself together and look somewhere! he settles for your nose. hmm, they have a pretty nose. which is so close to their pretty lips… lips that probably taste sweeter than chocolate… why do i feel like i know what they taste like even though i've never kissed the- oh god i'm staring at their lips. i should stop staring at their lips. i can't stop staring oh god how long have i–

♡ jo

♪ i like you

jo doesn't talk much. he's very calculated with his words and only talks when he feels it's absolutely necessary. he's someone who doesn't like confrontations and uncomfortable conversations, so he tries to avoid those as much as possible - especially with people he likes. because what if he says the wrong thing and messes up? better not to talk unless he's absolutely sure of what he's going to say. that has been his rule so far. but today, he decides he has to say something, even if he's not sure what exactly, even if saying what he wants to might make things uncomfortable and awkward with you. because he can't hold back anymore. he needs you to know the truth about how he feels about you. there's a good chance you probably already know since he hasn't exactly been subtle what with him stumbling over his words and his ears that seem to be perpetually red when you're around. still, he needs you to know for sure how much he likes you. this is a chance he's willing to take. you make him feel brave. ridiculously nervous, yes, but also brave (yeah he doesn't know how that works either). is he terrified that he might ruin what you have now by confessing? 200%. but on the off chance that maybe, just maybe, you like him too…well he'll never know unless he does this. so here he goes.

♡ harua

♪ hi hello

‘hi’ has become his favourite word ever since he met you. such a short, simple word but such a magical one – the word that turned you from strangers to lovers. all he knows is that one day he was admiring you from afar and then the next week he was walking you home from your date, already looking forward to the next one. and to think that all it took was for him to find the courage to walk up to you and say this simple word! it's nothing short of a magic spell as far as he's concerned. he still remembers the first time he said it to you, and how his heart felt like it was in his throat, and how he has looked forward to saying it every day since. the nerves have reduced over time, but not the thrill. he loves seeing the way your smile grows a little brighter with each ‘hi’ of his, and hearing the barely contained excitement in your voice as you say it back. your hello is his favourite poem.

♡ taki

♪ i'm serious

taki cannot make out if you're really this dense or if you're doing it on purpose to mess with him, because he's pretty sure everyone else in the whole entire world (okay, in his world at least) knows how completely head over heels he is for you. he practically has heart eyes whenever he's looking at you – how can you not see it? he's not even trying to hide it at this point, he's been dropping hints left and right. he's not even sure they can be called ‘hints’ anymore because he's been making it so obvious he's basically making a fool of himself but he couldn't care less. you drive him insane in the best and worst of ways. he often brings up the elephant in the room jokingly to gauge how you really feel, trying to seem casual when really it feels like his heart is going to explode. he can't even give up because sometimes you do flirt back and it gives him hope. but mostly you just laugh it off and he's back to square one, wondering if you're actually this clueless. can't you just put him out of his misery?

♡ maki

♪ say wow

his jaw drops. which is frustratingly ridiculous because it's not the first time he's seeing you – he's seen you like a thousand times before, considering you've been friends since you were kids. so what is it about tonight? he has no clue. all he knows is that his eyes have been glued to you ever since you walked through the door of his house. it's his birthday party, but he feels like they all should be celebrating you instead. at one point, he leans over to harua and asks him to click pictures of you instead of him, and harua looks at him like he's crazy. maybe he is. when you give him his gift and wish him happy birthday, he just stares at you with his mouth hanging slightly open because he's suddenly forgotten how to speak. he steals glances at you the whole evening, wondering if you've always been this wonderful and he just didn't notice. has your laugh always sounded this delightful? has your touch always felt so electrifying? how could he have been so blind, when you're this sparkling? what have you done to him?

a/n : ik k's and nicho's aren't exactly love songs strictly speaking but i just felt it fit them well

divider credits : @/saradika-graphics

[whump-till-ya-jump]

Writing Snippet #1

Author's Note: Hey it's my first time posting writing on here so I'm kinda scared, but here it goes.

TW: Drugging, caretaker villain, sidekick whumpee, and restraints

They knew they shouldn’t have trusted the food even after Villian took a bite. Look at where it got them; their head too heavy to carry, their eyelids drooping and threatening to close at any minute. There was also a buzz, in their head, and a warm feeling that encompassed their body. God, they were such an idiot. 

There was a creak and footsteps, but it was muffled like their ears were stuffed with cotton. “Enjoyed your meal, I assume,” a voice rang above them. 

Sidekick opened their eyes, or at least tried to. But all they got was a blurred preview of the room they’d been in for the past three days. The last thing Leader told them was, “Don’t let them get into your mind kid.” It was that and then the blood loss dragged them into darkness. They woke up here, roughly bandaged, and chained to the wall. 

Villain crouched down so their face was right in front of Sidekick’s, “I really am sorry, but this was the only way I could check your wounds, I'm sure you get it.” They went to unlock Sidekick from their restraints, and they were too out of it to process the movements fast enough.

 Don’t let them in, don’t let them get close. This mantra had been playing in their head since day one. Anytime the criminal tried to go near them, they would kick, bite, thrash, and scream like a rabid animal, which, of course, made Villian scared they would hurt themself more. 

They reached for Sidekick’s wrist first, where a leather cuff was secured. When they made contact, the tiny hero flinched and let out a small whine. “I know, I know, but you need help.” There were 4 cuffs, two on the hero’s wrist and two on their ankles. Villain made sure not to take off the power-dampening cuffs under the wrist restraints. When all the bonds were off, they gently brought their captive up into their lap.

 Sidekick tried to wriggle out of it but it was like a fish flopping in a net, their limbs uncoordinated and messy. They tried to speak, “wha- whare yu doin,” but their tongue was heavy and it came out all slurred. “It’s okay, I’m just going to fix you up.” It took Sidekick a second to come to, but when they did, they thrashed weakly. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to give you new bandages and make sure your cuts aren’t infected.”

“Nhhn- no!”

“I need to kid.”

 Villain brought their hands to the little head in their lap, carding their hands through Sidekick’s hair and playing with it. Oh god, they thought, that feels really fucking good. They sighed, deep and content. 

“Feels nice right?” they heard from wherever Villain was. They could care less where they were, as long as the feeling didn’t stop. The buzz grew louder and the warmth got stronger, Sidekick was so tired. 

There was a laugh, “Looks like that food is doing wonders for ya kid.” The talking felt nice, it made their skull rattle and shit did it feel good. Honestly, everything felt good, they let out a little noise from their throat. There was more laughing from above, “You can sleep kid, no one is going to hurt you, I just need to patch you up. You’re safe here.”

 Were they safe? No, surely there was something they were forgetting, there had to be. When they tried to think, all that came up was fluff, and each time they blinked, it was impossibly harder to open their eyes.

 They wanted nothing more than to surrender themselves to the warmth and the darkness. So when Villain’s hands scratched a really good spot, that’s exactly what they did.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!

(My Masterlist)

[myjjongie]

౨ৎ to my beloved ── p. jongseong ⟢ teaser

SYNOPSIS . . . Moon Yn daughter of a notorious Duke who is said to be one of the Emperor's most loyal aides is married off to Archduke Park Jay. Their marriage soon became the talk of the country. Everyone adored the joining of Yn, daughter of Duke Moon and the Emperor's eldest son Jay. Two people the Emperor cherished very deeply. Unaware of Duke Moon's true intentions, he desired the throne the Emperor sat on. Using his own daughter as a means of infiltration he marries her off to Jay. Yn being shackled down to her father listened to everything he told her to do. Eventually when the day came for the overthrowing of the Emperor's throne Yn dies before ever knowing who truly won in the end.

OR

IN WHICH . . . Yn is sent back in time to before she married Jay, before her father started preparations to overthrow the Emperor, before everything was lost. Finally having a second chance to save the people most dear to her. Yn won't let her father control her as he pleases this time. For Yn will make her own decisions despite the unforeseeable future. With this second chance she'll marry Jay with the intentions of helping him without the control of her father. ⌇WORD COUNT . . . 382 ⌇

.ᐟ PAIRING . . . archduke!jay x archduchess fem!reader

.ᐟ GENRES . . . oneshot histrorical au, time travel trope, enemies to lovers (if you squint your eyes hard enough), magic/magical beings are a thing, contract marriage, she fell first he fell harder, angst, yn was a villainess in her past life (???)

.ᐟ WARNINGS . . . yn unalives herself (in the beginning), family abuse (all from the father), heavy descriptions of certain topics, detailed scenes with physical touch

.ᐟ STARRING . . . enhypen (all members) ive (liz) nct (chenle + mark) aespa (giselle) + possible mentions of other idols

•

꒰ evie's note : so i cooked up this snippet an hour or so ago. posting this fic teaser to test the waters in a way cause i only have a smau being posted at the moment. i've also been itching to write write something and it's been a hot minute since i've gotten my creative brain juices flowing as well. back into reading manhwas again so if this reminds you of any of those, yes. and yes it's about jay again IM SORRY i miss my pookie bear angel can yall blame me :( also if i finish this within a timely manner i wanna have it out before the end of next week tbh. really hoping i'm able to do this fic justice for yall. but alas enjoy the tiny bit of what my brain cooked up. ꒱

taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @shinkenprincess-oh @jiryunn @rebeccaaaaaaaa @fancypeacepersona @thinkinboutbin @nnnecubrate @pyreflyforest776

perm. taglist ( open! send a ask/comment to be added ) . . . @ikeulove @leehsngs @nickiminajleftasscheek

YN POV .

My eyes blink open to see the view of an all too familiar ceiling above myself. It was the same cream colored ceiling that belonged in my bedroom in the manor at the Moon duchy. Slowly sitting up my eyes scanned my surroundings. It was exactly as I had remembered the room, the sitting area for when guests were over. The windowsill where I had often read books to pass time through the day. The tall walls decorated with intricate designs only a Duke could afford for a singular room. Thing was the last time I had been in this room was before I left for the Park duchy. When I left to get married to Duke Jay. My mind was a mess of memories as it all dawned on me.

I remembered the blazing fire as I ran through the trees in the forest next to the Park duchy. I could recall the stinging pain as the branches scratched and tore at the skin of my arms. Then the feeling of my legs numbing as I sprinted in the heavy dress that was tailored for a archduchess to wear. My head ached as everything came back to me. Remembering the sound of the knights corning me in the forest, shouting how I needed to go with them. Jay wanted me alive, but I knew it was all a lie. My father had started a coup d’état, he always craved for the higher power in the aristocracy. Being granted a duke title while not being related to the royal family simply wasn’t enough for him. So he sought out higher power, the throne of the Emperor. Jay was one of the Emperor’s sons, there was a feeling in me. Jay wouldn’t stand for his wife being the daughter of the man who wanted to take his father’s throne as well as his life. If the knights captured me to take me to Jay he for sure would have killed me with his own hands. With no other choice I took my life. In hopes that there would be one last thing I had control over before I died. It was laughable at how in the end I only had control over how I got to die and who got to kill me.

©myjjongie 2025

[edwin-paynes-bowtie]

Did I have a really bad night last night in no small part because of a s2 spoiler? Yes. Did I have a Payneland Meltdown? Sure.

But this morning I have gained clarity, and a couple of things have made me feel better about some of the spoilers. I'm going to share them with you in hopes that it will quell some anxiety.

George and Jayden seem extremely excited about the season 2 that they read. It appears super genuine in the new Gameodens, and even if you wanted to argue that it was For the Hype, George also seemed really pumped about them before the show was canceled. They don't seem like performative people regardless, but past behavior also indicates that, yes, the excitement is real.

Both Jayden and George expressed that Charles and Edwin are soulmates. They have read all of the available scripts, and they are still expressing that (very true) sentiment.

They also explicitly said that Edwin and Charles are basically married anyway and that "dating" would be a "step down" for them.

Re: the "fight" that triggered my Episode last night: there is genuinely no way that the boys would have fought for an entire season, let alone forever. It wouldn't make sense and would be antithetical to the entire point of the show. Not to mention George and Jayden having professed them soulmates! "Tense for a lot of it" could mean many things, including that things were tense for a lot of the fight (rather than the season) and got less tense as the fight progressed. "A lot of it" could also just mean 1-2 episodes since they don't really fight.

George and Jayden also explicitly said that disagreements could be healthy, so I'm going to believe that they meant they came out stronger on the other side.

Also, as a kind soul in my comments last night said, there's really nothing for them to fight over besides each other. It probably would have been out of love anyway.

Re: the Catwin sex. Disclaimer is that I don't mind this because I've always thought it would be an interesting plot point. BUT, as a hardcore Payneland shipper myself,I understand why people might not like it. Please remember that it's part of a story! It's the middle of a story, not the ending! Catwin is likely, as I hoped for, a step on the journey toward Edwin figuring out that he only wants these experiences with Charles. Every road leads back to them.

I actually think that Jayden and George might have said that all roads lead to them as well in one of the Gameodens, but I don't know where. Maybe I dreamed it.

We are getting tiny little snippets of 8 hours worth of television. We have maybe a collective 150-character Tweet and 1.5 minutes of out-of-context video spoilers. Catastrophizing doesn't make any logical sense. (I'm not talking down to anyone here, I promise. I'm repeating the mantra I told myself for like an hour last night.)

Season 2 was also not intended to be the last season! They wanted 6! This is Act 2 of 6. It's not even the middle of the story!

[skyrim-forever]

WIP Wednesday

Hi everyone, would you believe it's wednesday again? Thank you to @umbracirrus @lady-iizsil and @theoneandonlysemla for the tags, lovely to see your wips <3

No pressure tagging:@pocket-vvardvark @changelingsandothernonsense @dirty-bosmer @sunsettemplar @firefly-factory @chiqita @labskeever @sanzas-reverie @captain-of-silvenar

@thequeenofthewinter @hircines-hunter @sulphuricgrin @scholarlyhermit @lucien-lachance @sunlightpassingthroughthewater @heavy-metal-dick

This week I have two wips, a snippet from Chapter 7 of Changing Tides (My Maormer OC x OC continuous story) and a little Parents! Theomar fic I need the motivation to work on. Up first is Theomar, specifically Dadmer <3 And then poor Odile waking up and not remembering fully what happened the day before </3

“Love, I know you are frustrated he isn’t going to the lessons, but have you considered he doesn’t want to? Maybe he’s not enjoying them.”

“It’s not a matter of what he wants,” the tone he speaks in is more forceful than he anticipated.  “There are obligations he has, as an Altmer, as a member of this family…” As my son, that part goes unspoken as uttering it aloud does not sit well with him. “He should not be ignorant to this half of himself.” Instead of continuing their delicate massage, Theodora’s hands abruptly stop as she clutches the sides of his face. Moving his gaze from the floor to her, craning his neck and he can see right away she is displeased at him. 

They were not the type to argue, a remarkable feat all things considered and one that would stay that way as he was not about to upset her further. 

“Do you hear yourself, Ondolemar?” Ouch. Not my love or my husband, but his name: cold and clear. “It’s not a matter of what he wants. That is rich coming from you.” Carefully, he tries to soothe the situation.

 “I am just concerned as we are here now and he shows no interest in learning about the Homeland.” Since he first laid eyes on him, the tiny baby he had not even known existed until he came to that craggy island, Ondolemar had wanted to show him their ancestral homeland. Do all the things he felt his own father neglected, be better, be present. 

“Your homeland.” That's what she says next. “It is your homeland, not his.” Theodora goes to walk away and he can’t help but reach out for her arm, trying to keep her nearby with a gentle touch. “Have you ever thought he might not feel welcomed here?” 

“Of course I have, that is why we have been thoroughly screening their instructors.” As well as the cooks, cleaners, gardeners. Anyone who would be in their space was ruthlessly screened in order to keep those with specific beliefs about those of mixed ancestry firmly away. As much as they could but, he’d be a fool to think they’d protected them entirely.

Changing Tides

It may be her being naive, both to the ways of the world and also to him. They barely knew each other, whose to say something hadn’t happened, even if she did not want it to. Her breath catches in her throat at the thought and the sleeping mer grunts in his sleep, his eyes blinking slowly as he awakens. Moving the arm across her pillow, he does a large stretch, seemingly paying her no mind; as if he is not surprised to find her there. The small inn room echos the sound of his knuckles cracking, then moving on to his arms and shoulders. After a quick crack of his neck, one that does make her wince a bit at how loud the sound was, he addresses her first, much to her surprise. 

“You sleep?” And she nods. 

“Did you sleep well?” He moves from the blanket to now be standing, and she is relieved to see he is in fact not naked, the armoured piece still around his waist. It must be uncomfortable to sleep in, she makes a mental note to prioritize getting him at least sleeping clothes. 

“Yes.” A soft smile dons her face and Odile can’t help but be happy to hear he slept well. The past day she never hesitated to reiterate to him how important it was, it was good to see he’d gotten some. 

“Take your time, we leave when you wish.” What?

Would it be anyone else, his words spoken through the mouth of one she would believe such kindness in, they would not have aroused suspicion. If anything, that net was cast wide as the Breton knew she was overly trusting, most were given more than the benefit of the doubt in her eyes. But him, him. The grumpy mer she’d known for not even two days at this point, who’d only been short with her, even rude on more than one occasion. Kynearth forgive me, she prays. But I just can’t believe this from him. So far he’d been so insistent on traveling as quickly as possible; save for getting a ride with Baelyn as apparently seeing someone else in charge of a boat was against his moral code. Good to know he has one I suppose. Everything else had been quick, must go, no need for rest even though she could see he was still in pain. For a moment, she hesitates to think it’s not like him, how can she know that in the limited time they’ve spent together. Yet, reflecting on her initial reaction, instantly hearing how bizarre it was to not have to fight with him, she decides it does not seem like him at all. Did he get a head injury? While she doesn’t mean to, the thought is spoken aloud. 

“Did you get a head injury?” Immediately her eyes are stuck at the ground, looking at the simple pattern that covered the area rug of their room. Crimson with ash-coloured floral motifs, quite lovely in her opinion. 

“What?” A sigh of relief. His question presents her with the chance to redeem herself, asking the intent in a better way. 

“Sorry, it’s just well, you’re being nice…” To me. That part goes unsaid. “I don’t mean to offend you but it’s a bit strange, I would have expected you to demand we leave now.” Thankfully, it does not appear that she’s hurt his feelings, instead the mer responses in a similar calm tone.

“Yesterday a lot, a lot was. I think you might be not… good.” What? What happened yesterday? What does he mean? The empty memories being to come back, only barely as she recalls something new. The face she had been at the bar with… it wasn’t him…

[alvfr]

🌹 hii! Any Marvel content?

Btw the Rot snippet!! Amazing!

Aaah, thank you ❤️ And I thought for sure I had some Marvel-writing laying around, but I couldn't find it so I decided to act on my impulses and write this little thing I've had in the back of my mind for a while. It went slightly beyond a snippet, but I am who I am unfortunately. also I headcanon that xavier does not read minds unless permitted, which is in line with how this movie ended originally. paring: logan | james howlett/reader cw: fem mutant!reader, no use of y/n, set after days of future past, implied memory loss or time travel shenanigans, profanity, no smut wc: 1.9k

The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

It is considered cliche to start a story with someone waking up, but that is nonetheless where this story begins. When everything you knew or thought you knew about the world changed. And out of every way your life could be turned on its head, you never thought it would be to the soothing tones of Roberta Flack playing on the radio. From the depths of your subconscious rose a tiny voice asking a question. What radio?

Roberta’s voice overpowered your internal one and became the first thing to wake you from a deep and comfortable slumber. Too deep and too comfortable, perhaps, compared to what you were used to. The same went for the bed — too soft and too warm and too nice smelling. A part of you tried to piece it together and failed. What bed?

For several long seconds before you fully woke, you pondered if you had died sometime during the night and woken up in heaven. More and more of your body stirred, though, indicating vitality. Including your eyelids that blinked open only to immediately squeeze shut at the incessant sunlight streaming in through the window. Faint alarm bells chimed in the back of your groggy mind. What window?

Still, not enough to break through to the rational part of your brain, you settled further into the fluffy pillow and closed your eyes again. A slight breeze tickled the back of your neck though and you twitched in annoyance. You twisted your head this way and that, but the tickling continued so you tried turning around to pull the covers up over your shoulder. Except you found yourself locked in place by something warm and heavy. Someone warm and heavy whose breath continued to tickle the back of your neck.

Your eyes burst open, and your entire body froze, not daring to even breathe. Your mind finally caught up to the unnatural warmth that came from the way your body slotted together with someone else’s in the large, comfortable bed you had never seen before. In a room you had never seen before. You twisted your head to peek at the person behind you, the one pressed flush up to your backside. With their hairy legs entangled with yours, with their scruffy face nestled into your neck, and with their muscular, heavy arm splayed over your midriff. 

First, you saw nothing but large tufts of dark brown hair, but your movement must have woken him. Definitely a him. Sun-blessed skin, a solid, rugged jaw covered in something that went way beyond a five o’clock shadow, and deep-set, weary eyes that remained closed for now. He grunted and groaned as if wordlessly admonishing you for disturbing his peaceful sleep, and his arm around your waist tightened. Much like yourself, he squeezed his eyes shut first and rubbed his face back down into the pillow and your neck, scratching his scruff onto your bare skin. Shockwaves spun through both your mind and nerve endings when he absentmindedly placed a kiss on your exposed shoulder.

“What the fuck?” you whispered, not really sure why you had not bolted from his grip. It was almost like that even if your mind could not comprehend what you were doing in this strange bed with this strange man, your body had no qualms about it. “What the fuck?”

“Hng?” the man grunted again and took several tries to blink his tired eyes fully open. Unfamiliar hazel eyes stared at you, and you stared back, watching his lip curl in irritation and his heavy eyebrows pull down to a scowl. Somehow, the sight of you did not seem to disturb him, quite the opposite, in fact, as he leaned over with eyes half-closed and kissed you right on the mouth. Soft, chaste, warm. Familiar in a completely unfamiliar way and gone before you could even comprehend what had happened. A sound vibrated through the man’s chest, almost a growl before he promptly closed his eyes and laid back down. “Hrmm.”

Every part of you burned, a hot blister running everywhere you still touched and where you had touched. Your mouth hung open from where his kiss had landed, a hint of wetness on your bottom lip that chilled in his absence. Both the intimate act itself and the strange nonchalance with which he did it made you want to implode. 

You held your breath, unable to either inhale or exhale, with your head reeling at the idea of being kidnapped by some weirdly cuddly pervert before his grip on you tightened and his eyes snapped back open. The confusion shone off of him, and you stared at each other, both unblinking and unmoving.

His voice came gruff and heavy with sleep, “Who the hell are you?”

“Who the hell are you?”

His focus danced around the room, not settling on either you or the interior. He tilted his head backward in the direction of the radio but did not fully turn, probably because you pinned him down with the way you lay. “What year is this?”

“What year is this?”

Now he did turn around, flipping over so you fell back onto the mattress. The movement tugged down the covers, revealing his hairy muscular chest that your fingers itched to run your hands over, and you dug your nails into your palm instead because what the fuck? You didn’t even know this guy, and even so, you could feel the way your stupid body pulled toward him. 

For some reason, the man stared at the fancy radio that declared it was playing ‘Golden Oldies’ on the holographic display and let out a tiny sigh of relief. “Twenty-twenty-three?” he asked you as if that was the most important question where you lay half-naked in bed together. “Is this twenty twenty-three?”

The earnestness of his question made your own take the backseat for a spell. You sat up, noting how you had on an unfamiliar black t-shirt, and rubbed your face. “I thought it was, but with the way you’re asking, I’m not sure anymore.”

“Is everyone,” he swallowed, and you noted the way his throat moved, “alive?”

“Define everyone,” you mumbled, but something glinted on your hand, and you pulled it away from your face to look at it. That had not been there last night, either. A ring. A simple, nondescript golden ring. Almost like a wedding ring. “What the fuck is this?”

The man raised an eyebrow, seeming unconcerned, and ran a hand over his scruff. “Hey, no judgment.”

Ignoring him, you pulled off the offending object and gave it a critical glance. “Who the fuck is,” you squinted at the tiny text, “James Howlett?”

“What?” His panicked tone spoke volumes, and you turned to stare at him. Was he James Howlett? When you said nothing, his voice grew tighter. “What did you just say?”

He had frozen with his hand still up by his face, and you both noticed it at the same time. The disturbingly similar ring on his finger and you wrenched it off him before he could protest. It was the same cut as the one you had, just larger and thicker, and with a different engraving, this one containing your name.

“What the fuck?” you snapped and tore out of the bed, mind overriding your meddlesome body as you hurled the rings at him. Then followed with the books from the overfilled bookshelf by the window. “What kind of disturbed, twisted, pathetic loser are you? You kidnapped me to live out some—”

He dodged the incoming projectiles, sounding more weary than angry. “Hey. Hey! Calm down!”

“—stupid handmaid’s tale bullshit fantasy—”

The man grabbed a book from mid-air and yelled, “Hey! I didn’t drug you or kidnap you, okay? I’ve never even seen you before!”

“Right! Sure! You just happened to have a ring lying around with my name on it in case I happened to wake up in your bed for some reason? You’re sick, mister! Sick!” You reached for another book but grabbed hold of a picture frame instead and were about to fling it at him. Except you caught sight of the picture, eyes widening to an unnatural degree, and held it up. “What in the ever-loving reverse Stockholm syndrome is this?”

The picture showed you, in a wedding gown, next to him, in a suit. Remarkably realistic, down to the genuine smiles on both your faces and the flurry of confetti that rained down over you from beyond the frame. 

“Whoa, hey, I’ve never seen that before. Lady, listen to me, last thing I remember, I was in 1973 trying to fix the future.”

“Oh my god, you’re insane. You’re completely out of your mind! I’m leaving and so help you god or anyone else if you try to stop me! I’m a mutant, you know; I can kick your ass seven ways to Sunday!”

The man’s face locked somewhere between confusion and amusement from where he sat in the bed, surrounded by books and messy covers. It did not occur to you that you should have been scared of him before you strode across the room, heading for the door. Almost as if your body overrode that particular feeling, as if deep down you knew this man would never hurt you.

Your brain was fully onboard with the getting-the-hell-out-of-here-plan, however, and you tore the door open only to reveal a hallway you had never seen before filled with kids you had never seen before. All kinds of kids, really, some of them obviously mutants and some at least human-looking. The myriad of noises and displays of powers momentarily distracted you from the bald man in the wheelchair right outside the door that you were sure you had seen before.

“Good morning,” he said with a polite smile, fingers steepled in front of him. “I’ve come to inform you that we’ve regretfully had several students complain about noises from your room. Again. I must ask you, again, to please keep it down as long as you are staying here near the dormitories. I know this is an inconvenience, but the refurbishment of the teacher’s lodgings is expected to be completed within a few more days. We have, wisely as it seems, included several layers of soundproofing.”

“Charles?” 

“Holy shit, you’re Charles Xavier.”

“Language, Professor Howlett,” Charles fucking Xavier said with a raised eyebrow. To you. He called you Professor Howlett and you could not even think of a reply while he raised a wrist to check his watch. “Speaking of, don’t you both have classes to teach?”

You only stared and let out a strained whispered, “What?”

“Charles,” the man behind you — presumably James Howlett — repeated, and you heard the rustle of cloth as he got out of bed. He sounded breathless when he said, “You did it.”

“Did what, Logan? ” 

Okay, maybe the man was not James Howlett? Either way, he came to stand next to you but paid you little attention from where he stared at Xavier. Open-mouthed, in awe, relieved, happy?

When Logan said nothing, Xavier gave you both a short nod. “Just keep it to an acceptable volume, please. Everyone knows you are happily married; there’s no need to remind everyone quite as frequently as you are. And get dressed, please! Class starts in five minutes.” 

-------------

Like my writing and want to see more? Reblogs and comments make me write faster 💕 Thank you!

[th0rnback]

FoM: unused snippet - Tea time

Confession time: 🫠 I have so many snippets that never made it into FoM because most of it was domestic fluff with nowhere to go (and I totally wrote them to soothe myself after just giving Ed a shitty time) OR just alternative routes I wrote up.

I do this with so many fics its probably why writing takes long.

But yeah… Have some [unedited] Tea time since I'm back on shift for 4 nights tomorrow.

[Set during Ed’s time settling in @ Riza’s apartment during the Gray Man case]

⬇️🫖☕⬇️

Routine was ingrained into Edward.

Being under Archer’s regimented command had made it a necessity. The endless cycle of orders, travel, chaos—assignments that spanned the breadth of Amestris—always circling back to New Optain. It was a rhythm, a loop, relentless in its precision. And Edward, as much as he bristled against the structure, found something oddly comforting in it. A consistency in the repetition. A dull, familiar hum beneath the Kimblee brand style of chaos.

Even the mindless polishing of his boots had turned into a soothing ritual. Born of necessity to avoid a harsh scolding from his superior, but eventually twisted into something meditative. A task that allowed his brain to go quiet while mismatched hands moved on autopilot. Still, it wasn’t the kind of routine he ever would have chosen for himself.

Living with Lieutenant Hawkeye had opened an entirely new realm of routine. One gentler. Mundane, even. But in that mundanity was something tender. Intimate. A first taste of domesticity.

It was long, measured walks with Black Hayate before and after work—no matter the weather. Giving the pup a small treat before leaving the apartment became as natural as tightening his laces. Boots came off at the door, neatly tucked against the wall, his own set of looking silly and small next to Riza’s. Dinner was shared, even if rushed or made from leftovers. Those humble meals—thrown together from cold rice or bits of meat—tasted better than the hardtack or slop he managed to eat when on the road with Kimblee.

Then came the nudge toward the bathroom; a quiet insistence from Riza, subtle but unwavering, where a steaming bath would be waiting with sweet suds and not caustic bar soap. On top of all that, there was laundry days and other tasks that he was sure other twelve-year-olds would sneer or grumble over, but he didn’t.  Nope.

This slow pile of routines that grounded Edward in ways he hadn't known he needed, like…tea.

Edward couldn’t remember ever drinking tea before being here. If he had, it was lost in the amnesiac haze. But now? Now, tea in the evening was a ritual.

It wasn’t grand or ceremonial. It started small—just something Riza did without thinking. But Edward had begun hovering in the tiny kitchen, slowly edging closer and closer, always drawn by the faint clink of spoons and the soft whistle of the kettle. Like now, he stood there as she prepared the leaves, his metal and flesh fingers curled on the counter, nestled so near her side that she had absentmindedly tucked him under his arm like the mama birds in the trees did with their chicks…

Three mugs clinked softly as they were set down on the counter by Roy.

The Colonel had arrived shortly after dinner and had yet to leave, not that Ed minded. Like most evenings, Roy appeared at Riza’s apartment, claiming it was for the sake of “reviewing paperwork,” as it didn’t seem to matter if they were in the thick of a serial killer investigation—his hand-cramping pile of reports followed him. Tonight, there was no paperwork. Just a grumpy reason to escape the sound of Maes Hughes's endless stream of chatting to his wife Gracia, hiking up Roy's phone bill.

Although, if Edward was honest, he had an inkling Roy was forever giving flimsy reasons to be here.

Edward's eyes drifted to the trio of mugs now lined up. Normally, it was just two mugs, but with Roy’s presence, came a mildly altered routine of teatime. The first mug looked like a miniature tankard—ceramic, sturdy, with an irregular glaze of black-to-blue ink splatters. The second was far more refined, bone-white with delicate blue swirls and soft pink blossoms hand-painted across its surface. The third was pale gray, round and squat, speckled with warm yellow. Ed scowled at it instinctively.

Riza, who’d noticed immediately, slid the gray-yellow speckled mug away with the ease of someone fluent in silent communication.

Roy’s brow lifted, amused. “What did I miss?”

“I don’t drink from that one,” Ed said without looking at him, as if the idea was absurd.

“Edward’s rather taken with the failed attempt I made at pottery class with Rebecca,” Riza said, opening the tea tin with a casual grace. “Middle shelf. Red.’’

“The wonky one,” Ed clarified helpfully, pointing with his automail finger toward a mug tucked at the back of the shelf—a red one, oddly shaped, a little too lopsided and thick around the middle like it had sagged in the kiln. “S’the best one.”

Having a preference felt surreal and made his tummy flip in the best sort of way.

A small, twitchy paranoid part of Ed expected to be given a glare or be dismissed. Instead, Roy let out a snort and retrieved the misshapen mug.

“Naturally,” was Roy’s drawled remark.

Ed gave a nod, satisfied that the routine was reestablished correctly, and settled into the quiet comfort of the moment. He missed the knowing glance of affection exchanged above his head—Riza’s soft smile met Roy’s lopsided one, the kind of silent exchange that came with long-standing familiarity and a shared softness they didn’t need to put into words.

Edward, for his part, was too busy watching Riza's hands.

The boy always did during this part of the evening. There was something calming about the ritual of watching Riza make tea or putter around the tiny kitchen —the way she worked without hurry, her movements precise and growing steadily familiar . She measured the tea, tapping the leaves into the strainer, snapping the lid shut with a gentle click. It was a blend she’d served him every evening since the first night he’d been welcomed into her home with Black Hayate embedding fur into his uniform.

Chamomile and passionflower with a few additional things she added during the process.

The Sharpshooter once told him the pairing was supposed to ease restlessness and invite sleep. It never really worked. Not for him.

But Ed never said anything. The taste was nice enough and the scent alone was akin to a balm. Event he routine itself -  the boiling water, ceramic clinks and peaceful scents – was soothing after a long day.  He watched her like she was preparing some kind of magical potion or an alchemical solution of some sort…

Like the act of steeping tea could transmute the day’s weight into something lighter.

Finally, she poured the soft, golden tea into each mug. No milk. Edward watched her add a spoonful of honey to hers and Roy's, and pushed himself up onto his toes to see her stir it in. Then, as she spooned a generous dollop of honey into Ed’s, he dropped back onto the flats of his feet. Fingers twitching and waiting the what would follow, he watched her add another spoonful, unaware of the happy hum that escaped him.

“And the kid gets two spoonfuls of honey, why?” Roy asked, his voice soft, almost too casual.

If Ed didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a touch of jealousy in his voice.

Riza didn’t miss a beat. “Edward could use a little extra sweetness.”

Roy leaned his elbow on the counter, his tone smug “Ah. Or is it because I’m sweet enough already, right? I always suspected you —”

“Because you don’t need extra honey,” she cut in, dry as the desert.

Roy blinked, affronted. “Why does that sound suspiciously like an insult?”

Riza said nothing, her silence loaded and expertly delivered. Ed bit the inside of his cheek, fighting the grin tugging at his mouth. He still had trouble reading decent people—figuring out if kindness was real or some kind of trap—but this... This was the Colonel and the Lieutenant’s strange sort of banter and affection. Familiar and gentle. A rhythm they unconsciously danced to.

“I’m in perfect shape,” Roy added, mildly affronted.

“I didn’t say otherwise,” Riza replied, voice laced with amusement as she stirred in that second spoonful into Edward’s tea.

Edward could practically hear Rebecca Catalina in his head—sharp-tongued and unfiltered— and always seeking to tease Roy mercilessly. She’d have pounced on that moment without hesitation, no doubt reminding Roy that circle was, technically, a shape. Not that Roy was out of shape. Not, really. He was broad-shouldered, barrel-chested and thick through the chest and arms with muscle despite not moving much from behind his desk.  

Roy was stocky sturdy and, dare Ed admit it, felt safe.

Regardless, the big felt a ticklish laugh curl in his throat. Edward swallowed it down, turning his head just enough to not be seen, using Riza’s arm as a shelter. Before the conversation could continue, routine continued as it always did and – like clockwork - Riza pulled the spoon from his mug while the honey still clung to it.

She held it aloft without looking in silent invitation, waiting.

And, like the many times before during evening tea, Ed gently plucked it from her hand and popped the spoon into his mouth. The warmth of honey bloomed on his tongue, and for a heartbeat—for one small, perfect moment—it felt like the world didn’t feel like it was collapsing beneath him.

[thirtysomethingloser92]

Chapter 1: Smells Like Teen Spirit.

Summary: For five grueling years, Taskforce X was both your lifeline and your torment. Mission after mission, you faced impossible odds with the dangling promise of a reduced sentence. Now, at last, you’re free—no more Belle Reve, no more danger. You’ve put that chapter behind you, determined to leave it locked away in the recesses of your mind.

But Amanda Waller has other plans. When she appears back in your life, she brings a new mission—and a new team. This time, you’re working alongside Rick Flag Sr., the father of your former team leader, and the members of Taskforce M. As the stakes rise, so do unexpected emotions. Tensions give way to an undeniable connection between you and Rick, a bond that deepens with every mission and threatens to pull you back into a world you thought you’d left behind forever. Warning: Slow-Burn, Age Gap, Violence, Swearing, Smut. Pairings: Rick Flag Sr/Reader Masterlist

The heat of the midday sun bore down on you, relentless and oppressive, as if the universe itself wanted to smother you in its sweltering grasp. The streets buzzed with activity—passersby clutching their coffee cups, vendors hawking their wares, the rhythmic hum of distant traffic blending with snippets of conversation. You sat in a wobbly metal chair at a sidewalk café, its plastic seat sticking uncomfortably to the backs of your thighs. The tiny table in front of you barely held your laptop, a half-eaten croissant, and the Styrofoam cup dangling loosely from your fingers. You swirled the lukewarm liquid absently, watching the streaks of coffee residue paint the inside of the cup as the faint aroma of roasted beans and freshly baked bread wafted through the air. It should’ve been a peaceful moment, but your mind was far from it.

The screen of your laptop flickered to life, taunting you with yet another No Results Found. Your jaw tightened instinctively, the tension radiating down your neck. Shaking your head, you raised the coffee to your lips, letting the bitter liquid slide down your throat. Its warmth spread through your chest, a fleeting comfort against the cold frustration settling in your gut. Placing the cup down, you tapped your fingers against the cool glass of the table, trying to ground yourself in something tangible.

Same shit, different day. The thought curled in your mind, bitter as the coffee. You leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and cleared the search results. The action was mechanical now—type, search, fail, repeat. You knew what you were doing was a fool’s errand. People who didn’t want to be found knew how to vanish, especially in your line of work. You’d done it yourself, slipped off the radar when it suited you. But this wasn’t just work. This was personal, and the gnawing need to find answers, to make sure, refused to let you give up. Still, with every dead end, the frustration boiled hotter, a cauldron of anger and helplessness threatening to spill over.

The sun dipped momentarily as a shadow crossed your table. Reflexively, you snapped the laptop shut and leaned back in your chair, your heart jumping into your throat. A woman slid into the seat across from you, her presence filling the space with an air of authority so heavy it was almost suffocating.

“Long time no see,” she said, her tone sharp and clinical, a razor hidden in velvet.

Amanda Waller.

Her name alone was enough to make your blood run cold. Memories flooded back—her standing on the other side of prison bars, her unreadable expression masking the calculated ruthlessness that defined her. She had once held your fate in her hands, delivering an offer that came with strings so tangled they threatened to choke you. You had taken it, knowing full well the price, but it didn’t make you hate her any less.

You couldn’t decide what burned hotter: the simmering anger or the nauseating dread her presence stirred in your gut. Amanda Waller wasn’t just a woman; she was a force, a puppet master who played games with people’s lives as if they were nothing more than chess pieces. She was power personified, her influence stretching like dark tendrils into every corner of the world you thought you knew.

You met Amanda Waller’s sharp gaze, fighting to keep your face blank, but the effort only seemed to make the bile rise higher in your throat. Waller had a way of peeling back layers without saying a word, her presence alone dredging up memories you would’ve rather buried. She wasn’t just a reminder of what you’d done in the past; she was a mirror reflecting what you’d become—someone who had made compromises, crossed lines, and lived to regret it. The years you’d spent trying to distance yourself from her world felt futile in this moment, with her sitting across from you, calm and calculated as ever.

Still, you forced a sarcastic smile, the corners of your lips twitching with disdain. “Well, I’ve been busy,” you quipped, the edge in your voice barely concealed.

“I wouldn’t call busy the right word for what you’ve been doing,” Waller countered, her tone dripping with condescension. “I thought we had an agreement.”

Her words stung like a reprimand from a strict parent—or worse, an overbearing relative you’d never been able to stand. The kind that didn’t know you but loved to judge you anyway. You scoffed, rolling your shoulder in a dismissive shrug as you grabbed your coffee cup.

“No,” you said flatly, taking a deliberate sip, “I believe you made the agreement, and I stayed quiet.”

Waller’s eyes narrowed slightly, her hands clasping together on the table in that deliberate, predatory way of hers. “You agreed when you stepped foot out of Belle Reve,” she reminded you, her voice low and weighty, like a ticking time bomb.

You tilted your head slightly, letting the silence stretch between you for just a beat too long. “Cut the shit, Waller. You and I both know you’re not here to talk about whether I’ve kept my end of the agreement. So why don’t we skip the theatrics and get to the part where you tell me why you’re really here?”

“What? No friendly chat? It has been a while,” Waller replied with a faint, predatory smile—the kind that made your fingers itch to grab your laptop and swing it across her face.

“We don’t do friendly chats,” you said dryly, leveling her with a pointed look.

She studied you for a moment, her lips pursed in thought, before she spoke again. “Rick Flag—”

“—is dead,” you cut in, your tone as flat as the coffee now cooling in your cup. You took another sip, watching for her reaction over the rim.

Waller gave the faintest twitch of her lips, her mask unshaken. “Word travels fast.”

You shook your head, leaning back in your chair. “Or slow. It’s been a few years now, hasn’t it? Since that clusterfuck in Corto Maltese?” A smirk played at your lips. “Bet that cut deep—losing one of your best.”

Waller’s jaw tightened for just a moment, but her composure returned almost instantly. “Flag thought very highly of you,” she said, her tone softer than you expected, though still measured, “Neither one of would be sitting here if he didn’t.”

Her words hit you harder than you cared to admit. Rick Flag Jr. wasn’t just a leader to you—he was the backbone of Task Force X, the moral compass in a group that often had none. You’d fought alongside him, trusted him in ways you hadn’t trusted anyone in years. He was steady, brave, and stubborn as hell—qualities that made him both a great soldier and an infuriating human being.

Memories flickered through your mind like flashes of lightning. Flag barking orders during a mission, his voice cutting through the chaos with an authority that made you fall in line without question. The way he would give you that look—half exasperated, half amused—whenever you made a sarcastic comment in the middle of a firefight. And then there were the quieter moments, when the weight of what you’d done caught up to you, and he’d remind you why you were there. That he’d make sure you got to go home one day.

He’d believed in you when you didn’t believe in yourself.

And now he was gone, his death another casualty in Waller’s endless game of manipulation and control.

The bitterness of the coffee did little to soothe the knot in your throat, but you forced yourself to take another sip anyway. The heat grounded you, chasing away the unease that threatened to surface. Your voice was steady but laced with resentment as you finally said, “He deserved better. A hell of a lot better than what you gave him.” You set the cup down harder than you intended, the thud punctuating your words.

Waller’s face was impassive, unreadable as always. “Flag knew the risks. He made his choices,” she replied coolly, as if the weight of a life could be boiled down to logistics and protocol.

You leaned forward, your voice sharpening into a blade. “And you made damn sure he didn’t have a choice at all.” The words carried more anger than you’d intended, but you didn’t care. You shrugged, feigning nonchalance to mask the storm roiling beneath your skin. “But I’m not here to reminisce,” you said with a pointed glare.

Waller didn’t flinch, leaning back slightly as if your accusation was nothing more than a passing breeze. “After the unfortunate and regrettable events of Project Butterfly,” she began, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at her attempt to spin the disaster, “the government has put a hold on all Taskforce X programs for the foreseeable future.”

A wry grin tugged at your lips. “What a fucking shame,” you said, your tone dripping with mock sympathy.

Her expression didn’t shift. “So officially, we can’t use humans on the task force anymore,” she said matter-of-factly, “but that doesn’t mean we can’t use non-humans.”

Your grin faltered. Something in her tone made you sit up straighter, the casual indifference replaced by a prickle of unease. “Okay…” you said slowly, drawing the word out. “Where exactly are you going with this?”

Waller leaned forward, her tone cooling to an unsettling calm. “Rick Flag Senior has returned to ARGUS. He’s agreed to lead Taskforce M.”

Her words landed like a fist to the stomach, knocking the air from your lungs. You blinked, then let out a humorless laugh, crossing your arms tightly over your chest as if trying to shield yourself from the cold truth. “That’s low, even for you, Amanda. A man buries his son, and you drag him back into the mud like he never left? Do you even hear yourself sometimes?” You’d met Rick Flag Sr. before, back when Belle Reve was your gilded cage. Those brief encounters, fragmented as they were, had stuck with you. He was a man of few words, and what few words he spoke carried weight, like the thud of an iron door closing behind you. His eyes, steely and unwavering, would bore into you with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. He could take your measure with a glance—no judgment, no malice—just a sharp understanding of who you were, what you could do, and what you were capable of.

There was something about him that was fundamentally different from Waller. He didn’t speak in half-truths or veiled threats. What you saw with Rick Flag Sr. was what you got. His bluntness was a sharp, unpolished tool that never veered into cruelty, even when it could have. He had an uncanny ability to be firm without being harsh, his no-nonsense demeanor setting boundaries without needing to impose them. There was no posturing, no manipulation—it was all business, but there was a quiet dignity behind it.

It was strange, seeing a man like that caught in Waller’s games, surrounded by people who thrived on deceit. Rick had always struck you as the kind of person who would walk away from all of it if he could. But every time he looked at you, there was this subtle shift in his eyes, like he was trying to decide whether you were worth saving or whether you were beyond redemption. In a world that never offered anyone second chances, his steady gaze was a rare commodity.

Maybe that’s what stung the most—the realization that he wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t a pawn in Waller’s game, but somehow, he kept coming back to it. He had lost so much. His son, his sense of purpose, and perhaps a part of himself, all shattered in the wake of the war he’d been dragged into. And yet, here he was, again, called back to lead her task force.

The man deserved peace, not this endless cycle of violence.

“He volunteered,” Waller replied, her voice flat, unyielding.

“Bullshit,” you spat, leaning forward as anger flared in your chest. “Nobody volunteers for this unless they’ve got a death wish.”

Her eyebrow arched at your defiance, but she didn’t rise to the bait. Waller was as unshakable as ever, her patience infuriatingly calculated. “As I was saying,” she continued, ignoring your interruption, “Taskforce M has just completed their first mission. A relative success.”

“Relative?” you echoed, raising a skeptical brow.

“There are… kinks to be worked out,” she admitted, her words clipped, deliberate. “But they’re as solid as they’re going to get.”

You let her words hang in the air, suspicion creeping in like a slow-moving fog. “And what’s this got to do with ruining my day?”

“Because,” she said, her voice dropping with a razor-sharp edge, “I need you.”

You froze, then a grin broke across your face, unrestrained and gleeful. In all the years you’d known Amanda Waller, you never imagined those words would escape her lips. “I’m sorry, what?” you said, leaning forward as if you hadn’t heard correctly.

“Don’t make me say it again,” she snapped, her irritation slicing through her calm façade.

Grinning, you reached for your coffee, savoring the rare power shift. “Why me, Amanda? What could I possibly offer Taskforce M?”

Her gaze bore into you, sharp and assessing. “You can get information no one else can.”

Your smile faded as unease coiled in your chest. “What kind of information?”

“Taskforce M operates in some of the most volatile regions in the world,” she said, her voice low. “We need someone who can slip through cracks, gather what’s missing, and…”

“Spy, murder and steal for state secrets?” you interrupted, setting your cup down as memories clawed their way to the surface.

The taste of bitterness lingered on your tongue as your mind unraveled the tangled web of your past. Espionage had been your craft long before you ever landed in Belle Reve. A game of shadows, deception, and carefully measured risk. You'd learned early on that the world of intelligence was no place for the faint-hearted. It wasn’t just about gathering secrets—it was about manipulating them, weaving them into something valuable, something dangerous. And for a time, you had been damn good at it.

Your contacts were your currency. You played people like a well-tuned instrument, your every move calculated, your every word chosen with precision. Diplomats, soldiers, businessmen—everyone had their price, and you had a gift for finding out what that price was. The art of extraction came naturally to you—whether it was sensitive information or valuable assets, you knew how to slip in and out unnoticed, leaving no trace behind. The thrill of it, the high of walking that razor-thin line between success and failure, had become your addiction. But addiction always comes with a price. And that price for you? Betrayal.

You’d made the mistake of thinking you could trust your own network. You’d believed that the people you’d worked with were bound by the same code, the same unspoken understanding of the game. You were wrong. Every contact, every ally, every deal had been a calculated risk, and in the end, you lost. One payday, one moment of overconfidence, and everything unraveled. The contact you’d trusted? Sold you out to the highest bidder. The intel you thought was secure? Flipped, manipulated, used against you. The very people you’d helped, the ones who’d benefitted from your work, turned on you without hesitation, feeding you to the wolves for the right price.

That last mission—the one that ended your career as a free agent—had been the last straw. You’d been brought in to handle a delicate extraction. A government official with sensitive files—nothing too complicated. But somewhere in the execution, things went sideways. The clean getaway turned into a bloodbath. And when the dust settled, you found yourself betrayed, exposed, and framed for the mess. The cold, harsh truth? They wanted you out of the picture. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter.

But alive you remained, a prisoner in Belle Reve, your reputation in tatters. The very bars that held you were a testament to how badly you’d miscalculated—how your overconfidence, your need for control, had led you to underestimate the treachery of those around you. In that cage, you learned a hard lesson: no one in this world was truly trustworthy. Not even yourself.

Waller shrugged, her indifference sharper than her words. “I never said that.” But her eyes betrayed her intent. “Officially, you’d be a consultant. Unofficially? That’s between you and your conscience.”

Your stomach churned, but you straightened in your seat. “And does Senior know about this? About what you’re asking me to do?”

“He knows I’m speaking to you about joining the team as a consultant. Beyond that, it’s need-to-know.”

A grin tugged at the corners of your lips despite the heaviness settling in your chest. “Bet he loved that idea.”

Her expression remained unmoved, but her voice carried the faintest hint of exasperation. “He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the possibility of you returning to Belle Reve. Even less so about working with you.”

The jab stung, but you didn’t flinch. Instead, you leaned forward, your grin sharp. “Guess we’ve got something in common.”

Her silence was telling. This wasn’t an olive branch; it was a noose, carefully laid out for you to step into. Waller knew you better than you liked to admit. She knew the lure of the game, the thrill of outmaneuvering the system, was too strong to resist. And even as your instincts screamed at you to run, you couldn’t help but feel the pull. You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as you looked away, trying to clear the fog in your mind. The street was alive with noise: pedestrians chatting animatedly, cars honking in an endless chorus, the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee still wafting through the air. It felt like a world far removed from the conversation you were having. The normalcy of it all seemed like a cruel contrast to the weight of what Amanda Waller was asking of you. You sighed, running a hand over your face before finally breaking the silence. “Thanks for the consideration, but I’m not doing it.” You looked at her then, unwavering. “I’ve done my time. I’m done with suicide missions and being your puppet.”

The words tasted bitter on your tongue, but they were the truth. You had sacrificed too much already—your freedom, your soul, your trust. You had fought and bled for people who would toss you aside the second you weren’t useful anymore. This wasn’t the life you wanted, not again. Not with her. You drained the last of your coffee, the warmth of the cup a fleeting comfort as it settled into your chest like a final anchor. It wasn’t going to change the cold weight of the decision you were about to make.

You stood, sliding the laptop towards you and tucking it under your arm with the kind of finality that only came from years of experience with ending things. “It’s a hard pass for me,” you said, your tone clipped, emotions running dry. You turned, your footsteps firm and steady, as you made your way toward the door. This was the end of the conversation. Or at least, it should have been.

Then came the voice that could stop you in your tracks, like a knife cutting through the noise of the world around you.

“I can get you who you’re looking for.”

You froze, mid-step. The words hit you like an electric shock, the grip on your laptop tightening as an icy chill crawled up your spine. The blood in your veins felt like it had turned to ice, and the pounding of your heart echoed in your ears, the sudden rush of adrenaline making your muscles tense. You didn’t dare move at first, your mind racing.

Slowly, you turned back to face her, your eyes narrowing as you regarded the woman who always had a way of getting under your skin. “What do you mean?” you asked, your voice low, cautious, a protective wall wrapping itself around your words. The wariness was clear, but it couldn’t mask the raw edge of hope that flickered behind your eyes—a hope you couldn’t afford to entertain.

Amanda’s smirk was enough to make your skin crawl, the kind of smile that said she was already two steps ahead. She knew how to play this game better than anyone. “You do this for me,” she said smoothly, her voice dripping with calculated ease, “and I’ll give you access to everything I have on them.”

Your jaw tightened, a muscle in your cheek twitching involuntarily. The calm that had settled over you moments ago was now long gone, replaced by a knot of dread twisting painfully in your stomach. You wanted to tell her to shove it, to walk away from this damned conversation once and for all. The words were on the tip of your tongue, but they never came. Instead, your mind reeled, flashing through the endless hours of searching, the months and years spent chasing down dead ends and false leads.

The sleepless nights. The gnawing frustration. The moments where you felt like you were drowning in the abyss, and every effort to get closer to the truth only sent you further into the darkness. You had been relentless. You’d scoured the public databases, hacked your way through layers of encryption in private ones, and even dove into the depths of the dark web. And still, after all that, you had nothing.

But here she was, offering a glimpse of what you’d been searching for—a lifeline you knew you had no right to take. But God, you might have to. She had access to intelligence networks you could only dream of, systems and people that could uncover what had remained hidden from you for so long. If anyone could get you the answers you needed, it was Amanda Waller. You didn’t want to admit it, but deep down, you knew she was your best shot.

“How do I know you have anything?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, thick with caution and skepticism. Your pulse pounded in your ears as you tried to keep the tremor in your hands from showing.

Waller’s eyebrow quirked in an almost amused gesture, her composure unshaken. “When have I ever not held up my end of a deal?”

The words, so simple and yet so full of meaning, stung harder than you expected. You hated it. You hated the way she made you feel cornered, like there was no choice but to comply. You wanted to walk away, your instincts screaming at you to sever this tie before it could tighten around your neck. But how much longer could you keep searching on your own? How many more years could you waste, hunting for a ghost that may not even exist anymore?

The weight of your failure pressed against you, each second in her presence adding another layer of suffocating pressure. Frustration and anger boiled inside you, mixing with a growing hatred—not just for Waller, but for the situation she was dragging you back into. A part of you wanted to burn it all down, walk away with your dignity intact. But the part that had been clawing at the back of your mind—the one that couldn’t let go of the hunt, the need for answers—pushed you to the brink.

You clenched your fists, every muscle in your body coiling with tension as a wave of frustration surged through you. Rick Flag was going to make this so much harder than it needed to be. You knew him. Knew the way he operated, the unyielding sense of duty that anchored him to whatever mission he was on, regardless of the cost. That was the thing about Rick: he was predictable, almost painfully so. He didn’t take shortcuts, didn’t play games, and he sure as hell didn’t like it when people bent the rules. Especially people like you.

You’d seen firsthand how relentless he could be. There was no room for anything but obedience in his world. If you were going to be working beside him, it meant playing by his rules. No matter how much you hated them.

That was the part that stung the most—the thought of being stuck in that damnable situation again, constantly battling with a Flag’s ‘right way’ of doing things. Every conversation, every mission would feel like a tug-of-war, him pulling one way, you pulling the other. His rigid sense of honor and duty was like a wall, unmovable and suffocating. You’d never been one for order, and Rick Flag Sr. thrived on it. He was going to drag you through every painful step of this mission as if you had no choice, no say in how things played out.

You could already feel it: the pushback, the constant friction. It wasn’t going to be smooth sailing. And deep down, you knew it wasn’t just the job that would make it hard—it was him.

You spat through gritted teeth, the words bitter as they left your mouth, “Fine. But I’m not dealing with Flag’s bullshit.”

The satisfaction that flickered in Waller’s eyes was colder than ice, sharper than you’d expected. Her smirk shifted, taking on a darker, more sinister edge, like a hunter savoring the moment before the kill. She had won this round, and she knew it. There was no escaping what she’d just set in motion.

“You’ll work side by side with him,” she said smoothly, her voice slipping like silk over steel, her control unwavering. “You’ll follow my instructions, provide backup when he needs it. But your real mission? It’s your own. Parallel to his. Do you understand?”

Her words settled in your gut like a heavy stone. Parallel, she said. That meant walking that tightrope between cooperating with Flag and doing whatever the hell you needed to do on the side to get your own answers. That would be no easy feat, especially with Rick breathing down your neck, watching your every move. He wouldn’t trust you—hell, you didn’t trust him. But in Waller’s world, trust was a luxury you didn’t get to have.

You didn’t respond right away. Your mind was racing, weighing the consequences of every move you’d make from here on out. No matter what Waller said, the real challenge wouldn’t come from her. It was going to come from the man you were stuck with—the man who believed in following the rules, in doing things the “right way.” And as far as you were concerned, that made this mission more of a trap than anything else. The weight of her words settled like a lead anchor in your gut, pulling you down into a pit of suffocating uncertainty. You froze, your breath hitching in your chest as your mind screamed at you to run, to stand up, to refuse her demands outright. This was a decision that could haunt you for the rest of your life, and yet… the silence stretched on, suffocating you in its weight. You couldn’t do it. You couldn’t turn away from the only chance you had left to find what you’d been looking for.

Reluctantly, against every instinct telling you to walk out, you nodded.

"Yeah," you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper, as if saying the word out loud made the reality of it all even worse. The word felt like defeat in your mouth, heavy and bitter.

Amanda’s smile widened, like a predator who’d finally cornered its prey, her victory confirmed. “I’ll see you tomorrow at ten hundred hours.”

The moment those words landed, disgust rippled through your chest, spreading like poison through your veins. This was it. You had just signed up for something you knew would break you. You felt the weight of your decision sinking in, an overwhelming pressure that twisted in your gut. You had just agreed to be pulled back into the madness—no going back, no excuses. The anger roared in your chest, but you swallowed it down. "I fucking hate you," you muttered under your breath, the words bitter, raw, and full of venom.

Waller’s response was a low, almost amused chuckle. Unfazed by your resentment, she gathered her things with that same infuriating calm she always exuded, her back straight, her confidence unshaken. "Always a pleasure."

And just like that, she turned and walked away, her every step radiating that unnerving, unbreakable confidence that made you want to scream in frustration.

You were left standing there, alone, the weight of your decision crushing down on you. The world outside the café moved on—pedestrians chatting, cars honking, the city alive and unaware. But inside, everything felt frozen, stuck in the moment where you had sealed your fate. Anger, frustration, and a deep sense of failure swirled in your chest, gnawing at you like a persistent ache. It was a suffocating, unrelenting feeling.

And beneath it all, a growing sense of regret—quiet but undeniable—settled deep in your bones. <><><><><><><><><> Rick Flag Senior hated every single aspect of this.

He didn’t need a consultant. Taskforce M was his responsibility, and he’d proven time and time again that he could handle it. Sure, it wasn’t perfect—missions rarely were—but he’d built something functional, something with potential. Bringing in an outsider, someone who didn’t know the team, their quirks, or the trust they were starting to build, felt like a slap in the face. No, it felt worse than that—it felt like Amanda Waller didn’t believe in him. And that burned in a way he didn’t like to acknowledge.

But it wasn’t just about having a consultant. It was you. That was the part that twisted the knife deeper. He didn’t need someone like you—volatile, unpredictable, and with a track record that made his skin crawl. You were the antithesis of everything he valued in a teammate. He prided himself on discipline, order, and loyalty, and you? You were chaos wrapped in charm, a mercenary with a moral compass so skewed he doubted it even pointed north anymore.

Rick leaned back in his chair, the creak of old wood breaking the heavy silence of his office. A part of him wondered if this was just Waller testing him, making sure he could still handle the job. Maybe she thought he was losing his edge, and this was her way of keeping him in line. But if that were the case, there were a dozen others she could have sent. Capable people, experienced operatives who had the kind of restraint he respected. People who wouldn’t make him want to grind his teeth every time they opened their mouth.

Instead, she’d saddled him with you.

The thick folder on his desk seemed to glare at him, daring him to open it again. He already knew its contents by heart, but the sight of it still made his stomach churn. Espionage. Murder. Theft. Treason. There was even a terrorism charge in there, though that had been dropped early on. Your rap sheet read like a checklist of everything he despised, every line a reminder of just how different the two of you were.

Then there were the reports from Belle Reve, pages filled with cold, clinical observations of your time in captivity. Notes on your temperament, your willingness—or lack thereof—to cooperate, and the missions you’d been forced to undertake for Waller. And then, buried deeper in the file, were the reports about you working with his son. Rick Flag Jr.

That was what had made him pause. What made him agree to even consider this arrangement in the first place. His son had worked with you. Trusted you enough to go into the field together, to fight side by side. There were even notes in the margins about missions where you’d saved each other’s lives, instances of camaraderie that Rick couldn’t ignore no matter how much he wanted to.

But trust didn’t come easy to him, especially now. His son had been everything Rick valued in a soldier: brave, loyal, and unwavering in his sense of duty. Could you have corrupted that? Or had there been something redeemable in you that his son had seen and he couldn’t?

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his graying hair as he stared at the folder. The weight of Waller’s decision sat heavily on his shoulders, pressing down like an iron chain. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to push back completely. Maybe it was the thought that he owed his son something—owed him the chance to see if there was more to you than what was written in black ink on those pages. Rick leaned forward, elbows digging into the edge of his desk, his eyes fixed on the folder that now felt like a monument to his growing frustration. Every instinct screamed that this was a mistake. Bringing you into Taskforce M was bound to complicate things in ways he didn’t even want to imagine. You weren’t just a wildcard—you were a loaded gun aimed at everything he had worked to build. Yet, despite the storm of doubt churning inside him, he had agreed. Waller had played her hand perfectly, and now he was stuck with the fallout.

The sharp knock on his door jolted him from his thoughts. His head snapped up just as the door creaked open, revealing John Economos peeking through the small gap. His glasses were perched high on his nose, and his curious expression shifted to mild concern as he took in Rick’s appearance. The older man sat hunched over the desk, the tension practically radiating off him.

“You ready?” John asked, his voice tentative as he eyed the scene. Rick’s jaw was set tight, his brow furrowed deeply, and his fingers drummed against the desk with barely contained irritation.

If John was being honest, he didn’t really understand why Rick was so worked up about you joining the team. In his mind, you were one of the few operatives who managed to bring a spark of life into the chaos of their missions. He remembered how you’d built an easy camaraderie with the squad, even when the missions were at their bleakest. Your dry humor and biting wit had a way of cutting through the tension, and more often than not, it was your jokes that got the team laughing in spite of themselves. John liked that about you—how you could find the absurdity in everything without letting it dull your edge. He didn’t see the harm in having you back. If anything, it might make the team feel less like a collection of expendable assets and more like, well, a team.

Rick sighed heavily and got to his feet, pushing the chair back with a scrape that made John wince. Without a word, he moved to the door, swinging it open wider and stepping into the hallway. John hesitated for a moment before following, the tension between them palpable. Rick shut the door behind them with a firm click and started down the corridor, his strides brisk and deliberate.

“As I’ll ever be,” Rick muttered in response, his tone clipped.

John fell into step beside him, stealing glances at the older man. There was something simmering beneath Rick’s composed exterior, an unspoken weight that seemed to drag at his every movement. John wanted to say something, to lighten the mood or at least acknowledge the obvious tension, but he held back. Rick wasn’t the type to open up easily, and pushing him wouldn’t help.

Still, the silence between them felt heavy, and Rick broke it first. “She here yet?” His voice carried a forced casualness, but John wasn’t fooled.

John glanced over, adjusting his glasses. “Uh, yeah. She showed up about half an hour ago. Waller wanted to talk to her before the briefing.”

“Of course she did,” Rick muttered under his breath, the words dripping with irritation. His mind immediately went to what Waller might be saying to you. Setting expectations? Laying traps? Manipulating the situation in ways only she could? He didn’t know, and it gnawed at him.

As they approached the briefing room, Rick’s steps slowed. The weight in his chest felt heavier now, a mixture of dread and resignation. He didn’t want to see you sitting there, didn’t want to deal with the complications your presence would bring. But he had no choice. He was in this now, and no amount of frustration or second-guessing would change that. John noticed Rick’s hesitation as they neared the door, the way his pace slowed just slightly, as if he was already dreading what—or who—was waiting inside. Taking a breath, John decided to speak. “Look, man,” he said, his tone gentler than usual, “I know this isn’t ideal for you, but... she’s not all bad. Might even help, you know?”

Rick didn’t respond right away. His gaze stayed fixed on the door ahead, his expression a tightly controlled mask. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, guarded. “I guess we’ll see.”

The words lingered, heavy with apprehension, as they reached the door. The muffled hum of voices inside filtered through the cracks, a constant reminder that the moment he dreaded was here. Rick squared his shoulders, bracing himself, and pushed the door open.

The familiar ops room greeted him. The glow of computer monitors bathed the space in cold light, staff members clicking away at keyboards or murmuring quietly into headsets. The hum of machinery filled the air, blending with the muted conversations, but none of that held his attention.

No, his focus landed squarely on Waller, standing near the center of the room. She was speaking to someone seated in a large swivel chair. The chair swayed lazily from side to side, and Rick caught the repetitive motion of something being tossed between two hands.

As he stepped closer, the object became clear—a blue stress ball, flipping casually through the air. You were lounging in the chair like you owned the place, the picture of unbothered confidence. Rick came to a stop next to you, his eyes narrowing as he looked down.

The ball stilled as you paused, your gaze meeting his. And then it came—that grin. That familiar, shit-eating grin that had the uncanny ability to set his teeth on edge. Rick regretted saying yes to Waller all over again in that moment.

You’d aged since he last saw you, that much was clear. There was a hardness in your posture now, a sharper edge in the way you carried yourself. Time and experience had left their mark, but your eyes were the same. They still held that gleam he remembered from years ago, the one that screamed, I’m going to make your life hell.

“Looks like we’re about to become besties,” you said, your grin widening.

Rick let out an exasperated sigh, dragging his gaze away from you to glance at John, who had already retreated to his station. Then he turned to Waller, her ever-impenetrable expression meeting his with a subtle challenge. She knew exactly what he was thinking—hell, she was probably thinking it too.

When Rick didn’t respond, you let out a dramatic huff, resuming the lazy toss of the stress ball. “Well, I’m glad to see you’re still a fucking peach,” you quipped, your tone dripping with casual mockery.

“So, she’s consulting,” Rick said flatly, addressing Waller directly, deliberately ignoring you.

“She’s right here,” you cut in, spinning the chair slightly to face him more directly. “And she has a name.”

Rick’s jaw tightened, his patience already wearing thin. His eyes moved back to you, locking on that infuriating smirk. The chair continued its gentle swing until, without warning, his hand shot out, gripping the backrest firmly and stilling it mid-motion. The sudden halt caught you off guard, though you didn’t let it show, keeping that same irritating grin plastered on your face.

He turned back to Waller, his tone sharp. “What exactly is she consulting?”

Waller, unfazed by the tension crackling between the two of you, met Rick’s glare with her usual composed confidence. “She’s here to assist with your operational strategy,” she said smoothly. “Her expertise is... unique.” Rick’s hand lingered on the chair a moment longer before he finally let go, his grip leaving faint indentations in the leather. Waller’s words hung in the air, a leaden weight pressing down on him. Unique. He scoffed inwardly. That wasn’t an endorsement—it was a warning. You weren’t here for your operational strategy or whatever fancy title she wanted to slap on it. You were here because Waller saw you as a weapon, one she could aim and fire. And now, for reasons that made his stomach churn, you were his problem.

Rick’s voice was measured, but the frustration simmering beneath it was unmistakable. “Operational strategy?” he repeated, the words practically dripping with disbelief. His sharp gaze locked on Waller, probing for the ulterior motive he knew was lurking beneath her calculated exterior. “And yeah, I know about her expertise,” he added, the bitterness in his tone impossible to miss.

His calm façade was a thin veneer, cracking under the weight of his growing resentment. Waller’s methods had always grated on him—the manipulation, the way she wielded people like tools. But this? This felt like a personal jab. He didn’t trust you, not because of who you were, but because of what you represented: another one of Waller’s gambits, a pawn she’d placed on his board without his consent. The entire setup left a sour taste in his mouth.

Across from him, you leaned back in the chair, the blue rubber ball spinning lazily between your fingers. The grin that tugged at the corners of your mouth was infuriatingly nonchalant, your body language relaxed in a way that seemed to mock the tension in the room. “Then you know I’m good at what I do,” you said, your tone breezy, almost playful, though your eyes stayed fixed on Rick’s face. They gleamed with something sharper than your words—a challenge, perhaps, or a silent dare for him to push back.

Rick’s jaw tightened, his lips pressing into a thin line. He could feel your gaze boring into him, testing his patience. The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cutting: “Not good enough to not get caught.”

The room fell silent for a moment, the air thick with tension. Your grin faltered, just for a fraction of a second, and Rick caught the flicker of something in your expression—irritation, maybe, or a flash of old wounds reopened. But just as quickly, the mask slid back into place. You tilted your head slightly, your smile returning, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes this time.

“Touché,” you said softly, your voice low and measured. You didn’t bother defending yourself or explaining the circumstances behind your capture. Instead, you met his gaze with unflinching resolve, the grin fading into something closer to quiet defiance.

Rick clenched his fists at his sides, his frustration mounting. He hated the smugness you carried, the way you seemed so unbothered by the gravity of the situation. But more than that, he hated the part of him that suspected Waller had a point. He didn’t want to admit it—not to her, not to you, and certainly not to himself—but your presence here wasn’t just a coincidence. There was a reason for it, even if he didn’t like what it meant.

Waller broke the silence, her voice calm and measured. “Enough,” she said, her tone carrying an edge of finality. “You don’t have to like this, Flag, but you do have to make it work. Both of you.��

Rick’s eyes flicked back to her, his frustration now mingled with resignation. He had signed up for this, hadn’t he? The job. The sacrifices. The compromises. But as he glanced at you again, watching as you tossed the ball lightly between your hands, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this particular compromise was going to be hell to endure.

Rick turned back to Waller, who watched the exchange with her usual composed detachment, though he thought he caught the faintest twitch of her lips. “The last mission was successful,” she began, her tone measured, “but at what cost? Things happened that didn’t need to happen, and I don’t want to see that again.”

Her gaze flicked to you, and Rick followed it, noticing the way her eyes lingered for a fraction too long. “I know this isn’t an ideal situation, Flag, but you need to look at the bigger picture,” she added, her voice softening ever so slightly.

You snorted, leaning forward to rest your elbows on the chair’s arms. “Because you’re such a big-picture kind of person,” you said, your tone dripping with mockery. It was a calculated jab, and Rick knew it. You wanted to see how far you could push before someone pushed back.

Waller didn’t miss a beat. “Contrary to popular belief, yes,” she replied smoothly, glancing at you with the same detached confidence she always carried. Rick sighed, running a hand down his face, the coarse scrape of his palm against his stubble grounding him for a moment. Frustration warred with exhaustion, but he forced himself to focus. He hated every part of this: the manipulation, the power games, and most of all, the way Amanda Waller had this uncanny ability to make him feel like a pawn. But no matter how much he despised it, there was no denying she was right. You were here for a reason, and whether he liked it or not, he’d have to make it work.

“So,” he said finally, his voice rough and reluctant. “What do we need to do? Where are we going?”

Amanda reached back to her desk and pulled out two thick cream-colored folders, her movements deliberate. “San Sebor,” she said, placing the files on the table with a soft thud. “We’re tracking black market weapons stolen seven years ago. Weapons that were never supposed to leave U.S. soil.”

Rick’s brow furrowed as he opened his folder. Maps, grainy photos, and endless pages of intelligence stared back at him. He flipped through them methodically, while you, on the other hand, lazily flicked open your file and scanned it with a raised eyebrow.

“Didn’t you guys already have your fingers in that pie?” you asked, your tone carrying an edge of amusement. You leaned back in the chair, your posture relaxed but your eyes sharp as they glanced up at Waller. “From what I remember, the government backed the coup that overthrew the old regime. And now it’s just... what? One big capitalist playground?”

Rick stiffened slightly at your flippant tone, but Amanda’s expression didn’t falter. She met your gaze with the same unyielding calm. “Things have happened over the years that were... beyond our control,” she said coolly. “But recent intelligence indicates we now have a chance to recover those weapons.”

You flipped to another page, skimming reports of arms shipments, encrypted communications, and dossiers on key players in San Sebor. “How’d they get stolen in the first place?” you asked, your tone almost casual, but your eyes didn’t leave the file.

Amanda’s answer was clipped. “Classified.”

You smirked without looking up. “Shocking.”

Rick couldn’t suppress the brief tug of his lips at your dry remark, but he quickly masked it, turning his attention back to Waller. “So you want us to retrieve these weapons?” His voice carried a note of skepticism.

Amanda nodded. “Yes. Everything you need is in those folders—maps, layouts, recent intel. The president of San Sebor is expecting you there by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” you echoed, closing your folder with a soft thud. “That’s a bit short notice.” Waller’s lips curved into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve had shorter.”

You rolled your eyes slightly but didn’t argue. Instead, you raised your arms with a lazy stretch, the chair creaking beneath you. The cream-colored folder dangled from your hand, its edges already slightly bent where your fingers had fidgeted against it. In the same hand, the blue stress ball spun idly between your fingers, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you had all the time in the world.

“Guess I’d better pack a bag then,” you said, the sarcasm in your tone as sharp as ever.

“Not just yet,” Waller interrupted, her voice firm and cutting through the room like a whip. “You’ll meet the team first.”

You paused mid-spin, tilting your head at her in mock curiosity. “Meet the team?” The corners of your mouth twitched, betraying the beginnings of a smirk. Then, your gaze slid to Rick, who stood next to you, still pouring over his folder. “So, General,” you continued, your voice teasing as your eyes danced over him, “are you giving me the grand tour of the team?”

Rick looked up, snapping the folder shut with a sharp, deliberate motion. The sound echoed in the room like the punctuation to his rising irritation. “Guess I’ll have to,” he muttered, his tone flat. He turned on his heel, his shoulders tense, and moved toward the door. Pausing, he threw a glance over his shoulder. “But be warned,” he said with a hint of grim finality, “they’re nothing like your old team.”

Your brow arched slightly, intrigued by his words, but you didn’t reply. Rick had already turned away, his jaw set, as though eager to escape. He’d almost made it when Waller’s voice sliced through the room again.

“Oh, and General?” she said, her tone laced with calculated amusement.

Rick stopped, his body stiffening as he turned slowly, dread pooling in his chest. You stood just behind him, your expression a mix of mild curiosity and suspicion. Waller’s gaze flicked between the two of you, and Rick braced himself for whatever was coming.

“Keep it in your pants this time, won’t you?”

For a moment, the air seemed to leave the room. Rick’s stomach dropped, a wave of heat rising to his face as his jaw clenched tightly. Anger, embarrassment, and the bitter sting of humiliation swirled within him. He shot a warning glare at Waller, who merely smiled, knowing full well the chaos her comment would ignite.

Beside him, you shifted, and Rick didn’t have to look to know you’d caught on. The grin that split your face was audible in the tone of your voice. “Oh no,” you said, a laugh bubbling in your throat as you moved quickly to catch up with him. “Rick Flag, you fucked on the job.”

Rick let out a long, exasperated sigh, his strides lengthening as he exited the room, determined to leave the moment behind him.

“Hey, no judgment,” you continued, falling into step beside him, the blue ball now bouncing rhythmically in your palm. “We’ve all been there.”

Rick didn’t reply, his silence a wall he hoped would shut you out. But inside, frustration gnawed at him. Waller knew exactly what she was doing, and now you were running with it, your teasing a relentless needle in his side.

“So,” you drew out, your tone practically dripping with exaggerated curiosity, “who was it? Friend? Foe?” You tilted your head, your smirk turning sharper. “Teammate?”

Rick swiped his card at the security checkpoint, the door’s beep loud in the tense silence. He stepped through without a word, his shoulders rigid as the heavy doors slid shut behind him.

The corridor ahead stretched long and stark, the fluorescent lights casting harsh reflections on the pristine white walls. Your footsteps echoed beside his, the rhythm uneven as you occasionally tossed the ball and caught it again. Rick stared straight ahead, trying to block out your presence, but the weight of your gaze was undeniable.

You, on the other hand, observed him with curiosity. His rigid posture, the tightness of his jaw, the way his hands flexed and unflexed at his sides—all of it spoke volumes. He was uncomfortable, agitated, and maybe even a little ashamed, though he masked it well.

The silence between you and Rick was suffocating, thick with unspoken tension and the weight of everything left unsaid. As your boots echoed against the cold, sterile floors of Belle Reve, you found your thoughts drifting, unbidden, to Rick Flag Jr.

When you left this place before, you hadn’t thought much about him. He was just another cog in Waller’s machine—a soldier following orders, the golden boy with a sharp jawline and unwavering conviction. You hadn’t expected to miss him, hadn’t expected to feel anything at all about him, really. But being back here now, in the belly of this hellhole, his absence was glaring.

Rick Jr. had been a constant during your time on Task Force X. His no-nonsense attitude balanced the chaos, and, begrudgingly, you’d come to respect him. You remembered the quiet moments on the flights home, the way he would throw a deck of cards at you and tell you that it was your turn to deal, the way you’d both throw your hands up at each other when the other was annoyed at whatever the other was doing, the push and pull between you which almost always ended with compromises and a sharp grin on your end. He had that rare quality of being genuine—a trait as alien to Belle Reve as sunlight. He treated you like a person, not someone tainted by the weight of what they had done. And now that he was gone, the void he left was sharper than you anticipated, like a ghost brushing past your shoulder every time you turned a corner.

Finally, the oppressive quiet was too much. You broke it, your voice softer than you intended. “I’m sorry about Rick,” you said.

Rick Sr. stopped mid-stride, his body stiffening as though you’d struck him. For a moment, he seemed frozen, his breath caught in his chest. His grip tightened on the folder in his hands until his knuckles turned white. You saw the faintest tremor in his shoulders, the kind of grief that simmers just beneath the surface, restrained but ever-present.

“He didn’t deserve what happened,” you added. The words came easier now, though they carried a weight that made your chest ache. “He was one of the good ones.”

Rick’s jaw worked as he swallowed, his throat bobbing as he wrestled with the surge of emotion. The edges of the folder dug into his palm, grounding him in the moment, pulling him back from the brink of memory.

Hearing you say his name—his son’s name—brought an ache to Rick’s chest that felt impossible to push down. He didn’t trust himself to speak, not without his voice betraying the grief clawing its way up his throat. Instead, he squared his shoulders, focusing on the door ahead as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

With a deep breath, he swiped his card and stepped through as the door hissed open, revealing yet another stretch of lifeless corridor. Rick’s voice, when it finally came, was gruff and edged with finality. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”