#so I really felt like posting here and saying hi to you all ^^

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he��s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

���Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

[petalbcrnes]

؛ ଓ _ _ 𓏴𓏴 THE FRIENDS TO LOVERS TROPE WITH _ _ j. todd .ᐟ ‿◞ˇ

.... 🌷 ... . ! just my thoughts on why the friends to lovers trope would be best for jason todd, i mentioned this in my “as a boyfriend” post for jason, wanted to touch up on it even more here. do not mind the moodboards — they do not dictate the physical description of the reader in my works.

𐔌 ˖ ࣪ ꉂ🗯˙.꩜‹　𝓹airing𓈒　j. todd　friend ! reader𓈒 　　†

؛ ଓ ✶ friends to lovers trope with jay　 𝜗 ། 　fluff﹐1.4k wc　 𝜗 ། 　𝓵inks𓈒　　mlist　　rules𓈒

Jason is a man that loves quietly. Love— as a feeling— slowly creeps up to him. He doesn’t even notice it at first. All of it it began such a long time ago and he gets so used to the warm feeling that he doesn’t even want to let go. He’ll never let go of it. Why would he want to lose you? His only friend. His only confidant and now— his only love.

Meeting him would be so strangely normal. He’s used to always being paranoid of his surroundings. The anxiety in his blood has become almost mundane in his every-day-to-day life. He doesn’t even question it. He walks into every building— cafe, bookstore, library, market— as if they’re ticking bombs and he needs to have an exit strategy as if his life depends on it.

It all changes at the register of the shop just near his apartment.

Jason is on high alert, just like always. His fingers dig into the leather of his wallet as he pays up, just like always. His eyes dart around the building searching for something, just like always. It’s a familiar dance.

Suddenly, he realizes he’s short on change. That breaks through the so called dance— a routine he’s built up.

“Shit, sorry. Give me a second.” He curses, muttering apologies to the cashier.

The person behind the register couldn’t care less. They’re eyes just drift off somewhere else. It’s probably nothing. They’re giving him time, but Jason somehow overthinks the entire situation.

I’m taking too long. Why does every minor inconvenience happen to me? Where is my god damn change?

He’s digging through his pockets when he hears a voice behind him. Not too soft, but not too loud to alert him either.

“Here.”

You’re there, moving around him— keeping a healthy distance to, as if not to touch him— giving the cashier the change.

He stares blankly at you— a deer caught in headlights. His sea-green eyes have a confused glint in them. He shuffles away from the register as you approach it, setting your groceries on the surface.

“Thanks.” He mumbles only that simple word, even though he’d like to say more.

Jason is trying to be more sociable. Alfred says it’s a step. A step in the right direction. Unfortunately Jason’s compass is all over the place, so he can’t really tell what the right direction truly is.

“You’re welcome.” You smile at him. Though it isn’t strained, nor forced. You just smiled at him, as if he did something good. “I like that brand.”

He hears you again. His eyes dart from your face to the bag of chips he’s bought. It’s a decent brand. He likes it. Turns out you do as well.

“It’s not too artificial.” He says, his voice somewhat higher than he’s used to. “The taste is—”

“Normal? Not ‘too much’ because for some reason other brands add so many condiments you wanna barf every time you take a bite? Yea, I know.”

“Yea. Normal.”

“Tell me about it.” You chuckle while putting all of your groceries in your bag.

Jason helps you out with it. You smile at him again.

“I just moved to this part of town. I don’t have many friends. Especially not ones I can talk shit with about even shittier chip brands.”

He thinks he looks ridiculous. He understands you’re trying to be-friend him— the man in the grocery store that seems to big and confused about where he fits in. His hand instinctively scratches at his neck. For the first time, he smiles back. Hell— he even laughs. It isn’t forced. It’s real. Just like the easy smile you’re giving him.

Giving you his name came easy after that. It felt like a reward hearing your name in return. You two would run into each other around Crime Alley’s most famous spots— even more groceries stores, in which you two would pick out products together; the run-down book store, in which you two might have had a small argument about Tolstoy’s and Dostoevsky’s books.

It felt good. Normal even. He made a friend. Now your number is in his contracts. Your number in his phone— he can’t believe it. Other than his family and Roy, there aren’t many in his list of numbers he keeps. Now he has someone to call when he wants to hang out, when he just needs a moment to feel normal again.

The feelings bloom from there— like a bouquet that was being formed with every time you two decided to spend together.

Jason slowly opened up to you, and you— to him. Suddenly, visiting each other became the norm. Lazy week-days spent in each other’s apartment was almost instinct to the two of you.

Movie nights when you’d tease him for liking the 2004 adaptation of “Pride and Prejudice” - “Bride and Prejudice” instead of the 2005 adaptation with Keira Knightley suddenly was something familiar— something that made him feel good.

“Seriously? You like the adaptation with the songs and dancing instead of the one with brooding feelings?”

You’re perched on the couch right next to him. Almost touching. He tries to ignore the proximity and how it’s making his heartbeat speed up and voice higher.

“It’s a good movie, what can I say? I like how lively it is, plus—” He raises a brow while the corners of his lips curl up. He likes explaining it all— his thought process to you.

You listen.

He turns your way, eyes leaving the screen playing the movie. He notices you’ve been looking at him— not the movie.

“What is it?” He asks, voice now quiet and soft.

Your eyes widen a bit, realizing you’ve been caught staring. He sees how your hands grip the arm of the couch— knuckles a bit white. There’s a slight pink hue on your cheeks.

Why does he feel like there’s the same type of tinge on his cheeks too? Is he truly something to like looking at? And more importantly, do you like looking at him?

“Just—” You smile too. Jason has come to like your smile even more after these few months of friendship. “—keep talking about why you like it. You might convert me to your ideals, who knows?”

“I’ll have you know the songs are actually amazing in that movie.”

“Sure, Jay.”

“Are you doubting me?”

“I’d never!”

“That’s it, get up! You’re dancing to one of the songs right now.”

“Only if you dance with me, Todd.”

Jason falls first but denies it aggressively— he’ll argue with Dick about how “it’s not like that” while texting you at 2am.

He immediately goes into denial mode, starts pulling away and being extra harsh during patrol like he can punch the feelings out of himself.

Dick notices Jason’s weird behavior and makes some throwaway comment about you, and Jason’s defensive reaction is so over-the-top that even Tim raises an eyebrow.

Jason starts overthinking every interaction— was that smile different? Why did you let your hand linger when passing him coffee? He’s a detective but suddenly can’t read you at all.

He lies awake analyzing conversations from three weeks ago, wondering if you were flirting or just being friendly when you said his hoodie looked good on him.

Your realization is more gradual— it starts when you notice you’ve been unconsciously planning your day around when Jason might text or show up.

The moment that breaks you is probably when you see him being unexpectedly gentle— reading to kids at the library for community service, or carefully moving a stray cat out of harm’s way.

You catch yourself staring at his hands while he’s just going about his day, thinking about how those same fingers are always so careful when they touch you.

You start having dreams about him that you can’t shake, and suddenly every romance novel feels like it’s written about this stupid, complicated man who eats your leftovers and leaves poetry books on your nightstand.

Like I said, the love between the two of you blooms slowly. But it is all-consuming— being wrapped in a blanket of the warmest feeling ever. You both can’t get enough. Falling for each other was truly easy.

You can’t think of anyone else who makes you feel this way. And he can’t imagine a life without you.

... ! .. 🌱 .. a/n: trying go get back into writing bigger works. this just came to me a few hours ago and i wrote it at 3am. i’m a sucker for this trope— especially with our best boy jay. he deserves some quiet and the process of having a crush in his life +++ all the fluffy feelings that come alongside it. i love the 2004 adaptation of pride and prejudice btw. it’s so good. the songs r even better. i can imagine reader and jason dancing to those songs !!! ++ this was only proof read once so ☹️☹️

﹒   ♪   ┊ INBOX OPEN.⠀⠀feel free to send me asks and suggestions in my inbox. ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

˖ `· . 𓏵 © 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐁𝐂𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒 don’t use my work without my consent. ... ⏤ㅤ Ⳋ ⊹

[tanzaniiite]

NOT SO BAD • EDDIE & VOLT

requests: open

warnings: angst

word count: 1.5k

a/n: sooo i got their hate ending and after crashing out for 40 days and 40 nights (30 straight minutes) i decided to write an after ending. to give myself some closure if nothing else. i apologize if this isn’t the greatest, i haven’t written fanfic in yearsss.

*cross-posted on ao3

You flinch as the door to the Breaker Box is slammed in your face.

Your dateviators sit askew on your nose as you try to process what just happened. Eddie and Volt hate you? Everything was going swimmingly up until now, where did you go wrong? Could you fix it? As you go to speak with them again, the specs on your face make a power down sound.

Out of charge.

It’s only then do you realize how late it is. The sun has set and the stars have begun littering the sky. This was your last interaction for the day, talk about depressing. And even if it wasn’t you could only talk to an object once per day, per Skylar’s detailed instructions. It’s fine, you’ll just… give them some space, check back in a day or two. Surely everything would blow over by then.

In the meantime, you kept yourself busy. You met new datebales, continued conversations with the ones you already met. And yet, your mind kept drifting back to Eddie and Volt. Really, where did you go wrong? Maybe kissing Volt wasn’t the greatest idea. It seemed right at the time, considering the atmosphere and all that. Or maybe you didn’t get close enough to Eddie? You should’ve been more persistent, asked more questions, his dislikes be damned.

This loop of “could’ve, should’ve, would’ve” continued until you finally had the courage to approach the Breaker Box again. It’s been a couple of days, surely whatever “hatred” they had for you has dissolved or at the very least, dampened. You didn’t expect them to not be mad at all, but maybe they would be willing to hear out and you guys could repair your relationship. Become friends if not anything else. That hope quickly drained as Volt approached the entrance, a sour and borderline terrifying look on his face.

He was different now, blue and electrifying. It was a far cry from the charming and sweet Volt you’ve gotten to know. He didn’t say anything at first, just staring at you like you have done the most unforgivable thing in the world (and maybe you did, you still weren’t sure exactly what it is you did). That silence stretched until you tried to break it, in which Volt immediately cut you off.

“Volt, I–”

“Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough last time. You’re not welcome here.”

“Please, can’t we just talk this out?”

“No, we can’t. I was foolish to trust you the first time around. I won’t allow you to have the opportunity to hurt us again.”

It took everything in you to not sob right there and then but you’re sure the tears that shone in your eyes got the point across clearly. “I care about you and Eddie so much, I never meant to hurt either of you. I swear.” The tremble in your voice was as clear as day but you couldn’t really find it in yourself to care. Not when it felt like everything was on the line. And for a moment, that hope you had fluttered in your chest as Volt’s expression softened. He sighed deeply and leaned against the door, reminiscent of the dramatic flare he had when you first met him.

“I’m sorry live wire, I don’t think we can trust you again.”

Your breath caught in your throat as the tears that have taken up residence in your eyes, slipped down your cheeks silently. You could do nothing but stare as the door to the Breaker Box was closed in your face once more. Part of you preferred the slamming, the yelling, and the volatile way things had originally ended. This felt non-negotiable. Final. You weren’t sure how to feel about that.

So, you stood at the entrance for what felt like an eternity. Not sure what to do or where to go from here. You knew you couldn’t get every dateable to love you, hell, even like you but hatred? Not indifference or some weird limbo state? Just pure hatred? As you finally began to turn away, Reggie popped into your peripheral vision. God, you were not in the mood for him. You had met him before as you and another dateable didn’t exactly see eye to eye. The details aren’t important as you didn’t care for that dateable nearly as much as you care for Eddie and Volt. Still, it seemed you were stuck and had to hear Reggie’s spiel.

“It’s one thing to be rejected and another thing to lose trust completely, yeowch!”

“....”

“Still, I dig your style. Rejection really isn’t so bad when you think about it. Helps you pick out the duds that simply aren’t worth your time.”

That’s the thing though, Eddie and Volt weren’t duds, far from it actually. And even if they hated your guts right now, you couldn’t find it in yourself to speak ill of them. “They aren’t duds, Reggie.” You mutter, arms crossing over your chest. Reggie raised a curious brow, “Don’t tell me you still have feelings for them? Do you not realize they kicked you to the curb? That they want nothing to do with you?”. You sucked your teeth in frustration, you knew that. Volt had made that painfully clear both times you spoke with him. As if reading your mind Reggie continues, his hands finding your shoulders and his head dipping down so his mouth is right next to your ear. “I know you have this good person act going on but doesn’t that make you angry? Isn’t that hatred mutual?” He questions.

You were mainly sad and confused. And sure, maybe a little bitter too. You still didn’t know what you did that was so wrong to warrant them to hate you but you didn’t hate them. Still… as Reggie’s hands stayed firmly placed on your shoulders, you couldn’t help but get angry. It was as if that energy was radiating off of him and seeping into you. Or maybe, that anger was always there and Reggie gave it the space to roam free. Either way, you were starting to get pissed. The low chuckle that came from Reggie wasn’t lost on you as you swiftly took off your dateviators. Volt and Eddie wanted to hate you? Fine, you’ll give them a reason to hate you.

It almost seemed weird, looking at the Breaker Box and seeing… a normal breaker box. You close the box firmly, a little rougher than you normally would but you didn’t care. They didn’t want to see you, so you didn’t want to see them. You surveyed the small closet wondering what else you could do to relieve that pressure that had started building in your chest. In all honesty, you wanted to scream, maybe cry some more, put the dateviators back on and curse both of them out. Instead, you dropped down and picked up Tony and Beau– er, your toolbox and spare boxes. You didn’t want any reason to come back here if you didn’t have too. You placed them in the closet in your makeshift home gym. It wasn’t much bigger than their previous residence, and they certainly had more roommates but hopefully they wouldn’t mind too much. You made sure to lock the door to the breaker box too. You’re not sure how that would translate to their world, if Dorian would simply just unlock it, but maybe it would slow the business of the Breaker Box.

You still had four more uses of your dateviators for the day but you really couldn’t find it in you to want to talk to anyone else. Your mood was dampened and you would hate to take it out on the other datebables. You would come back when you felt slightly better, when you could give them your full and undivided attention. Plus, it probably wasn’t the healistest to be talking to the inanimate objects of your home day in and day out. Considering how much emotional turmoil this one rejection put you in, maybe this was for the best. Maybe a break was needed. An hour tops.

That hour turned to hours.

Those hours into days.

The days into weeks.

And so on.

You haven’t put on the dateviators since your last interaction with Volt and by extension Reggie. That anger was still there, simmering in the back of your mind but all that you felt currently was sadness. As you went on with your day to day life, you’ve come to the conclusion that maybe there’s nothing you can do. Maybe whatever was going on with Eddie and Volt wasn’t meant to be. That you shouldn’t sit here, making yourself sick and miserable dwelling on it. And while this was your general takeaway, a part of you still held onto hope. Hope that with time; you, Eddie and Volt could make amends. And be friends. You’d never say it to the other dateables but they were your favorites, still are honestly. But it’s time to move on. You guess Reggie was right, in his own twisted way.

Rejection really isn’t so bad when you think about it.

tanzaniiite © 2025 — all rights reserved. do not repost, modify, or copy. do not plagiarize. thank you.

[kkisstheladder]

╰┈➤ professor! ♡ j. yunho

⋆˚꩜  your professor wants to talk to you about your plummeting grades, so why are you now bent over his desk?

❤︎  pairing: professor!yunho x student!fem!reader . ❤︎  genre – warnings: smut (minors do NOT interact), nsfw, university au, power imbalance, unprotected sex, dubious consent, coercion, oral sex (m. receiving), throat fucking, dacryphilia, praise kink, hair pulling, slight choking, creampie, nude photos, use of ‘good girl’, ‘baby’, and ‘sweetheart’ . ❤︎  wc: 4.4k . ❤︎  notes: hi tumblr… this is 100% a fully self indulgent fic. zero shame. i'll be posting more atz, (maybe) enha, and skz too so pls stay on the lookout if u like this! <3<3<3 also im addicted to golden hour pt3… yungis wrecking me so hard rn.

⋆˚꩜ AO3 READER? ➜ here!

𝄞  tear you apart – she wants revenge

it was eerily silent when you reached the door you’ve been dreading all day. 

the footsteps echoed a little too loud as you approached, every subtle sound amplified in the dim corridor. the building was mostly empty, a few students wandering, the university hallways frozen. you can’t tell if the chills were from the temperature or something else.

you paused in front of the door. his name was etched into the frosted glass in clean black lettering: ‘Professor Jeong’. your nerves were all over the place, legs trembling as you raised your fist to the door. you knocked once.

”come in.” he said in that familiar, soothing voice, loud enough to hear, but not a shout. you opened the creaking door, hesitating just a second before stepping inside.

he was seated behind his desk, the warm golden light from the desk lamp catching all his sharpest features. his sleeves were rolled up, only slightly past his elbows neatly. he looked so beautiful sitting there. he just looked up at you, for a little too long, saying nothing at all. 

all your friends teased you about your silly crush on him, but you felt something deeper, a strange connection to him — like an invisible string tying you to one another, bound for life. he was the perfect man: compassionate, handsome, humorous, you couldn’t help but feel instantly attracted. you came to realise it would likely never happen, considering he was your professor after all, but you wished so desperately it could. 

“take a seat.” he gestured towards the chair across from him. 

you did, clutching your bag strap as you lowered yourself into the cold chair, bag rested by your side. his eyes followed the hem of your skirt, your bare thighs against the cold leather seat. you didn’t miss it. you noticed your papers sat on his desk, all marked with a big red ‘F’. the pure shame you felt was unmeasurable.

”so,” he spoke softly, setting his pen down. “struggling are we?” 

you nodded, feeling the shame building inside of you as you look down, avoiding any and all eye contact with him. “i don’t understand what happened. i’ve been following the same methods, formatting, researching…” 

he leaned back in his chair, elbows rested on the arms of his chair and hands intertwined. “and yet, you keep failing.” 

your chest tightened. “i’m sorry sir… i don’t know what i’ve done wrong.”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly when he looked at you. “i really do hate seeing bright girls like you struggle.”

a shiver crept up your spine, goosebumps forming on your arms. you weren’t sure if it was from the cold in the room or the way he said it. the way he praised you. there was something about the way he looked at you — something predatory hidden beneath his sweet demeanour, and you were an innocent lamb. 

“i just… please… i need this scholarship. i can’t afford to lose it.” you sniffled, hoping it didn’t turn into a sob by the end of this discussion. your fingers dug into the bare skin of your thighs, clinging on to any source of comfort.  

his eyes darkened, leaving behind the once compassionate man, his expression now unreadable. “then we’ll have to find a way to get those grades back up, won’t we?” 

you blinked, frowning, teardrops gathering in your eyes. “yes. please. i’ll do anything.” 

the words slipped out before you could even think about them. his eyes flickered to yours in an instant, holding your gaze. 

“anything?” 

you swallowed. he hadn’t even raised his voice once, he never did, he never needed to, and yet something in the air had changed. 

“yes…” 

the silence remained for a while.

then he stood up, and slowly walked over towards a metal cabinet, reaching in to pull out some papers. he did it all so precisely, cautiously. even his steps were calculated as he made his way over to you. he sprawled the papers on his desk, right in front for you to see. he leaned back against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest as he looked down at you. his knee touched yours, and he didn’t move away. 

“you’ve always been one of my favourite students,” his gaze fixates on the papers, your previous essays, an ‘A’ circled with a small ‘Good work.’ under the grade. “always so eager. so attentive.” 

you couldn’t speak. his eyes were back on you, your little skirt, your innocent eyes. it was as though you were a locked door he already had the key to. 

“so why is it you’re failing my class?” he inquires, inching closer. 

“i-i don’t know…” 

he reached down slowly, fingers just brushing your chin. you stiffened, but didn’t pull away. 

“you don’t know?” he repeated.

the air between you was electric. his touch was light, but deliberate. you knew he shouldn’t be this close. he shouldn’t be touching you at all. but still, you didn’t move. 

“i’ve seen you looking at me.” he murmured. “do you think i wouldn’t?” 

then the trembling came. the dry mouth, lips parted, whilst he felt all morals slipping away. he wanted nothing more than to ruin you. break you. 

he leaned in closer, the feeling of his breath on your cheek. “do you know how hard it’s been? watching you come into class in those tiny skirts, feigning innocence?”

”that… wasn’t my intention, professor…” you gazed up at him, eyes wet, locked with one anothers.

he laughed, low, teasing. “then what was?”

his hand slipped to your jaw, and then your throat, his hand loosely wrapping around it — not tight, just enough to make your thighs clench instinctively. he noticed. 

“i could ruin you.” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “and you’d thank me for it.”

god you hated how much you wanted this. 

he released you just as slowly, hand falling back to the desk and pointing at your numerous papers. 

“i could fix this for you. one change in the system,” he paused. “but what would i get in return?” 

you practically freeze in that moment. the words sit with you, marinating in your mind, finally understanding what it is he wants. 

“i can’t… we… ca—“ he shushes you before you can say anything more. 

“be honest with me,” he whispered, inches from your face.

you nodded dumbly. his voice had a weight to it, teasingly dangling your scholarship over your head leaving you vulnerable, submissive — exactly what he wanted. 

“do you want to fix this?”

”y-yes…” 

“then ask me nicely.” 

your cheeks burned. “ask you… what?” 

“ask me to help you, sweetheart.” 

the contact made you dizzy, his slender hand cupping your jaw. you couldn’t think. 

“please… help me. i don’t want to fail.” you cry to him, pleading and begging. 

his eyes seem so sweet now as he looks at you, even though you know it’s all fake. “you’ll do anything to stay, won’t you now?” 

you swallowed whatever other words you were going to say. “yes.” 

he smiled. not sweetly, not an ounce of kindness in his smirk. the way a wolf might smile at its prey. 

“thought so.” 

his hand slid from your jaw, down the curve of your throat. his fingers lingered there once more, but he pressed harder this time. not too tight, but enough to make your breath catch. his other hand made way to your thighs, leaving the hem of your skirt. he tutted. 

“look how short this skirt is…” he uttered “you knew how this would end, didn’t you?” 

you shook your head, eyes pleading and welling up with tears. “n-no i didn’t… i didn’t know—“

”you mean to say this isn’t for me?” he almost sounds disappointed.

his grip tightened ever so slightly, light, but sending a message. one that reads as ‘i have all the control.’ 

“be honest. you wanted me to look. you liked it, didn’t you? sitting in the front row, desperately trying to get my attention, feeling my eyes on your thighs and pretending not to notice.” 

your thighs squeezed together involuntarily, the heat building between them unbearable. 

“i liked it…” you whisper, loud enough for him to hear.

”hm?”

you couldn’t look him in the eyes. “i… liked it.” 

his thumb pressed against your pulse. “look at me.” and you did just that. 

once you looked up you saw it: hunger. desperation. the loss of control in the way he looked at you, like he was starving. 

“you’ve been so good,” he murmured, finally releasing your throat as his other hand lay still on your thigh. “coming to me like this. all shy. vulnerable.” he caresses your thigh whilst leaning into your face. 

“you want me to change that grade?”

you nodded eagerly.

”then get on your knees, baby.” he demands, stern and unmoving. “show me how much you want this.” 

the words went straight through you, like you’d been shot in the heart in the best way possible. you stood on shaking legs before hesitantly lowering yourself in front of him. your knees hit the cold office floor. you look up, and he was already looking at you, like you were is newest addiction. he always had this unreadable expression, nobody knew how he was feeling, not even you. he undid his belt slowly. teasingly. his voice stayed calm, but the lust beneath it was impossible to miss.

“my perfect student.” he breathed, combing his fingers through your hair. you were his. undeniably his — to ruin, to corrupt and break. your knees were pressed to the cold floorboards, the act feeling so wrong in this quiet space. his scent was everywhere now — cologne, leather, arousal. above you, he simply smirked, a soft, sweet smile to anyone else. but to you, it was because he owned you. 

“open that pretty mouth, baby.” 

and you did. his hand tangled in your hair, gathering it all in one as he unzipped his trousers, pulling you closer and pulling himself out without shame. he was already hard, thick and swollen, and absolutely not gentle as he patted the head of his cock against your parted lips. you underestimated how big he was. 

“stick out your tongue,” he said, voice a low demand. 

you obeyed, eyes already watering. 

“i love how obedient you are when desperate,” he smirked, a devilish grin. “on your knees, crying with a cock down your throat for a grade.” 

you winced, crying even more as the shame made your thighs press tighter. 

“don’t pretend you dont love it.” he groaned, pushing forward into your mouth, dragging his dick across your tongue like he was trying to leave a mark. “you’ve wanted this since the first time you saw me.” 

then he shoved deeper, a tight grip in your hair forcing you down on him, hitting the back of your throat as he stuffs your mouth full of him, an involuntary gag coming from you with your hands flying to his thighs for support. 

“good girl,” he hissed, pulling your hair tighter, making sure you don’t go anywhere. he wants to savour this moment, the moment he breaks an innocent girl. “take all of it… let me see you cry for me.” 

tears spilled fast, your throat tightening around him as you choke. you could have tried pulling away, but you didn’t want to. every erotic noise, every humiliating word that came out of his mouth, and yet you still didn’t push back. the room echoed every lewd sound, spit bubbling, muffled coughs and splutters, the loud gasp for air you let out when he finally let you. he pulled out with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to the tip of his cock. you coughed and gasped for air, mouth agape. 

“look at you,” he whispered, pulling your hair to look up at him. you looked at him through blurred eyes, tears masking whatever heinous expression he was making. “a fucking mess already…” 

he slapped his cock against your wet, red cheek, once or twice as he watched the next tear fall down your face. he talks to you like you were inferior to him — less than.

he pushed back in with far more force, zero mercy when it came down to you, forcing himself down your throat with a groan as he started fucking your mouth in rough, rhythmic thrusts. he knew you couldn’t breathe, but he didn’t care. you clawed at his thighs, nails digging hard enough to leave marks through his trousers. the moans and chokes coming out of you helped him all the more, encouraging him to speed up, fuck harder and faster into your mouth. the front of your grey sweater had turned dark, covered in drool and spit. you were too far gone at this point.

”cry for me, sweetheart.” he groaned in a low, raspy voice. “let me see you. see what a mess i’ve made out of such a beautiful girl.” 

the tears didn’t stop, throat burning as he filled the empty space with himself, but your panties were getting wetter by the minute. your thighs squirm, wet and needy. 

“you don’t need good grades,” he spat, tilting his head back before looking back down at you with pity in his eyes. “you need to learn how to take dick like a good girl.” 

he fucked into you as hard as possible, with no remorse and absolutely zero shame. he knew it was completely wrong to have a relationship with one of his students, to treat one this way, if anyone found out, he’d surely be fired on the spot.

especially if they knew he was failing you on purpose.

the other students were uninterested, obnoxious. but you? you were special. you craved his attention, focused on every word he spoke, watched attentively at every move he made. so, he had to do something to get some time alone with you. he found only one solution; and you fell for it completely. now kneeled before him, letting him use and abuse you, a man you hardly know anything about. 

why can’t this moment just last forever?

you winced around him, mascara smeared and tears streaming, and he couldn’t stop looking down at you — like you were the most magnificent mess he had ever seen. despite all his words, you truly were breathtaking. he might tease and insult, but there was no one quite like yourself. he couldn’t believe his plan had worked so well.

“my perfect girl… fuck…” he moaned, tilting his head back and shoving himself all the way down your throat with no room to breathe. he never wanted to let you go, to stay like this forever, you look so perfect with his cock down your throat, face red and blotchy. you could only oblige, wanting to do anything to please him. his hands gripped the back of your head, fully taking advantage of your throat, leaving bruises for later so that when you think of them you think of him. “fuck— you’re doing so well for me sweetheart.” 

then he pulled out again suddenly, spit dripping down your chin. you filled your lungs as quickly as you could, coughing and gasping for breath, holding your throat to soothe yourself. then he kneeled before you, combing your dampened hair back behind your ear, with a gentleness that shouldn’t be there.

”look at me…” he cupped your face with his other free hand, holding you gently. 

you did as you were told, gazing up at him with those big, watery eyes of yours. 

“you’d do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” 

without hesitation you nodded, eager to do whatever he says. 

“good girl.” he spoke so softly, too softly. his hand found your hair again, entangling his fingers in amongst it all, his other hand cupping your face gently as he pulled you up from the office floor, your legs trembling. 

for the first time, he kissed you. a sloppy kiss with nothing but desperation and lust — greed alongside it. he wanted more, far more than he originally planned. in an instant, he pushed your back up against the desk like it was nothing, arching as you clung onto the edge. he pressed up to you, breaking away from the kiss to whisper in your ear. 

“bend over the desk for me, will you?” it sounded much like a request, but nothing about it was. it was a demand, disguised as an offer. his calming voice made it worse. 

of course you obeyed. even if you could say no, you know you wouldn’t. you stretch across the desk, pounding chest pressed into the cold wood. he ran a hand underneath your skirt and up your thigh, fingers teasing at your underwear before he rolled your skirt up to sit just above your ass. he ran a finger between your clothed folds, shamefully soaked. 

“fuck,” he laughed, low and almost cruel, yet pleased. “this wet already? you liked choking on my dick that much?” 

he pulled your panties to the side, slipping two fingers in without warning, a loud moan escaping your lips before he shut you up with his other hand. 

“come on baby… we can’t be too loud.” he breathed down your neck, pulling you up and arching your back further, his other hand fucking in and out of you slowly, painfully slowly. “god you’re so fucking tight. it’s almost a shame to ruin you.” 

he was lying. there was no shame in what he was doing, or what he felt towards you. there was no way to describe it other than complete lust, addiction maybe. your moans were muffled by his hand, unable to contain them as he split you open with just his fingers. 

he pulled his fingers out so suddenly, pulling your panties down to sit at your knees, leaving you a sopping wet mess all over his desk. your breath came in shallow gasps as you tried to prepare yourself. he placed one hand on the small of your back, holding you down — right where he wanted you. 

“god, look at this view.” his voice was driving you insane, deep and calming as he praised you. you felt his fingers graze your thighs again, spreading your legs wider and just admiring what he owned. 

the shock that hit when you felt him, teasing you with the head of his cock at your entrance, was a feeling you’ll never forget. sliding his tip through the slick between your folds with slow, deliberate strokes. he wasn’t in a rush, making this all the more perfect and somehow worse. he wanted to savour the moment. savour you.

uncontrollable moans came out of your mouth as he pushed into you, inch by inch until he bottomed out, staying there momentarily. you winced and gasped, nails scratching at the wooden surface for some sort of comfort to grab onto. he stretched you in the best way, forcing your walls to adjust to the shape of him. he leaned down and whispered into your ear, pulling you up by the hair to make sure you hear him.

“you take me all so well baby…” he groaned, tugging your hair so hard it was enough to make you wince out, breath hot against your cheek. “you like this? you like letting me use you, huh?” 

“yes… please — fuck — give me more…” 

he hissed as he pulled out and thrusted back in immediatly with a snap of his hips. you choked a moan, brains scrambled as he set a rough rhythm, brutal but precise. his fingers curled tighter in your hair as he fucked you faster.

“that’s right, take every inch…” his voice was so calming for a situation like this, soothing. your body jolted with every thrust in, his cock hitting so deep it made you dizzy. he kept your head held back, arched perfectly for him, his free hand sliding to grip your throat again. 

“so fucking good for me,” he murmured, soft and gentle. “so pretty with your face soaked in tears.” 

you hadn’t stopped crying — was it shame? disappointment? pure bliss? who’s to say, but you couldn’t get enough of him. he made you feel so good, the length, the pace, the praise, like you were his favourite sin. you cried for him more, face wet with your own tears as more streamed down.

”there she is,” he praised. “my perfect pupil. no one else gets to see you like this, nobody but me.” 

he pulled you back further until you were arched into him, face looking back to lock eyes with his. there was nothing but lust in his eyes, not love. lust. pure desire and desperation, determined to keep you his forever. 

“stay mine forever… please…” for once he begged. not pitiful, possessive. your knees almost buckled until he caught you, arm around your waist to hold you in place while he fucked you through it. you felt so oddly secure, safe in his arms as he slammed into you. you felt deserving of this, like you had earned it, you were the professors favourite after all.

”you hear how wet you are for me?” he breathed into your ear, kissing up and down your neck any chance he got, leaving behind dark bruises on your delicate skin. the sound of your bodies, lewd and obscene, echoed throughout the office. he wanted you to be quiet but couldn’t stay quiet himself, not when he thought you were the most perfect girl for him.

”sounds like you’ve been waiting for this moment, huh?” 

“i— fuck! — i have…” you spoke through broken moans, the desk shaking by this point, scraping across the floor, everything falling off. you spotted your papers, scrunched a bit and messied from the fallout. it reminded you why you were there, because of those essays. your eyes flickered to the ‘Good work.’ on one of your best papers, and couldn’t believe that is where this all started. your little teacher crush, now fucking into you with so much force you wont be able to walk into class tomorrow. 

“you make me so proud, baby,” he was right next to your ear, exhausted breathing breaking the words apart. “giving me everything i want, letting me fuck you so deep…” 

a high-pitched moan escaped your lips as he spoke, followed by his hand over your mouth once again, shutting you up for the time being. a part of you wanted someone to overhear, grow envious of your position, but the shame you felt stopped you. suddenly his thrusts slowed, just enough to let you feel every inch of him inside of you, his cock shaping your walls. 

“i want you to remember this,” he moaned out with every thrust. “everytime you sit in my class, you’ll think of what happened here.” 

you moaned into his hand with every movement from him, eyes watering and legs trembling. his mouth found your shoulder, kissing along it, nibbling at some points as his hand dropped from your mouth. you tried to contain your own moans until he pushed so deep into you his name came out in a low, soft whisper — not ‘sir’, or ‘professor’, his name, a trembling moan that sounded like a prayer. 

he slammed into you again, faster this time, breathing heavy, your words having flipped a switch in his brain. his grip tightened on your hip, using your body like it belonged to him. 

“you gonna let me cum inside, beautiful?” 

“y-yes… need it — i need you,” 

and that was all the confirmation he needed. he groaned, loud, deep, fucking you through it. his thrusts were sharp, hips smashing into yours until he came, cock twitching deep inside you as he buried himself to the hilt.

he stood there for a moment, his body up against yours, breathing heavily, hand still intertwined in your hair, his other digging his nails into your hip. and then, so softly, he spoke:

”my perfect student...”

you didn’t move. you couldn’t. just stayed there, slumped over his desk, his cum dripping from your aching cunt, reddened cheeks still wet from your tears. your body trembled for so long after he pulled out. 

you didn’t even hear his hand move, the subtle sound of fabric shifting and the unmistakable click. you flinched slightly from the unexpected noise.

”don’t tense baby,” his hand stroked your ass, still on full display for his perfect photo. “just stay like that for me, i want to remember you like this.”

you flinched as his thumb spread your folds, the camera clicking once more.

”god, look at that.” he spoke in a low whisper. “my perfect mess, stretched and leaking.”

his praise made your heart flutter, even now as you are laid spread on his desk, at your most vulnerable, a shy smile on your face.

“you took it so well, baby.” his fingers traced your spine, tingling from where he grazed. “just to keep that scholarship.”

he leaned down, voice brushing your ear. “to keep me happy.”

you whimpered as he spoke, unintelligble words, but he was already reaching down to pull your panties back into place, useless now really. he fixed your skirt, pulling it back down and handling you with such care. there wasn’t much to do about your sweater, covered in sweat and drool. he was now facing you, hands rested on your hips. 

“take this off lovely,” his fingers tugged at the bottom of your sweater, pulling it off of you, leaving you with nothing but a black tank top. “still just as beautiful.” 

you can’t tell if his words were genuine, but you couldn’t care less. his hands cupped your face, your eyes blank and dazed.

”still with me sweetheart?” he was so sweet now, the sudden change in his voice so different from him earlier. you nodded, looking up at him with puppy eyes. he smiled at that, proudly.

”you did so fucking well.” his thumb grazed your cheek, providing an ounce of comfort. “so pretty when you cry.” 

you blinked at him, lips parted and eyes glossed over, like in a trance. his lips touched your forehead, an act of love — but here? it was anything but. 

your legs trembled as you began to move away, smiling at him so sweetly, innocently. 

“next time,” his voice hushed, his body still close to yours. he smirked at you “don’t be late tomorrow, maybe if we have a spare 15 minutes…”

you nod.

maybe you’ll show up an hour early instead.

[mulloey]

First of all, CONGRATULATIONS ON 2K FOLLOWERS🎉✨

It's my first time seeing ur account as I had just scrolling things and find ur recent post

If it's not too much to ask, I would like to request a Seonghwa with prompt 101, 109, 136, 208, 223, 310, 327🥹

in desperate times

royalty + arranged marriage. cnc + overstimulation + breeding. “i’m not done with you” + “i’ve got you”

queen!reader x royal guard!seonghwa

warnings: period-typical misogyny (arranged/forced marriage, allusions to sexual violence and gender discrimination), consensual cheating, reader is not married to seonghwa, reader’s husband is described as being severely/chronically ill and close to death. dom!seonghwa, he’s attentive and gentle although they do partake in light cnc. all warnings typical of the prompts requested.

(this isn’t necessary for the story, but it is mentioned and may be a little confusing for some, so i thought i’d give a brief explanation here. in medieval/early modern europe there was a belief that women could not get pregnant unless they orgasmed themselves. many also believed that it was the ejaculate of *both* parties that created the child. just little tidbit you’ll see in here that i thought i’d better clear up!) there will most likely be some historical inaccuracies, particularly within the dialogue. i do love this era but smut is smut😭💔 enjoy!

—

On a broad scale, you were lucky. Daughter of a king, the jewel of your small kingdom. Pampered and privileged and wanting for nothing.

You even got to marry a king, yourself; on your sixteenth birthday, a few days after you stepped off a ship and into the foreign land that was to be yours.

Your husband was fine. Just fine. Neither cruel nor loving; handsome nor ugly. Not dramatically older than you, either, a mercy your elder sister had not been given—you could have been perfectly happy with him, you thought. Could have made a decent life together.

You could have, were it not for the sickness.

He’d had it since birth; a strange disease with symptoms that seemed ever-changing; coming without warning and fading just as quickly. A cycle on repeat, over and over, with gaps so long you’d dare for a while to think it was finally over, before it returned with a vengeance.

The doctors couldn’t explain it. The priests and the monks and the astrologers didn’t know what to pray for; mere prayers for healing felt inadequate, really, when faced with something so strange. So unstable.

You realised soon, that the instability of this illness, and of your husband’s health by extension, meant the instability of the country, too. An ailing king, constantly toeing the line between life and death, means an ailing country—or it does, at least, without an heir.

You always knew that was your purpose; to breed. To birth. That was the only purpose women of the court could ever really have. And soon enough you realised why they chose you in particular—your family, apparently, was famous across the continent for its fertility. Your mother with her thirteen children—ten surviving, seven boys; your sister with six, all boys, all surviving so far. Your aunts and your cousins and your nieces with constant births and pregnancies and praises for their fruitfulness. A family blessed by God, over and over.

Except for you, somehow. And though admitting it would be treason, everyone knew exactly where the problem lay.

It was him—his illness. Killing his children, your children, before they could live.

Even so, you never thought his desperation would lead you here. That it even could.

The bedroom is quiet; air heavy with something unspoken; the same thing that’s weighed you down since you stepped off the ship the day you arrived to be wed and discovered, quicker than they’d perhaps have liked, exactly what was going on.

“We must do something,” your husband says. “We need an heir.”

“I’ve done everything,” you whisper. “We can try again—”

“No, no.” He cuts you off, waving weakly at you. He looks much weaker lately; frailer, like he’s clinging painfully, stubbornly to life until the moment it’s safe to let go. “I’m not capable, not anymore. You, however…”

You blink. “Me?”

“You are fertile, we both know it. I am not, quite clearly. But perhaps I can be—can appear to be, at least. Enough to have an heir so I can take my rest.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You will get pregnant,” he says, firmly; resolutely. Like your own feelings on the matter are irrelevant. Like he’s already made up his mind. “You must. We will time it to be believable. No one will know but the three of us.”

“Know what?” You ask—in some way, though, you already know.

He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut like he’s flinching. Trying to get an image out of his head that refuses to go. “What do you think of my guard, Seonghwa?”

It’s arranged with frightening efficiency. Within the hour the notice is delivered to the council; the king and queen will take extended break in the mountains, in the small, humble retreat built by his father as a spiritual sanctuary. Only his closest, most elite guard will be present for the protection of both of you—and, God willing, the peace, air and isolation will soothe your husband’s afflictions. Perhaps even for long enough that you may finally return with a strong, healthy child in your belly.

Only you, your husband, and your confessors will know what really happened there—as of course, will Seonghwa.

He rides with the two of you, as he always does; nothing is said of the plan, of course, not where anyone could overhear, but the knowledge of it sits heavy in the air; untouched and unacknowledged.

Which is fine. For someone who’s been raised with piety and modesty as the basis for all you do, it’s honestly preferable. But it doesn’t make the weight of Seonghwa’s gaze on you any easier to bear.

You’ve known him a while now, him being wherever your husband goes, but you’ve scarcely spoken to him; he’s always working, always alert, and seems to take little interest in anything besides that. Certainly not in you.

Now, though, he can’t seem to force his interest onto anything but you, and you’re not quite sure what to do with it. Your husband is a kind man, certainly, and far more respectful of you than you were raised to anticipate—but he’s never been passionate. Never lit a fire in you; never had the energy or ability to.

But with Seonghwa—with this new side of him that’s so suddenly been uncovered—you burn. You burn brighter and more desperately than you ever thought you could.

The servants settle you in once you arrive before scurrying away to their quarters some distance down the hill; they’ll be back tomorrow, three times each day until this is done, to tend to your needs and ensure your husband is in good health. If they have any inkling of what’s about to happen, they’re sensible enough not to show it. No one would believe them, anyway.

“I’m going to sleep,” your husband says, when the last of the servants leave and the door slams shut behind them. “Do as you must with Seonghwa, I know he’ll take good care of you. I trust him with my life.”

“Then so do I.” You kiss him, tenderly, politely, and watch him shuffle down the hall before the bedroom door clicks shut.

Alone in the small drawing room, Seonghwa’s presence behind you has never felt more intimidating. More threatening.

His voice comes low; quiet.

“Turn around.”

It takes you a second to realise who he’s talking to. You’ve never been commanded like that; not since you were a child, at least, and certainly never by a lower class. Still you turn, but your discomfort must be obvious; it makes him smile smally, almost teasing.

“Were you expecting to be asked?” He sounds amused; like he’s holding back a laugh. “Politely requested, perhaps?”

For some reason, you flush a little—though not, you realise, necessarily out of embarrassment. With something else, you think; something new. You try to stare forwards, as you always do; to maintain the poise and posture that’s been drilled into you your entire life. “Perhaps,” you say. It comes out a little snappier than you meant it, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“You ought to relax,” he says. “There’s no need to be nervous.”

“We’re about to have sex.”

“If you wish.”

“If I wish?” You scoff. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Seonghwa. We don’t have a choice.”

“Yes we do.”

“No. We don’t.”

He sighs, and his expression seems to soften a little. “Come here.”

Another command, spoken as assuredly as if he were speaking to a servant, or to his own wife—and another order you obey without thinking. Slow, small steps, unsure, but still you close the distance.

He looks serious now; severe, any of the amusement of before now absent. “Listen to me.” His voice is quiet, like he’s saying something he knows he shouldn’t; something he’s scared for your husband to overhear.

“This is your chance to say no. If you don’t want this, if you don’t want me, I won’t force you. I’ll tell the king we tried and failed. I’ll say it was my fault. It’s your decision.”

“You’d do that?”

“I would,” he says. “I’m not a monster, madam. I won’t force you nor will I see you punished for refusing me.”

“But it would be refusing my duty,” you say. “Not just refusing you.”

“No.” His voice is firm and unwavering; much closer to the Seonghwa you’ve heard before. But there’s another quality to it too, something new, that you scarcely remember hearing from… Well, any of the men at court, really. Kindness. Empathy. Even pity.

You swallow, then again; suddenly your throat is dry and scratchy and prickly and cannot be relieved and you’re not sure why. Little about your body feels your own right now. Seonghwa notices, it seems; notices your discomfort at least. “Hey,” he whispers. He takes another step towards you, slow, careful. “I know I scare you. I’ve seen how you look at me. But there’s no reason to be afraid, alright? I’ll take care of you, if you’ll have me.”

You’ve been raised never to trust men—lay your life at their feet, just as every woman must do; submit to them as every woman must do, but never trust them. Never believe them. Assume the worst intentions, and you’ll rarely be wrong.

But right now, you realise, you trust him. You believe him; believe his words and his intentions. You believe he’ll take care of you—you want him to take care of you. You want him to fuck you, caution to the wind.

Duty, you tell yourself. This is your duty and nothing more. You’re lucky, this time around, that duty has strong, muscular arms and slender fingers, and a gaze that could burn a hole through a castle wall.

“Okay,” you whisper. “I trust you, Seonghwa. We’ll do this.”

He smiles, pleased, and takes another step towards you. Then, his eyes darken, just enough to notice.

“Look at you,” he breathes. “And you’re all for me. What a treat.”

His words are hushed, a little awed; composure starting to crumble and arousal seeping through the cracks. You see the tension in chest; the lump in his throat as he speaks.

“There’s something you should know,” he says, suddenly. His expression has hardened enough to be a warning on its own. “About how I do things.”

“Okay.”

He nods, pauses for a moment. “I’m not a gentle man, madam,” he tells you. “I never have been. And I’ve been known to get carried away. Lose control, in some sense. But I need you to know you can always stop me.”

“You make it sound like you’re a madman,” you say, half-jokingly. He doesn’t laugh; just bites down on his lip like he’s still trying to hold himself together.

“I can be.”

“Oh.”

“Everyone knows it takes two to make a child. Two people, two orgasms.” You nod; you’d learned that before, heard stories of it from your elder sisters when they’d visited court after their own marriages—stories of endless waves of pleasure, coming down with force for hours until the seed takes. It had scared as much as intrigued you, but you’d never gotten far enough with your husband for it to be much of a consideration.

With Seonghwa, though—well, it’s never been as real as this. At least if the way he speaks of it, serious and determined and struggling to hold back, is any indication; or the way his eyes run across your skin like he wishes he could claim it for good.

“We don’t have as much time as I’d like,” he says, “so we’re going to make the most of it. If you need me to stop, you will say mercy. Unless you say it, we will continue until the seed has taken. Is that clear?”

“Yes,” you say. You don’t know why the thought is so thrilling yet safe at the same time; being completely at his mercy no matter what you say or do—except for one small word that keeps the power safely at your feet.

Mercy. Right now, you want none of it.

”Good,” he says. “Remove your clothes.”

You blink. “Here?”

“Here,” he confirms. “Come now, don’t try to be modest. I’d like to see what I’m working with, madam.”

“Working with,” you scoff, “don’t be so crude, Seonghwa.”

You laugh a little, an attempt to ease the tension in your chest as much as a genuine response, but he doesn’t join in; just stands there staring at you—blankly, firmly, without emotion. “I won’t ask again,” he says. “Take them off.”

Oh. Now that’s a tone you’ve never heard—not even towards the lowliest of servants. It’s not just commanding; not just strict and authoritative and a little scolding, but desirous too. Desperate; fervent. Control cracking like glass.

The way he looks at you as you pull off your clothing makes you realise you actually have very little idea what lies ahead of you—what this man, a familiar presence yet so perpetually distant at the same time, is like, not just as a person but as a lover.

You’re not even certain you can call him that; there’s certainly little in the way of love in his eyes as he stalks towards you like a wolf about to pounce.

“Beautiful,” he mutters. “Perfect. God, you need to be ruined, don’t you?”

You don’t know what he’s saying, really; what that word, whispered like a filthy secret, actually means, but your body reacts to it as though you’ve heard and prayed for it a thousand times before—with hunger. With need. It’s why you find yourself nodding dumbly before he’s even explained. He seems to like that, though; the blind obedience you’ve found yourself offering without even thinking.

“Fuck, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” He breathes. “I see it.”

“A good girl,” you echo. “Is that what you want me to be?”

He hesitates; thinks on it for a moment. “It’s up to you,” he says finally. “I’ll take what I want either way. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

You say nothing; there’s nothing you really could say, even if you wanted to. He smiles, wider than before. “Admit it,” he whispers. “You crave it.”

“Crave what?”

“To be beneath someone,” he says. “To be a supplicant. Don’t you?”

Your mouth opens, ready to retort—or agree, you’re not quite certain yet—but the words don’t come. They just sit there in your throat like they’re waiting for permission—his permission.

His smile widens a little, as understanding as scheming as hungry. “You don’t have to hide from me,” he whispers. “You can’t hide from me, not here. I can give it to you, you just have to ask for it.”

Your breath stutters. You feel your walls, your mask, begin to crumble. “Give me what?”

“Everything,” he says. “A son, of course; and a nice, thorough fucking like I know you’ve been craving, but that my poor old friend was never able to give you.”

“He fucked me fine,” you say quickly. You’re not sure why you’re so defensive; this is Seonghwa’s best friend, after all; hell, they’re much closer than you could ever be even as his wife. “Perfectly well, actually.”

“Oh I’m sure,” he chuckles. “I’m certain he treated you very well indeed, but that’s not what you want, is it?”

“Is it?”

“No, it’s not. I know exactly what you want, your majesty. You want to be used. To be played with.”

Oh. You do; every second he looks at you like that confirms it further. If it weren’t so arousing it’d probably be pretty embarrassing how easily he reads you; sees through walls you’ve spent your entire life constructing like they’re not even there.

“How do you—”

“Intuition, sweetheart,” he says. “I know your type. Prim and proper and begging to be broken. Will you let me?”

“Let you break me?”

“Yes. Repeatedly.”

“How?”

“How will I break you?” You nod. “I’m going to use you, your majesty. I’m going to make you come, over and over as many times as I see fit, until I’m satisfied my seed will take. Then I’m gonna pump you full of my sons; all day, every day, until your pretty little belly finally swells.”

Fuck. Lord. God, please look away before I fall at this man’s feet like I’m about to pray to him.

You feel your chest tighten, tensing; you nod. “Okay.”

It can’t be more than a few minutes before you find yourself here—clothes ripped off, expensive fabrics and fine jewels strewn around bare, flushed skin as you lie spread out on the floor. Bare back rubbing against the thick carpet; the heat of the fire reflecting against your skin; body immobilised. Held in place by the man hovering above you, touching and teasing and looking at you like he already owns you.

“Please,” you whimper. “Seonghwa, I need—”

“Hush,” he murmurs. His hand moves downwards a little, to the bottom of your tummy, enough pressure to make you pulse with need. Painfully close to where you want it. “I know exactly what you need, your majesty. You’ll get it. But you’ll get it on my terms.”

That’s something you know well enough by now; his terms. Everything with Seonghwa—his touch, his attention, his mercy, is on his terms. You've never felt such thrill or safety in your powerlessness before.

“I’ll do anything,” you whisper.

“I know you will,” he says. “You’ve let me in now, madam—you don’t have a choice. You’ll take what I give you and you’ll enjoy it. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” you moan. “Seonghwa, please. Touch me. I can’t—”

“You can,” he smiles. “But you won’t have to, not for much longer. I’ve got you, darling. You’re going to feel so good.”

“Hurry,” you say; desperate. Arousal overflowing like water spilling over the sides. Decorum forgotten; dignity cast aside. You need him, viscerally. Carnally. All else be damned.

“Be patient.” A gentle chastisement, his eyes still sparkling with glee. “Ask me nicely.”

“Ask you to what?”

“To break you,” he says bluntly. “Like you’ve been begging for since you met me.”

You close your eyes, throwing your head back into the plush carpet. “Please, Seonghwa,” you practically sob. “Break me, please. Just…use me.”

“Until you beg me to stop?”

“And beyond.”

He moans, clearly unintentional and the pressure on your stomach increases as he moves his hand downwards towards your heat. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

His hand cups your pussy, finally; the movement, the small pressure sends shockwaves through your body like a current. He laughs; uses his other hand to pin you down by the waist as he plunges two fingers inside you. You cry out, loud and pained and feverish, but he doesn’t respond; just works you open fervently and methodically. It’s procedural, clinical, clearly nothing more than a means to an end as his need to fuck you himself reached boiling point—but he’s still so careful. So tender, somehow, despite the strength of his arms and movements. Like he somehow knows your body so well he doesn’t even have to be careful.

“You’ll get my cock now,” he says, reaching to pull it from his robe. “And you’ll cum, first time I tell you to, with it pressed up nice and firm against your g-spot. Want that?”

You hesitate for a second, like you’re not sure how to answer but he doesn’t stop; just slaps your face softly enough that it somehow feels tender. “You know what to say if you don’t.”

It hurts going in, of course; you’re not certain how he compares size-wise with your husband, but you never really got to the point of it mattering with him. It was always a chore, for both of you; something to be endured, not enjoyed.

With Seonghwa, it feels like something to be worshipped. When he finally presses in all the way it’s a dizzying feeling; full, stuffed, stretched out yet in some ways the most comfortable you’ve ever been. It feels right; even the stretch; the little bit of pain that the pleasure can’t quite drown out. It feels natural.

You can tell he feels it too; you hear his breath sucked into his chest, feel his grip on your hips tighten as he bottoms out, hips stuttering like he can’t handle it. You know he can, of course; he has to. You both do.

“I’m gonna go slowly,” he says. “For a little while. You want me to speed up, you’ll earn it.”

“How?” You ask; it comes out as more of a moan, or a breathy whine.

“By coming for me,” he says. “You earn my seed, and you earn the effort it takes for me to give it to you. You think I agreed to do this out of duty?”

The movements start slow, just as he promised, but they’re deep and powerful and the restraint he’s still clinging to is evident in each one. His brows are furrowed, gaze locked on you like he’s monitoring your responses; looking for the smallest sign that you’re uncomfortable, that he needs to stop—or that he needs to go harder.

“I don’t do this out of duty,” he continues. His tone is a little biting now; mocking, even, condescending in the most delicious way. “It helps, sure, but that’s not why. Do you know why I did this?”

The first hard, quick thrust makes you choke but still you force the word out, rough and spluttered but out nonetheless. “Why?”

“Because I like making pretty things fall apart on my cock,” he says. “I like to make them shatter. And you’re the prettiest thing I’ve seen in all my years.”

That’s what does it, somehow; the filth of the actual words and the adoring way he says them, like praise or prayer as much as degradation, pushes you just far enough over the edge that you can take yourself the rest of the way. He notices; sees the way your thighs clench around him, walls clinging tighter to his cock as it moves in and out. “You wanna come already?” He asks. “You’re that desperate?”

“Please,” you sob. “Need to.”

“Do it,” he says. “Do it and I’ll fuck you properly. Show you what it’s like to be with a man who knows how to take. Go on, your majesty.”

Of all the things you thought could make you fully come undone, you never imagined it would be the title that’s followed you like a curse since you were first married—here you are, though, entire body convulsing as the pent-up tension and pressure of years without satisfaction falls from you like liquid, squeezing around his cock. It makes him cry out, too, but his resolve is stronger; you can tell he hasn’t come yet nor does he intend to. Where would be the fun in that, you suppose, to a man who’s explicitly said he wants to break you?

“My God,” he curses, hushed. “My god, baby. Covering me. Covering the floor, fuck.”

“Wh—fuck, what happened?” You’re panting, gasping for breath and he’s still fucking you, although the pace has slowed some while he seems to process what’s just happened.

His smile is downright dangerous. Like a predator, victorious but still hungry for more. “You squirted, honey. Like a perfect purebred whore. And you’re going to do it again.”

“I don’t know if I, fuck, if I can.”

“I do,” he says. “And I know you will. More than once, until you earn the right to be bred. Say you understand.”

You nod, biting down on your lip to hold in another cry and he frowns, displeased. A hand, rough, calloused, wraps around your throat with enough pressure to make you dizzy. “I said, say it,” he hisses. “Say you understand.”

“I understand,” you choke. “Please, Seonghwa, I can’t—”

He lets you go, a little alarmed at the way you gasp for breath for a second but it quickly fades. He swallows, grabbing your hips again with both hands and using the leverage to slam himself into you again. “I’m not done with you,” he grunts. “You’re going to take it until I’m satisfied and you don’t have a fucking choice.”

His thumb presses down on your clit, rubbing small, firm circles on the swollen nub and making you hiss in pleasure. You’ve never been touched there before, not really; only small, fleeting brushes as you tried to work yourself open for your husband.

Certainly never like this. Your hips buck, body chasing his touch. His other hand forces you back to the ground with an unsparing grip. “Don't be greedy,” he scolds. “You get what I give you, baby, be patient.”

You groan, half pleasure and half displeasure. You don’t want to be patient. You want more. You want to be greedy; consequences be damned. You want to take—you want him to give.

“More,” you beg—demand, really. He certainly takes it as one.

He pulls his hand away and brings it back down in a sharp slap. You scream, louder than you’ve screamed before—and you cum. Again. From having your clit smacked like a cheap whore. From being treated like someone’s mistress.

“Disgusting,” Seonghwa says, looking down at the mess that coats the rug—and his dick—once again. “Can’t control yourself, can you?” He bucks his hips, then again, so hard it feels like revenge. “You could do with some training. Learn how to obey your betters, hm?”

If Seonghwa’s words somehow aren’t a violation of everything you’ve been taught and raised to believe your entire life, yours certainly are. “Please,” you whisper. “I need it.”

“Good girl,” he smiles. “Can you take more?”

“More what?”

“Orgasms, honey. Did you really think two would be enough? We need a big, strong boy to take the burden off our poor king. That’s at least three, don’t you think?”

“But I can’t.”

The thrusts slow, then stop. He says nothing. Stares at you for a second like he’s waiting for you to say the word—to call for mercy. You don’t.

“It seems like you can,” he says. “Come on, your majesty. We’re going to have a son, whether you like it or not.”

He’s true to his words; two more orgasms are pulled from you with what feels almost like physical force before he finally releases inside you; fills you to the brim with a shout. It’s a dizzying feeling, but after four orgasms you’re barely conscious enough to appreciate it.

You wake up in his arms some time later. You’re in the other bedroom, curled up beneath thick sheets. He’s cradling you like a newborn child with a gaze just as soft.

“How do you feel?” He asks.

“I—” Your voice breaks a little, cracking beneath the weight of everything. Everything you’ve done tonight; everything you’ve discovered and realised and become.

That you can never have this with your husband; this peace, this connection. That if this works, eventually, you may never have to.

The tears are streaming before you can stop them, dampening his chest where you bury your face in it. He pulls you closer, arms tightening around you, but says nothing. Like he was expecting this. Like it was inevitable.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “You’re okay.”

Your words are mumbled into his chest, still dazed and half asleep. The tears have stopped now, as quickly as they came. “Do you think it worked?”

“Perhaps,” he replies. “And if it didn’t…”

You sniffle. “If it didn’t?”

“Then I’ll just have to fuck you again,” he says; you hear the smile in his voice. “Over and over until you have enough sons to fill a castle.”

You sigh, nodding sleepily, and let yourself relax again. Let go of your weight and your life and give it all to him, just for the night. Just until he tells you it’s time to go.

Maybe if you weren’t so fucked out and exhausted, you wouldn’t let yourself feel so at home like this; in his arms, strong and protective like your husband was always too ill to be.

And perhaps if Seonghwa weren’t so greedy, he wouldn’t hold you tighter, like he can’t bear to ever let you go, and pretend, just for a moment, that you really do belong to him.

Maybe.

—

[rainbowbutterfrosting]

Anyway, I've broken down the video into more easily digestible clumps under the cut. Time stamps and me yelling at him included.

0:42 "There's been a lot of different clashing labels and opinions about me on the internet over the past year; the loudest of which (on both sides of the fence) have been quite unhealthy, stemming from accusations made about me from just over a year ago."

Really crazy how he says "accusations" like he didn't confirm it on Twitter when it initially happened.

It's also interesting how he says "unhealthy," it's almost like he's calling the people saying it unhealthy, rather than his own actions.

0:53 "I'm not here to drop any bombshells- I don't want to reopen any old discussions. I responded to the situation in February of last year and I still stand by everything I said in that statement."

So we've gone from "accusations" to standing by his own statement. Ah okay.

1:05 "I understand it was misinterpreted by some people, probably due to my wording."

Oh okay. "Accusations" -> standing by his own statement -> OTHER people misinterpreted (well then why couldn't he make a follow up post of some kind?)

1:09 "I know some people are still looking for clarity- especially nowadays, where personal transparency is more common amongst content creators than it's ever been before.

Don't be shy, just say you were held accountable!

Also why is he saying "more common" "than it's ever been before" like that sldfkjs. It sounds like he's talking about a disease rather than being a decent human being.

1:17 "However, this clarity (the clarity I've offered to my close friends and my family) would mean publicly sharing deeply personal parts of my private life and my relationships with the internet. I've never been comfortable doing that and I don't believe that should be the cost of being understood."

You'd almost imagine that after about a year and a half of being radio silent, that he might've been comfortable at this point? But yeah no worries, Wilbur, because you don't need to post publicly!!! You don't need to have a platform!!

But gosh, he's so concerned about the audience having clarity. I'm 1:30 into the 6 minute video, I sure do hope the majority of the video isn't promotion. (Subtle foreshadowing)

But anyway, back to the video

1:32 "All I can say is that the labels that have been attributed to me by social media are not true, and I don't accept them."

Don't be shy, explain which labels. Say them.

1:39 "I don't believe in this expectation that content creators should use their platforms to attack and defend."

I love how he's using "attack and defend" to better portray himself as a wounded victim, rather than DIRECTLY hurting people to make them victims.

It's also funny how he's implying that he naturally deserves the right to be a content creator, and thus he shouldn't have to justify any of his actions ever, even if they were (by definition) harmful to others.

1:46 "I definitely don't think [attacking and defending on social media is] how serious accusations should be handled."

Well no, you don't believe in handling serious "accusations" in general. Don't be shy, mention any details about what happened. Imply a LITTLE bit about what you're referring to.

It's interesting how he's using the word "accusation" to escape any responsibility. It's like he's trying to gaslight people into thinking it never happened/was all a lie??

1:50 "I felt this way for a really long time now, having seen other content creators go through similar situations."

Don't be shy, mention what other content creators or kinds of situations. Are you referring to ones that were able to prove that it was a lie? Or are you referring to ones that took advantage of vulnerable people and didn't respect their boundaries, then expected complete respect on their platform?

I also enjoy another use of "situation." Maybe he got tired of saying "accusation" 10 trillion times, but the word has the exact same meaning lmaoo.

And btw, in case anyone thinks I'm being too sensitive about the literal meanings of words he's saying, I think he knows full well what kind of language he's using. In case anyone forgot, he really enjoyed writing/things having deep, philosophical meanings (him writing that dsmp fanfic, his fake crash outs, general monologues, etc.) So in my opinion, it's incredibly unlikely he's using these words by accident.

1:55 "I know it's not a perspective that's going to satisfy everyone, but it's one I can get behind, and I hope that makes sense to you."

No yeah, it makes sense. You're using this as a justification of your own actions so you don't view yourself in the wrong!!

Also "I hope that makes sense to you" sounds really... pathetic. More subtle victim card imo. He gets to sound innocent if people don't get it.

2:01 "None of this is me trying to dig up or dwell on the past here."

Nono, this isn't about "dwelling on the past." This is about acknowledging the actions he decided to take that ended up with people being hurt.

This feels like explaining basic morality to a toddler.

2:04 "I would just feel very strange if I carried on without at least acknowledging the past year."

Nah, I think it's common knowledge that people would be ???!!!! to coming back after 2 years of no uploads and very limited communication (RIGHT after the Shelby situation happened).

He just wants to point to the video and be like, "Look, I handled it there!!" Where he only calls the abuse a "situation" or "accusation" which links back to his Twitter where he's vague and "misinterpreted."

2:10 "All I can do now is move forward, and I hope you enjoy what I've been working on-"

Not gonna put any more. He's promoting Lovejoy and his channels for the most part.

He won't do much Minecraft anymore.

And small correction to my meme, he did say sorry once!! Oh um- it was about not playing Minecraft, not a serious apology or anything like that :)

[stellaspectral]

Smitten Isn’t the Half of It (fluff)

💜 Bayverse Donatello/Female Reader 💜

A/N: Sequel to Shell Shocked and Smitten!

I’d normally post this type of story to AO3. However, since it’s a direct sequel to a request made here on Tumblr, I felt it was only right to share it with you all on this platform first. So please don’t mind the length; I really wanted to dig into Donnie and the reader’s relationship, build it up, and give it a (hopefully) satisfying resolution.

I’m dedicating this fic to @coffeemarie25 💜🐢

Enjoy!! 😊

CWs: Mostly fluff, with a later scene depicting some brief descriptive violence as well as harassment and verbal threats/intimidation. All characters are aged-up.

You wake up to the smell of coffee and the faint, unmistakable aroma of pizza leftovers.

Sunlight filters through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes. For a moment, you just lie there, cocooned in your blanket, trying to remember why your cheeks feel warm and your stomach feels weirdly fluttery. Then you remember the giant mutant turtles in your living room last night.

You sit up, squinting into the fuzzy void of your room. You reach for your glasses on the nightstand, put them on, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. Outside, in the hallway, you hear movement. Light footfalls, like someone is trying very hard to move quietly.

You dress, pulling a casual loose sweatshirt over your tank top, and pad out of your room. You peek around the corner—and see Donnie in the kitchen. On the counter in front of him is what appears to be the busted electric kettle, completely disassembled, along with some tools.

“Oh,” you say, your voice still thick with sleep. “You’re doing surgery on the kettle.”

Donnie startles and looks up fast, glasses slipping down his snout, his eyes widening behind the lenses. “You’re awake! Uh, hi.” He waves—awkwardly, adorably—then glances at the kettle. “Yeah, sorry. April said it shorted out last week, and I thought I’d try to fix it while we were waiting for you to wake up. I didn’t mean to just … commandeer your countertop.”

You blink. “You brought tools?”

“Always,” he says. “Never know when you’ll need a micro-soldering iron.” There’s a few beats of silence, and then he says, “Your mascara’s not smudged this time.”

You blink. He looks immediately mortified, like his mouth opened before he could stop it.

“I—I didn’t mean that like that. I just—last night—I mean, not that you looked bad, you just looked … sad. But now you don’t. You look … better? Not that you didn’t look good before, because you did, I just meant—”

You hold up a hand, chuckling. “Donnie. Stop. It’s okay.”

He clamps his mouth shut and rubs at the back of his neck, clearly fighting the urge to disappear into his own shell. “April made coffee before she left for work,” he says, nodding towards the pot.

You head for the kitchen, grateful for the distraction—for both your sakes. “Coffee sounds great.”

You’re acutely aware of his presence, the sheer size of him filling your small kitchen. He’s hunched over the counter as he works. But even then, his shell brushes the bottom of the overhead cabinets. It’s a space clearly not built for six-foot-plus mutant turtles. You grab your favorite mug—the oversized one with a grumpy cat on it—and prepare your coffee.

Leaning your hip against the counter, you blow on the steam rising from the mug. “You always fix random appliances when you crash at someone’s place? Because I’ve got a blender that screams when I use it.”

He laughs softly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. “The screaming is probably a high-frequency oscillation from worn motor bearings,” he explains, not missing a beat. His long, three-fingered hands move with surprising dexterity, re-seating a tiny component inside the kettle’s base. “I could probably fix that, too. Might need to fabricate a new housing for the armature, though.”

You just stare at him, taking a sip of your coffee. “Right. Armature. So, is the patient going to live?” You gesture to the kettle.

A genuine, brilliant smile breaks out across his face. “Oh, definitely. It was just a blown thermal fuse connected to the auto-shutoff. Whoever designed this thing ran the wiring too close to the heating element’s primary coil. A simple design flaw, really. I’m rerouting it with some insulated wiring and replacing the fuse. It’ll be better than new.”

He says it all so fast, his hands gesturing excitedly, pointing out tiny components with the tip of a precision screwdriver. You lean in, utterly captivated. Not by the explanation—you didn’t understand a word after “thermal fuse.” But by the way his eyes light up, the way his voice loses its hesitant edge and gains a smooth, confident cadence.

He is completely in his element.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” you ask.

He pauses, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Yeah,” he says, his voice softer now. “Making things work. Figuring out the puzzle. It’s ... satisfying.” He picks up a small part with a pair of tweezers, his large hand impossibly delicate.

You watch his hands. They’re huge, powerful, covered in scaly green skin, and yet they move with the grace of a surgeon. A thought, unbidden and surprising, pops into your head: He has nice hands.

Before you can get any weirder, you hear your phone blaring its ringtone from your room. You jolt, nearly sloshing coffee over the rim of your mug. “Crap, sorry—hang on.” You set down the mug and hurry to your phone and check the ID: it’s your boss. You swipe to answer, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

“Hey, just checking if you’re still good for the meeting?” he says. “We moved it up to noon. Hope that’s not a problem.”

You wince; you’d forgotten all about it. “Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

“Great. Don’t forget the presentation slides.”

You mumble a thanks for the reminder and hang up. The second the call ends, your heart rate kicks up. Not from stress this time, but from the sudden realization that a very large, very genius turtle is still in your kitchen. You take a second to pull your hair up into a messy bun in the mirror before heading back out.

Donnie glances up when you return, head tilting just slightly like he’s checking your expression before asking, “Everything okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just work stuff. I’ve got a meeting soon.”

“Then I’ll get out of your hair. Just wanted to finish the kettle and—y’know, not be in the way.”

You open your mouth, then pause. In the way? The image of him at the counter, sleeves rolled (metaphorically) up, fingers busy and brow furrowed in concentration—it didn’t feel like in the way.

It felt like the opposite.

“You’re not,” you say before you can overthink it. “I mean, you’re not in the way. At all.”

He blinks at you, then lowers his gaze quickly, but not before you catch the shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks. That’s … nice to hear.”

After you finish your coffee, you rinse the mug out in the sink, hands working on autopilot while your mind spins in a thousand different directions—most of which are still stuck on the way Donnie smiled at you.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen that smile. He wore it last night too, right after you offered him a blanket and he pretended not to need one, even though it was obviously too cold in the living room. But this morning, in the clear light of day, it lands differently.

He lands differently.

You go back to your room to change. After throwing on a pair of slacks and a blouse, you swipe on a quick flick of eyeliner and check that your earrings match. You throw your laptop bag over your shoulder and head towards the apartment door with every intention of leaving for work.

But you hesitate, your hand hovering over the knob.

Your heart does that annoying thing again—light and fast, like it knows something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. Work is waiting. Slides, meetings, the usual chaos. But your head’s still half in the kitchen. With him.

With Donnie.

You glance over your shoulder to look at him still fiddling with the kettle. He’s talking softly to himself as he works. You’ve only known him for a single night, but it feels longer. Your chest tightens in that peculiar, fluttery way again. It’s ridiculous, you think, getting all twisted up over someone you just met.

Someone who, strictly speaking, shouldn’t exist. And yet, there he is. Filling your kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And maybe it is natural. At least, it feels that way.

You breathe out through your nose, a shaky little thing that sounds more like a sigh. Then you straighten up and turn the knob. Half open the door. “Hey,” you call over your shoulder, not looking back yet, “will you still be here when I get back?”

There’s a pause, then the sound of tools being set down. “You want me to stick around?”

You finally glance back, hand still on the doorknob. He’s standing a little taller now, watching you like he’s trying not to hope too much.

You smile, and it’s maybe too soft for how casual you’re pretending to be. “Yeah. If you’re not busy … I wouldn’t mind.”

Donnie tilts his head, and something warm flickers behind his eyes. “Then I’ll be here.”

You nod once, try not to beam like an idiot, and slip out the door before you can say anything more embarrassing. As you walk down the hall, your heart thuds and you feel a little breathless. Your mind should be on work, on presentations and deadlines.

But all you can think about is how he said I’ll be here.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator—partly because the elevator in your building is a coin toss of mechanical doom. But mostly because your brain needs the rhythm of movement to organize the chaos inside it. You wrap your fingers tighter around the strap of your laptop bag, boots echoing softly against the stairwell concrete, and try to will your pulse back to something approaching normal.

It doesn’t work.

You’re still thinking about him. Donatello.

Donnie.

There’s a warmth blooming under your ribs like a slow-burning ember, one that’s been growing since last night but feels incandescent now, after that moment by the door. The way he looked at you when he asked, You want me to stick around? Like the question itself was risky. Like the answer mattered more than it should.

You’re not someone who falls fast. Not usually. So why is your brain already replaying every second of this morning like some lovesick rom-com montage?

You don’t know what this is. Not yet. But as you step out on to the crowded street, one thought circles in your mind like a truth you’re still learning to hold.

You want to come home to him.

It’s been three weeks since the Great Turtle Invasion of your apartment, and somehow, life has settled into a weirdly comfortable new normal. They still crash at your place now and then, but they’ve also invited you to their lair more than once. Sure, it’s in the sewers—but who cares? You’d gladly put up with a few questionable smells if it means spending more time with Donnie.

You’re currently glaring at your laptop, which is displaying nothing but a black screen with a single, mocking, blinking cursor. “You will not defeat me,” you murmur to the inanimate object. “I have a deadline. My editor will turn me into a human pretzel if I don’t get these pages in soon.”

Your frustration must be radiating outwards, because a quiet voice cuts through your monologue of threats. “Technical difficulties?”

You turn to see Donnie standing there, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s ditched his suspenders for a simple tool belt slung low on his hips, and a pair of high-tech goggles are pushed up onto his forehead, nestled just above his purple bandana. Your heart, the traitorous organ, does a little flip-flop.

It’s been doing that a lot lately whenever he’s near.

“It’s dead,” you sigh, slumping in your seat. “Completely unresponsive. It’s like it saw my to-do list and decided to nope right out of existence.”

He comes closer, leaning over your shoulder to inspect the screen. You’re hyper-aware of his proximity, the solid presence of his arm just inches from yours, the way his shadow falls over you.

“It’s not dead,” he says, his voice a reassuring rumble next to your ear. “The boot sector is probably corrupted. A common but frustrating issue.” He straightens up, a thoughtful expression on his face. “May I?”

You nod, gesturing to the laptop with a sweep of your hand. “Be my guest. If you can save it, there’s a slice of chicken and mushroom pizza with Roma tomatoes in it for you.”

A small smile touches his lips. “A worthy prize.” He carefully picks up the laptop and carries it over to his workshop corner. “Come on,” he says, glancing back at you.

You follow him over, perching on a stool he keeps nearby as he sets the laptop down. He pulls a keyboard out from under the table, plugs cables into your computer, and his fingers fly across the keys. You watch, fascinated. You see the subtle ripple of muscle in his arms as he works, the sheer competence he exudes.

Donnie doesn’t need to tell you he’s smart; it’s clear in every precise movement, every quiet, confident keystroke.

“Okay,” he murmurs after a few minutes, not looking away from his screen. “I’m creating a partition to access the primary drive without engaging the corrupted boot file. Should be able to pull your data. What’s the name of the file you need?”

“Uh, ‘Final Draft - No Really This Time v.7’,” you say, feeling a little sheepish.

He chuckles, types for another moment, and then his monitor flickers with your desktop. You see your meticulously organized folders, your embarrassing desktop wallpaper of a cat in a shark costume, and the document you were just working on.

“Oh my god, you’re a wizard,” you breathe, relief washing over you in a powerful wave.

“Just a humble technician,” he says, but you see the pleased dark-green flush creep up his neck. “Would it be … presumptuous of me to run a diagnostic on the file itself? Just to make sure the crash didn’t damage it.”

“Okay,” you agree, your heart thumping from how close you are.

He does his thing, running a scan to check the file’s integrity. “All clear. I should probably scan your other documents, just in case, before we move on to the data back-up.”

You nod, resting your elbows on the table as you watch him. “Sure. You’ve already rescued my career once today. Might as well make it a two-for-one.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, that warm little chuckle you’ve come to recognize that’s equal parts flattered and bashful. His fingers tap out a few more commands on the keyboard. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to.

“So,” you ask, voice quieter now, “do you do this for all your friends? Tech support, appliance resurrection, emotionally delicate computer interventions?”

He tilts his head without looking up, but you see the smile tug at the corner of his mouth again. “Only the ones I like.”

You blink, a beat skipping in your chest. “Oh.”

That tiny smile turns into something wider, more open, but still shy. “Was that … too much?” he asks, finally glancing sideways at you. His hazel eyes catch the low light, and for a moment, you forget to breathe.

You shake your head slowly, lips curling upward. “No,” you say, just above a whisper. “It was exactly right.”

The silence that follows is calm. Safe. He doesn’t move away, and neither do you. Your knees are almost touching now, and you don’t bother shifting to create space—because you like this space. You like him in this space.

He clears his throat, inputting the last command. “There. All files are safe, diagnostics clean. Your laptop lives to sass you another day.”

“My hero,” you murmur, with a smile you don’t bother hiding.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and he sounds a little proud. A little nervous. A little like he wants to say more.

“Donnie,” you say, and you reach out, placing your hand over his on the table. His skin is cool and smooth, and his hand stills completely under yours. He slowly turns his hand over, his fingers curling gently around yours. His palm is surprisingly soft.

His eyes meet yours. There’s no witty retort, no technical explanation. There’s just a quiet understanding that crackles in the space between you.

“Thank you,” you say, and you know you’re not just talking about the laptop anymore.

“Anytime,” he breathes as his thumb sweeps softly across the back of your hand.

You look at his kind, intelligent face, at the way his shy smile is starting to bloom. And you realize with a sudden, startling clarity that you’re not just crushing on the giant turtle who is good with computers. You’re falling for him.

Hard.

Donnie is a portrait of intense concentration, his brow furrowed and his hands a blur of motion over a tangle of wires and circuit boards at his makeshift workshop. A sharp sizzle, followed by a frustrated grunt that he probably thinks is silent, finally makes you give up the pretense of reading the book in your lap.

“Everything okay over there, Edison?” you ask from your perch on your apartment couch.

He looks up, pushing his glasses up his nose. The intensity in his hazel eyes softens when they land on you. “I’ve hit a snag. I’m trying to recalibrate the shell-cell communicators I recently invented, but the amplification circuit keeps overloading. For the regulator coil, I need a more resilient filament. Niobium-titanium alloy, preferably.” He says this as if he’s asking for a simple cup of sugar.

You blink. “Right. Niobium-whatsit. And you don’t have that back at the lair?”

A dark green flush, which you’ve come to adore, creeps up his neck. “Well, no.”

You stand up and stretch. “So, where does one procure this magical filament?”

He pulls up a map on his wrist-mounted device, projecting a holographic display into the air between you. “There’s an old electronics surplus store downtown. Al’s Electronic Wonderland. According to their online inventory—which is shockingly well-maintained for a place that still uses a dot-matrix printer for receipts—they have three spools in stock.”

“Consider it a noble quest,” you say, grabbing your coat. “I shall venture forth and retrieve thy filament.”

His face clouds over with a worry so profound it seems to physically weigh him down. He takes a step toward you, his enormous frame suddenly blocking the path to the door. “Wait. You’re going alone? Right now?” he asks as you zip up your coat.

“It’s the middle of the afternoon, Donnie,” you say, trying to sound more casual than you feel under his intense, concerned gaze. “I’ll be fine.”

“That doesn’t matter,” he insists, his voice low and serious. “I’ve been monitoring the Foot’s comms chatter. They’ve been more active in that sector for the last forty-eight hours. It’s not safe. Let me go. Or at least wait until nightfall and I can come with you.”

You reach out and place a hand on his arm. “You need to finish this,” you say, nodding towards his project. “And I refuse to let anyone intimidate me into not running an errand in my own city. I’ll be quick. In and out.” You give his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I promise. I’ll be careful.”

He searches your face for a long moment, his jaw tight. You can see the internal battle playing out behind his glasses—the logician warring with the protector. Finally, he lets out a slow breath. “Okay,” he says, the word heavy with unease. “But make sure you take your phone. And call me if anything—I mean anything—seems off.”

You nod, curling your fingers around the edge of his arm a moment longer before stepping back. “Deal,” you breathe, and his hand hovers midair for a second—like he wants to pull you back—but doesn’t.

You grab your phone and keys, tucking them into your bag as Donnie returns reluctantly to his workstation. Opening the door, you pause, catching his gaze for a moment. You give him a reassuring smile before slipping into the hallway.

You find Al’s Electronic Wonderland tucked behind a row of shuttered shops. You step inside, the bell above the door chiming. Al—according to his nametag—is sitting behind the counter. He waves at you without looking up from his crossword puzzle book.

You find the filament quickly, tucked in a bin near the back of the store. You grab them all and head to the front.

“Fancy stuff,” Al grunts. “You building a death ray or somethin’?”

Now that you think about it, you’re not sure if Al might be kidding or not. “Something like that,” you say with a smile that’s meant to be disarming.

You pay cash, not wanting to deal with the ancient card reader, and leave with the spools secured in your bag. Quest successful!

You check the time on your phone; the sun is dipping lower in the sky. You decide to take a shortcut through a familiar alley to shave a few minutes off your walk home, your mind already set on seeing Donnie’s smile when you present him with your bounty.

The alley is empty, cast in the long shadows of dusk. Your footsteps echo off the brick walls. Halfway through, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision makes you tense. You slow your pace, your heart beating a little faster. Probably just a stray cat, you try to convince yourself.

Then a figure drops from a fire escape in front of you, landing in a silent crouch. Another emerges from the deep shadows of a dumpster behind you. Before you can say anything, two more step out from recessed doorways, effectively boxing you in. They are all dressed in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by menacing masks.

The Foot Clan. You’ve only seen them on the news reports April showed you, grainy footage of black-clad blurs. They’re much more terrifying in person.

Your heart launches itself into your throat, Donnie’s warning screaming in your head. I should have listened. Oh god, I should have listened!

“Look what we have here,” one of them rasps, his voice distorted by the mask. He takes a step forward. “A little lamb, lost from her flock.”

You take a step back. “I’m just … heading home,” you say, voice even but pitched loud enough to carry. “I don’t want any trouble.” Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling for your phone.

The leader chuckles, a dry, humorless sound. “You’ve been seen with them. The freaks.” He tilts his head. “We think you know where to find them. And you’re going to tell us.”

Your blood runs cold. This isn’t a random mugging. They know. They’ve been watching you. Watching the apartment. Your fingers finally close around your phone. Donnie’s contact is on speed dial; you just need a second.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you lie, pulling your hand from your bag, trying to keep the phone concealed in your palm.

“Liar.” The word is a hiss. The ninja in front of you lunges. You cry out as his hand clamps down on your wrist, his grip like iron. The one behind you grabs your other arm, wrenching it back. Your bag drops to the ground, your phone clattering beside it.

“No!” you yell, struggling against them.

The leader stoops down, ignoring your bag, and picks up your phone. He glances at the screen, which is still lit up. A cruel smirk is audible in his voice. “Look at this. Speed dial for ‘Donnie.’ How sweet.” He holds the phone up. “Let’s call him, shall we? Let him hear you scream.”

Panic, white-hot and absolute, sears through you. Before he can press the button, you do the only thing you can think of. You stomp down, hard, on the foot of the ninja holding your arm. He grunts in pain, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second. It’s enough. You wrench your arm free, pivot, and slam your elbow into the mask of the one behind you.

It’s a clumsy, desperate move, and it buys you maybe two seconds before they’re on you again. One of them pushes you to the ground. As the leader raises your phone to his masked face, a sound cuts through the alley—a high-pitched whistle, followed by a thunderous CRACK.

Something long and wooden smashes into the leader’s hand. Your phone goes flying, skittering across the ground. The ninja cries out, stumbling back.

Donnie is between you and them, his staff held ready. He rises to his full, intimidating height, his face a mask of cold fury you’ve never seen before. This isn’t the gentle tinkerer from your kitchen. This isn’t the shy genius who blushes when you smile at him.

“Let. Her. Go,” he snarls, his voice a low, rumbling growl.

For a second, the Foot soldiers just stare, momentarily stunned by the sudden appearance of a giant turtle warrior. Then, recovering, they draw their weapons.

What happens next is a blur. Donnie moves with a speed that seems impossible for his size, deflecting, blocking, and striking his opponents. There’s the thwack of wood against bone, the grunt of a ninja being thrown against a brick wall, the sharp clang of a sword being sent flying.

And in less than a minute, it’s over. Two ninjas are unconscious on the ground. The other two, including the leader, scramble away, disappearing into the shadows like the cockroaches they are.

The sudden silence is deafening. The only sounds are your own ragged breathing and the heavy, controlled breaths from Donnie. He stands over the fallen ninjas for a second, staff held tight, making sure they’re no longer a threat.

Then, he turns to you.

The fury on his face vanishes in an instant, replaced by a wave of raw, undisguised terror. In two long strides, he’s in front of you in a crouch, his large hands hovering over your arms, your face. As if he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice cracking. “Did they hurt you?” His eyes, wide and frantic, scan every inch of you.

You can only shake your head, your voice caught in your throat. Now that the adrenaline is fading, you’re starting to tremble. “I’m—I’m okay,” you manage to whisper. “You came.”

“Of course I came,” he chokes out. His hands finally land on your shoulders, his touch incredibly gentle. “I was tracking your phone’s GPS since you left the store. I saw you turn into the alley and I just … I had a bad feeling.” His voice drops, thick with emotion. “When I saw them … when they had you …” He can’t finish the sentence. He just shakes his head.

You look up at him, at this brilliant, brave, terrified turtle who just fought off four trained assassins for you. And all the feelings you’ve been trying to keep neatly packed away just spill over.

“Donnie,” you breathe, and you reach up, your hand cupping his cheek. His skin is cool and smooth. He leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “I was so stupid,” you murmur. “I should have listened to you.”

“No,” he says, his eyes opening, pinning you with their intensity. “No, this is my fault. I never should have let you go alone. I knew it was a risk. I can’t …” He swallows hard. “I can’t let anything happen to you. I just … can’t.”

There it is. In his voice, in his eyes. More than friendship. More than protective instinct. It’s the same feeling that’s been taking root in your own chest for weeks.

“Why?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper, though you already know the answer.

You just need to hear it.

He looks down at your arm—at the hand cradling his face—then back to your eyes. The last of his warrior’s facade crumbles, leaving only the shy, brilliant, wonderful Donnie you’ve come to know. A blush spreads across his cheeks.

“Because,” he says, his voice soft and trembling slightly. “Because you listen when I talk about armature housings, or filament conductivity thresholds, or the proper decibel range for ultrasonic echolocation calibration—and you don’t laugh. You ask questions, you care. You see me, not just the shell, and …” He gestures vaguely at himself. “… all this.”

Your heart stutters, then gallops. You blink fast, trying not to cry—because crying now would just ruin everything, and this moment is already teetering on the edge of perfection.

He gently clasps your hand, still cupped against his cheek, holding it there like it’s something sacred. “I’ve been in a thousand close calls,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “but nothing has ever scared me like the thought of losing you.”

That’s it.

That’s the line that snaps something loose in your chest. All the fear, all the tension, all the guarded caution you’ve held onto around him dissolves like mist.

“I was scared too,” you say, your other hand joining the first, framing his face. “Scared of what I was feeling. Of how fast it was happening. Of how real you are to me. But now? I’m just scared of not saying it.”

His brow creases in a mix of hope and awe. “Saying what?”

“That I’m falling for you. All the way. No backup plan. No buffer.”

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. His eyes search yours like he’s trying to make sure this is real. That you’re real. That he heard you right.

And then he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days, his shoulders slumping in relief. “You’re not the only one,” he says. “I’ve been falling since the second you offered me a blanket and told me my goggles were cool.”

You laugh—a shaky sound—and he leans down, just a little, just enough.

“The truth is,” he says, pausing to take a shuddering breath, before continuing, “I don’t think I’m merely just falling for you, I think—no. I know I’m falling in love with you.”

Your heart stops. And then it starts again, a wild, soaring thing in your chest. Tears prick your eyes, but they’re not from fear. They’re from a joy so overwhelming it feels like it might burst out of you.

“For the record,” you whisper, your lips just inches from his, “I’m in love with the way you get flustered when I compliment you. And the way you make me feel safe, even when I’m being an idiot. And because you have the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

His breath catches, and for a moment, neither of you moves.

Then, he leans in the rest of the way, and your lips meet.

The world goes quiet. No more distant sirens, no more thudding adrenaline in your ears. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours—soft, tentative, and so achingly real. His hands frame your face like you’re something rare and precious, and your fingers curl gently at the edges of his shell. It’s a kiss full of all the things he can’t say fast enough.

And everything you didn’t know how to ask for until now.

You kiss him back, slowly, deliberately, and you feel the tension in his body melt. When you finally part, you stay close, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in.

“So,” you murmur with a small smile, “was that a diagnostic, or a full system reboot?”

He lets out a breathy, amazed laugh. “Definitely a reboot. System’s online. Possibly overheating.”

You giggle softly, and the sound makes his entire expression light up again. His thumb brushes along your jaw, reverent and unhurried. “I meant what I said,” he whispers. “I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

“I know,” you say. And you do.

You believe him.

He helps you to your feet, carefully checking you over again, his touch featherlight but lingering. You brush the dirt off your coat and retrieve the fallen bag. He reclaims your phone from the ground, wipes it clean with a cloth from his belt, and hands it to you with a sheepish look.

“Still works,” he says. “Unlike my circulatory system. Pretty sure it shorted out when you kissed me.”

“Better get used to that,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder as you both turn toward the street.

He offers you his hand, and you take it, linking your fingers with his. Together, you start walking back towards your apartment. There’s no rush.

Because Donnie’s hand in yours feels like the beginning of everything.

[spidermans-l-o-v-e-r]

Disco Inferno

Pairing: Buck x Reader

Word count: 3.9k

Notes: How many is this? 3 of 5? Gee I hope so because I’m really trying to make my goal lmao

P.S I’m posting this from the Doctors office and I did NOT reread this

To promote “Teamwork” throughout the L.A.F.D., the Mayor decided a little “Exchange Program” was the answer. Every firehouse was basically supposed to trade one person from their team “to the left” (Buck sang it for days) for the entire summer. Accommodations were made for each member being traded in whatever city they would be in; sometimes, you ended up with a roommate or three.

In Buck’s case, he ended up all on his own. It was a sleepy little town, tranquil, with very little to do honestly. They mostly helped out neighboring cities with fires.

Buck had been chosen for the totally not incredibly painful reason of, he didn’t really have much of a life to leave behind for the summer. Eddie promised he’d take care of the loft… water his plants, feed his new fish Danny, and watch over you.

They said that since his relationship was kinda new…and he didn’t technically? Have a family to stay with that mayyyybe he was the best bet. The first thing he’d done was say he was going to talk to you about it. Because though you’d only been official for a couple of months… something like this could really make or break the relationship.

It was down to Buck, or Hen. Eddie needed to stay close to Chris, Chim and Maddie had just had the baby, and Bobby wasn’t an option.

Hen had literally cornered him in the station and begged him to take the position, she knew it was going to be hard and she felt sorry, she really really did. But she needed to stay with her wife and kids and Buck knew in his heart that it was going to be him going.

“What do you we think huh? Huhh? Pretty sweet right?!”

Buck held up the camera for you, showing you the sparse decorating he’d done, and the succulent you’d made him take with him. He’d put up a few movie posters, set up one of his favorite lamps, and brought like 15 squishmallows with him.

The place overall is pretty nice even if it lacks character. The one-bedroom bathroom apartment isn’t nearly as nice as his loft but it’s cozy and has hardwood floors. The kitchen was also small but really pretty. The stove alone makes Buck somewhat less stressed and more excited for his anxiety baking to impress his new crew for the summer.

He gives you a little tour of the place, there’s a comfy-looking black sofa and a matching armchair. The entertainment center is dark-stained wood with a nice-sized TV and a matching coffee table. The first and only bedroom in the place is definitely homier, Buck put up his own blackout curtains you’d gotten him as a gift and the blanket you made him was spread out on the king-sized bed.

That had been his request, making sure the bed was large enough to fit him and that his feet didn’t hang over for monsters to grab.

The bathroom is way nicer than you ever expected. The shower alone is stunning and if they had any budget for this place it definitely went here. The glass walls sparkle with the glare of the sun coming through the small window.

“I can’t wait to shower in this thing. I hope you expect a very NSFW video that’s only not safe because I’m naked because I’m literally going to be showing this shower off.”

You laugh and stuff your pillow further under your chin.

“Isn’t your shower at home super nice too? I love your shower!”

“Okay, but it isn’t this shower. What are you doing tonight?”

“Literally nothing” You shrug and he grins

“Perfect! I have to shower tonight so I’ll FaceTime you! Maybe if you wanted… you could go over to my place? And we could shower together. You know since you love my shower oh so much.”

“You want me to go to your apartment while you’re not there and take a shower with you on the phone?”

“That’s exactly what I want”

You’re not sure if he meant to make that face, or if he meant for his tone to drop an octave but the way he holds your stare for a second definitely confirms he totally did and now you’re just trying not to be flushed.

“Yeah okay… I’ll get the key from Eddie later.”

“Perfect! Pack an overnight bag so you can stay!”

“I don’t know have a choice in this do I?” You shake your head with a smile and he smiles back.

“I purposely sprayed my bed with extra cologne and left my second favorite hoodie behind and sprayed that down too.”

“You left your second favorite hoodie for me?” You pout and your lip trembles and he smirks.

“It’s your favorite… shit my new boss is calling me. I’ll call you later okay? I lo-“ He stops for a second, because like.. is it time to say that? Does he feel that?? Or was it just automatic because he says it to everyone he normally calls??

You either don’t hear it or don’t acknowledge it and he’s grateful for that… he thinks?

“Okay baby, I’ll take to you later!”

He doesn’t hit the button first and there’s another pause where he doesn’t want to hang up at all and this whole thing was stupid and he should be there with you. You give him a sad little wave and blow him a kiss before hanging up.

Buck carefully sets his iPad up in the shower. There’s literally a little slot there for it so he can watch movies and shower but tonight he’s going to be the movie.

He takes his time setting up all his stuff in the shower niche and puts his towel on the book and the cute pink loofah you bought him on the inside hook and now he’s just messing with things because what if you can’t call? Even if you’d just texted five minutes ago that you were getting all your stuff together and would call him in a minute.

What if something happened? What if there was a fire? What if there was a fire he wasn’t there to put out?

He’s about to call Eddie to check on you when his iPad starts ringing. He stands to the side and sticks his face in front of the camera and answers it.

“Hello?”

You snort and toss your head back “Why are you standing like that?!” He makes faces in the camera and makes you look up his nose before pulling away and standing in front of the camera while you’re laughing.

“Hey bunny- I wanted to make sure you…were…”

His voice trails off as he takes in the sight before him and he’s not sure what he was expecting but it sure as hell wasn’t this. You’re not in the shower, you’re in the tub. You’ve got candles lining the edge and he knows you’ve got him on that little tub table he got you as a present.

None of that matters though, okay it does but god he has never hated bubbles more in his entire life which sucks because he loves bubbles. But you’ve somehow finagled them into the perfect little bubble top that hides those perfect breasts and he can already feel himself getting hard.

Your hair is in a sexy pile of curls on top of your head with some of them falling and he wants to tuck them behind your ear so badly… and then plow you over the side of the tub so hard all the water splashes out.

“I’m a little sore after work today so I thought a bath might be better. You don’t mind do you?”

“God no,” He says breathlessly and you giggle, sitting forward and the bubbles stay obnoxiously in place.

“How was your day? Did you get all settled in?” You smile and for a second his mind clears and his heart aches to kiss you after a long day. But the second you notice that look in his eye, the homesickness, you take matters into your own hands.

You push the bubbles out of the way and cup your breasts, pushing them into the camera and massaging them gently.

“Bucky baby?” You say sweetly and he’s gotta hold the shower niche to steady himself.

“Jesus fucking Christ” His eyes flash with an uncontrollable lust and he immediately stares at the floor making you laugh. You grin, crossing your arms under your breasts.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to put the bubbles back? Maybe cover up with a towel?” You start to look around for a washcloth and he throws his hands out.

“No!! No, no, no, this is perfect! So, so deliciously perfect.”

“Okay… did you get settled in okay?” You keep massaging them, squeezing the plump orbs, and giving them a little jiggle. Buck's eyes are glued to your nipples and you snicker.

“Evan”

His eyes snap up to yours and you lean forward in the camera, god he just wants to kiss you… or at least for you to push him down and take charge, he really can’t decide.

“Yes?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat, a sweet flush creeps up his neck and you giggle.

“Do I need to ask you again? Are you going to make me ask you again?”

It’s just the freaking way you say that that has him fully at attention… in more ways than one. He melts into a dreamy little puddle and he’s so sure you can see his knees shaking.

“No! N-no. I- I’m all unpacked, not that there’s much to unpack you know. But I got all my buddies set up and it’s actually super cute I should send you the picture later.”

“I’d love to see it! I’m glad you’ve settled in. Are you looking forward to dinner tomorrow?”

He sighs and for a minute he’s no longer distracted by your body but by the anxiety of meeting a new team and just trying to figure out where he belongs in it.

Stupid Mayor.

“Kind of? Not really if I’m being totally honest… I wish you were here to go with me at least. I wish Eddie was here too because he could come too and we’d be our own little group. But… I need him there with you. I need to know you’re safe.”

“You know he’s got me staying at his place three nights a week?”

Buck did know. He’s the one who hesitantly approached Eddie about it a week ago.

“He what??” He splutters and gestures wildly and you know immediately he had a hand in it… but fine. Whatever makes him feel better about having to go.

“Mhmm I’m due to sleep over tomorrow. We’re gonna be sharing a bed I hope that’s okay with you.”

“Hey, I fully trust my best friend.” His tone is firm and serious. “And I absolutely trust you. If my two favorite people who are adults have to share a bed that’s fine. I share one with Eddie all the time! It’s great you’re gonna fall in love. He doesn’t mind cuddling!”

You shake your head and giggle with him, running wet hands over your hair you smirk.

“I’m pretty sure he does mind cuddling. He just allowed you to because you’re you. We’re gonna set up some basic ground rules before bed tomorrow.”

“One of those rules is going to be it’s okay to cuddle” Buck crosses his arms over his chest childishly and you sink further into the water sassily.

“It’s really not.”

“You know what? Stay like that.” Buck hits a few buttons on his iPad and suddenly the phone is ringing you sink down to your eyes and Buck steps out of the camera for a minute.

“Uhh hello?” Eddie looks at his phone, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Are you alone?” Buck does his stupid nose camera thing again and you snort.

“I am… though I’m starting to not want to be oh my god get your fat nose out of the camera”

You come out of the water, the bubbles strategically placed and Buck steps into view, this time enough that it’s just his head and torso. Eddie chokes on his spaghetti and has to turn the camera away to die.

“What the fuck?!” He comes back on screen and downs half his water and Buck full-on ignores the dying part.

“You and Y/N are gonna be sharing a bed right?”

“Right??”

“And we’re going to have ground rules right?” You add

“Right…” Where the hell was this going?

“Is it okay to cuddle?” Buck has his arms back over his chest and you’re staring between the two of them and Eddie has to push his chair back and take a breath before he deals with the stupidity in front of him.

“You called me in the middle of… whatever the fuck this was. To ask me if one of the ground rules would be cuddling is okay??”

“Yes”

“Yup”

“Buck. Why would I cuddle with your girlfriend??”

“Because she’s pretty and cute and the sweetest thing ever and you can’t help but put your arms around her.” He could go on and on about all the ways he’s into you and all the ways Eddie should totally be into you but Eddie cuts him off.

“Buck I don’t- buddy I don’t think about your girlfriend like-“

Both you and Eddie fucking know the shit he’s pulling right now when his face immediately drops and he gets all pouty and wide-eyed. Eddie stops speaking for a second, looking over at you and you let your head drop onto your knees.

“Oh my god”

“Cuddling is on the table” Eddie throws his hands in the air and Buck's fist pumps.

“I fucking told you!” He yells out and your jaw drops

“Because you cheated!! And you know you did!!”

“I did no such thing” he sticks his tongue out at you and you’ve never been more upset he’s not close enough to strangle.

“You know what! Don’t come crying to me when Eddie wakes up with a hard-on pressed into my thigh.”

Eddie crumples in his seat with a strangled noise of embarrassment.

“Are you kidding me?” Buck scoffs “I would be dying to hear every detail of how you fixed it and expecting pictures.”

Your eyes do that cartoon thing? Where they pop out of your head and are just like massive circles and Eddie’s jaw falls so hard you hear it pop.

“Evan”

“Jesus Buck” Eddie is completely speechless and you’re both left floundering, mouths gaping and boy does that shoot the biggest thrill up Buck’s spine.

“Anyway… Cool cuddling is on the table. But in all seriousness Eddie if it wasn’t that’s totally okay. I’m just joking around I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable in that way.”

“It’s- no it’s. Uh- it’s fine” Eddie stutters over his words just trying to get something out. “I guess- uh you know in all seriousness I would have offered anyway, just to kinda comfort her… if you were cool with it man.”

“I am. I know my best friend will take care of my girlfriend while I’m gone.”

There is the wildest undertone to whatever the hell Buck is saying, there is a huge ass read between the lines shit happening here and Eddie shuts it down immediately. There’s no way in hell he’s thinking about doing things with his best friend’s girlfriend… in front of her face anyway.

Later that night, Buck receives a very long text detailing how Eddie thought the plan to seduce you was going better than they thought it would.

Anyway.

After a few very awkward goodbyes, it’s you and Buck on the phone again. Your cheeks are flushed a pretty pink from the conversation you’d just had and you’re a bit quieter now.

“What’s going through that pretty head of yours?” Buck wonders aloud as he turns on the shower. You lean forward and reach to pull the drain plug to make room for more hot water.

“I miss you”

He watches your body being unveiled to him inch by inch and he gets lost in it, all the perfect little dips and curves he loves to kiss so much.

“You wanna pick my bath bomb?” You reach forward again to turn on the hot water, your breasts in the camera, and Buck squeaks.

“Uhh sure?? Yeah sure why not?” You grab the basket and hold it in front of him, showing them all off and he gets easily distracted by the colorful set of bath bombs.

“I’m gonna be basic and pick intergalactic. I really like the color the water turns”

You take it out of the basket and aim the camera down at the water, his breath catches in his throat over the smooth expanse of your skin in the clear water. He hears you set the basket down and suddenly your hand slides down between your legs and you teasingly rub your lips before setting the bath bomb down and interrupting his little show.

“I hate you so much you know that” He rolls his eyes and you put the camera back up and give him a cute smile.

“Love you too honey!”

You lean forward again and pour some soap into the spout and a nice crowd of bubbles shows up again before you turn off the water.

He notices a distinct lack of your hands above the water like they had been earlier and he’s getting curious.

“Are we gonna do what I think we’re gonna do?”

“I think so…” you bite your lip playfully and he’s already embarrassingly close to making a mess all over this shower.

“Ladies first”

You smirk and push the table back some so he can see your body. He watches you slide your hand down your torso and between your legs and he’s cursing himself for picking such a dark-colored bath bomb. He shouldn’t have picked one at all really…

“You gonna be a good boy and rub your cock for me, baby?” You’re squirming in the water and it’s setting his body on fire again.

“My sweet baby Buck” Your voice is dripping with seduction and he’s fighting back all the embarrassing shit he wants to say “Come on, you can do it”

Bucks fist collides with the wall in front of him to keep himself steady and he groans softly, pumping his cock tortuously slow in time with your fingers.

You giggle and push the little table back all the way and scoop up some of the water letting it pour down your body. He watches the glittery streams flow between your breasts and over them and he moans.

“Oh god,” He pants as your fingers find your clit again, rubbing faster circles this time. Your other hand teases your breast, playing with your hard nipple and squeezing it between your fingers.

“Do that to your clit baby, lemme see you be mean to it.”

Your cheeks flush deeply and you spread your lips for him, letting him see your pulsing clit. You pinch it like he told you to, wincing at the pleasurable pain and he pumps his cock faster.

“Fuck I wanna taste you, I should come up there. It’s only a couple hours away…”

“Absolutely not” You pant, letting your head rest back against the rim of the tub “You have to be ready and well-rested for tomorrow and I don’t want to be the reason you don’t make a good first impression.”

“Hey, Buck? Why do you look so exhausted?” He makes his voice weird and high-pitched. “Oh just because I decided to go back home and fuck the brains out of my gorgeous girlfriend”

“You know in theory… I don’t- I mean I can work from home tomorrow.”

Buck knows you’d make the two-hour trip to see him, you’ll drive in the dark and get there and he can ravage you in any way he wants and he knows you’ll take it with a satisfied smile.

“I can’t ask you to do that, not at night. But- maybe this weekend?”

“I miss you,” you say again, and this time it feels different. His body was hot and ready and on the edge, raw with need… and he’d do anything to get to you.

He sighs deeply and looks at you with that winning smile, the one that had you saying yes to your first date and yes when he asked you to be his girlfriend

“Only a few more weeks, I promise”

His words hang heavy in the air for a minute and you sigh softly, smiling back finally and reaching forward.

“Guess I’ll be using my new boyfriend” You wave a little pink toy to the camera and the emotional roller coaster that’s been tonight suddenly goes right back up.

You show him the pastel pink suction toy and he whines and his hand is right back on his cock. You stand up on your knees and angle the camera down again and he’s drooling.

You run the tip around your clit and gasp, your hips shuddering a little and he moans with you.

“Keep it on your clit and turn it to your favorite setting. If you take it off I’m getting out of this shower and driving to you.”

“B-but-“

“Do you think I’m joking?”

He’s not, not with the way he stares at you so intensely you could cum just from that. You do as he says, picking your favorite setting with the pretty blue light and pressing it to your clit. You nearly double over and the water sloshes against the tub.

“Oh m-my god,” you grab the wall and he pumps his cock faster, in time with your sweet moans and writhing body. He can almost imagine being buried deep inside you. He doesn’t dare close his eyes either. He wants to, wants to moan into the wall and pretend it’s you against him and not the cold stone but then he’d miss the way that toy sucks and vibrates around your clit and the way your hips start to grind against it, twitching involuntarily.

Lowkey, he misses your strap too.

“Come on baby you’re so close for me, lemme see you cum I wanna watch you ruin yourself”

It’s like a dam breaks open and your orgasm comes rushing out. Your hips stutter and shake as you ride the toy between your legs. It sucks harder and vibrates faster when your hand accidentally slips on the button and you scream out Buck’s name. You can hardly hear him groaning your name as hot ropes of his cum coat the shower wall and he’s fucking his hand like a madman.

You gingerly plop back into the water and Buck stumbles back onto the bench, the hot water cascading down his chest and washing away the cum between his legs.

“Jesus fucking Christ” He pants harshly and you laugh deliriously through his iPad speakers.

“Only a few more weeks” you groan in distress and he snickers, letting his head fall against the tiles.

“I promise”

[ijustwannabecool]

White Flag - PT. 3

Charles Leclerc x Fem!Driver!Reader

Summary... Two exes on the same team. They broke up before the season started. Now they’re forced to work together through 23 races, 5 continents, and one very awkward off-season.

A/N: Thanks for your patience. Part 3 is a go. I've been really busy with work and my computer broke so I'm writing on my phone and its taking forever, but I'm back baby!!!!!! Enjoy all the magic ;)

Have a good day. Happy Reading and love ya. Thanks for being patient with me, my darlings :)

Request are open ;)

like, comment, reblog, enjoy!!!

Donate a matcha for $1-> Ko-Fi

Part 1 & Part 2 <- Read before you read this part :)

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Azerbaijan

The streets of Baku are slick with heat. Everything’s close here. Tighter than most. No space to breathe. No space to run.

You’ve been riding high for weeks.

Wins. Points. Glances in motorhome hallways. His hand on your lower back when no one’s watching. The kind of soft, secret love you never thought you'd feel again.

He brings you coffee most mornings. You steal his socks when you stay the night. He never says anything, just smiles when he finds them tucked in your bag.

So maybe you’re not prepared when it happens.

Maybe you forgot what it felt like to wonder where you stood.

-

Friday – Paddock Arrival

You’re walking toward the media center when you spot her.

Tall. Blonde. Sharp sunglasses. That curated, casual cool that only exes seem to perfect. A linen shirt just barelyunbuttoned, gold jewelry catching the sun like it knows exactly where the cameras are.

You know her name. Everyone does.

Élodie.

PR girl turned occasional model turned motorsport muse. A summer constant for Charles before you.

You saw her tagged in old photos. Monaco boat parties. Summer breaks before you existed in his world.

You don’t say anything.

Not at first.

You just watch from across the paddock.

And then you see it.

Her hand on his arm. His polite laugh. The way he doesn’t step back. The way he tilts his head like he’s listening to her.

And that?

That’s all it takes.

You don’t blow up.

You don’t flinch. You don’t storm over. You don’t start a scene.

You just take a breath that feels like fire and keep walking.

That night, when he texts, “Come over?”

You stare at the screen for ten full seconds.

Then type: “Think I’ll stay in tonight.”

He calls. You don’t answer.

You watch the phone ring until it stops, screen dimming like the end of a movie.

-

Saturday – Quali Day

You arrive early.

You’re all business. Head down. Hair up. Laps in. No smiles.

He arrives late.

Eyes tired. Jaw set. No music in his ears. No easy stride.

P1: You. P6: Him.

Your lap is perfect. Sharp. Controlled rage in the form of sector times.

His is messy. Missed braking. Flat-spotted tire. Distracted.

-

Ferrari Hospitality – Post-Quali

The room’s almost empty. Just you, your untouched pasta, and your laptop with your own lap overlay on replay.

He walks in, chest rising too fast, hands still stained from the gloves.

“You’re mad,” he says, not even sitting.

You stab at your food, not looking up. “I’m focused.”

“Focused, my ass,” he snaps, voice low but sharp. “You didn’t even look at me all morning.”

You drop the fork. “Fine. You want to talk? Let’s talk.”

He crosses his arms. “Please.”

You glare. “You smiled at her.”

“Who...Élodie?” He scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“She touched your arm.”

“She touches everyone’s arm.”

You stand. “And you let her.”

“She was saying hi.”

“She was testing you.”

His mouth parts. “Is that what this is about? Some harmless—”

You laugh once, bitter. “It’s never harmless. Not with her. Not when you used to love her. Not when the world saw it.”

He steps forward. “I didn’t want her then. I sure as hell don’t now.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you whisper.

He looks like he’s going to say something. Then stops.

It’s too quiet.

He exhales. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

You clench your jaw, still not convinced.

“And if I made you feel like that for even a second…” His voice cracks just slightly. “I’m sorry.”

It lands.

But not all the way.

“I need time,” you say.

He nods. “Then I’ll wait.”

-

That Night

You don’t go to his room.

But you pass it.

And you pause.

Just long enough for him to hear your steps outside the door.

He doesn’t open it.

But he texts you: “Still yours. Always.”

-

Race Day – Sunday

The strategy plays out flawlessly.

You lead from the first corner. He holds P3. Defends hard when Oscar tries a divebomb on Lap 34.

When the checkered flag falls:

P1: You. P3: Charles.

The team explodes.

But you?

You don’t celebrate loudly.

You don’t scream into the radio.

You just exhale.

-

Charles’s Motorhome

You wait until the crowd dies down. Until the press rounds are over. Until the engineers stop knocking on doors and the sun starts bleeding into the Caspian Sea.

Then you go to him.

You don’t knock. You don’t have to.

The door is already unlocked.

He’s sitting on the edge of the small couch, race suit unzipped, hair still damp from the shower, head in his hands.

When he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t smile.

He just breathes.

Like he’s been holding it in for hours.

You step inside and close the door behind you.

The click of it sounds like a secret.

He doesn’t move. Not at first.

So you do.

You walk over, slow, measured, the buzz of the paddock a dull hum outside the thin walls.

When you stop in front of him, he looks up again, eyes flicking over your face like he’s afraid it’ll be the last time.

You sit on his lap. Swing your leg over. Straddle him without a word.

His hands find your hips, instinctively.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You cup his face. Both hands. Thumb dragging over the stubble on his jaw.

“You’re still mine, right?” you whisper.

His brow furrows like he wants to cry. “Always.”

You lean your forehead against his. Eyes closed. Skin to skin.

“Next time,” you murmur, “don’t laugh at her jokes.”

“I wasn’t,” he breathes.

“You smiled.”

“I was thinking about you.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Liar.”

He nods. “Only sometimes.”

You smile. Soft. Real.

Then finally—finally—you kiss him.

Not frantic. Not possessive.

Just deep. Slow. Forgiving.

He pulls you closer until there’s no air between you.

And when you break apart, still pressed chest to chest, he murmurs:

“I thought I lost you.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t.”

Then you rest your head on his shoulder, your fingers playing with the chain around his neck.

And for the first time since she showed up…

You feel steady again.

-----

Singapore

Ferrari Hospitality – Thursday Night

The air in Singapore wraps around you like syrup. Thick. Warm. Still.

Night race. City lights. Lanterns swaying over marina water. The paddock bathed in neon and humidity.

It should feel heavy.

But for the first time in weeks, it doesn’t.

Everyone’s out. PR dinner for the junior drivers. The grid scattered across rooftop bars and private clubs.

But not you.

You’re barefoot in Charles’s motorhome kitchen, wearing his old Monaco hoodie and slicing mango with a plastic knife while the air conditioner hums softly in the corner.

He’s lying on the couch behind you, one arm slung over his face, legs still in race shorts.

“You’re going to cut your hand,” he mumbles without moving.

You smirk. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s always true.”

You pop a slice in your mouth and lean your hip against the counter. “You want some?”

He peeks out from under his arm. “Only if you feed me.”

You walk over slowly, wedge of mango held between two fingers.

He opens his mouth lazily, but at the last second, you shove it into his cheek.

He chokes. You laugh so hard you drop another slice on the floor.

And when you lean down to clean it up, he grabs your wrist.

You freeze.

Not because he’s holding you. But because his touch is soft. Reverent.

You straighten slowly, eyes locking with his.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he says.

You nod. “Trying to stay out of my own head.”

He shifts, makes room for you on the couch.

You settle into the space beside him, your legs tangling, your head falling naturally to his shoulder.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” you whisper after a long silence.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “Then don’t.”

You look up. “It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says.

You blink. “You really believe that?”

He shrugs. “I believe in you.”

And god, you want to cry. Because no one’s ever said that and meant it like he does.

You kiss him, slow and unhurried.

And when he carries you to bed later, he doesn’t take off your hoodie.

He just pulls you close, buries his face in your neck, and whispers:

“We’ve got this.”

-

Quali Day – Saturday

He goes P3. You go P2.

No games. No tension. Just clean driving and the sound of your names lighting up the timing board.

Afterwards, you share a quiet moment behind the garage. No one else around. No cameras. Just you and him, helmets still in hand, sweat cooling on your backs.

You fist the fabric of his fire suit lightly.

“Do you ever think about what it’s going to feel like?” you ask. “When it’s public?”

He nods. “All the time.”

“Are you scared?”

He shrugs. “Only if you are.”

“I’m not scared of loving you,” you say.

He smiles. “Then we’ve already won.”

You lean into him. Rest your forehead against his chest.

He sways you slightly. Like he can feel the victory coming too.

-

Race Day – Sunday

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

P2: Charles. P3: You.

On the podium, you stand beside him, champagne in hand, crown of misted sweat curling your hair.

You clink bottles.

He winks.

And when you’re walking off-stage, he brushes his pinky against yours.

It’s nothing.

But it’s everything.

-------

USA, Circuit of the Americas (Austin, Texas)

Thursday – Media Day

Texas air is dry and wide. Big blue skies, a thumping country playlist in the background, and the kind of sunshine that makes even bad days feel golden.

You land in Austin late Wednesday night. Separate flights. Separate cars.

But by Thursday morning?

Your coffee is already waiting in Charles’s motorhome.

Soy milk, one sugar. Lid off, straw in. His doing.

It’s not hiding anymore. Not here.

The Ferrari press room is busy. You’ve got an interview block with F1TV. He’s paired with you, for chemistry, obviously.

The interview setup was painfully bright. Studio lights, clip-on mics, two white chairs, and a laminated segment title that read: "Finish Each Other’s Sentences."

You groaned when you saw it. “Isn’t this usually for rookies?”

Charles smiled without even looking up from his water. “Or married couples.”

You shot him a look. “We’re not married.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to bite back the grin already tugging at your lips.

They started recording almost immediately.

“We’re going to begin with something simple,” the producer explained from behind the camera. “I’ll start the sentence—you finish it. Each other’s, not your own.”

Charles leaned forward, chin propped lazily on his fist. “We’re professionals.”

You glanced at him sideways. “We’re disasters.”

“First one,” the producer called. “My teammate’s most annoying habit is...”

You both answered at the same time. “Overthinking.”

You blinked, turning sharply to him. “Wait, me?”

Charles shrugged, deadpan. “You take forever to pick a tire strategy.”

You jabbed your elbow into his ribs. “You take forever to pick a playlist.”

Next one: “If we weren’t racing, we’d be...”

You answered, “On a beach.”

Charles said, “At home.”

Your head turned to him, slowly.

He was already looking at you.

The producer let out a slow whistle behind the camera. “Okay. That was… intimate.”

-

Ten minutes later, you were standing near catering when you spotted Lando, arms folded across his chest like a disappointed older brother.

“So,” he started, leveling a look at the two of you. “Just to clarify, you’re not back together?”

You raised your eyebrows, reaching for a banana. “Why would you say that?”

Charles sipped from his water bottle like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Because we are not telling the world.”

Lando didn’t even blink. “I saw you feed her a grape in the hallway.”

You snorted. “It was a slice of apple.”

Carlos strolled in next, hands in the pockets of his Williams track pants. “You guys are dating again.”

Charles shrugged. “Maybe.”

Carlos narrowed his eyes. “You live together again.”

You laughed. “No.”

He pointed with his chin. “You left the hotel this morning wearing his hoodie.”

You hesitated. “It’s… comfortable.”

Pierre wandered over, sunglasses perched too low on his nose. “Told you all. They’re back on.”

George chimed in with a smirk. “I give it two days before you soft launch on Instagram.”

You raised your hands dramatically. “There will be no launch. There will be no soft. There will be no nothing.”

And then, of course, Lewis walked by, hands in his pockets, sunglasses hiding his smirk.

“There’s a lot of something,” he said smoothly, not even breaking stride.

You and Charles looked at each other. And for once? Neither of you denied it.

-

You’re back in Charles’s motorhome, curled up with your feet in his lap. Your hair’s damp from a shower. He’s wearing your favorite grey hoodie, the one he tried to steal in Monaco.

Charles runs a thumb over your ankle. “You okay with everyone knowing?”

You pause.

“I think I am,” you say. “It feels… safe. With them.”

His voice is quieter now. “And the rest of the world?”

You turn toward him. “Not yet.”

“I can wait,” he says. “As long as I get to keep this.”

You lean in, resting your forehead against his. “You’ve always had it.”

He kisses you.

Long. Deep. The kind of kiss that feels like a decision.

-

Friday – Practice

You arrive in the paddock separately.

But inside? You share a water bottle. He ties your wristband tighter when it’s too loose. You correct his helmet strap before FP1.

Carlos mutters: “Yeah, totally just friends.”

-

Saturday – Quali

You qualify P1. He’s P4. The paddock cheers for both of you, but it’s the way he looks at you after your final lap, like you hung the damn moon, that gives everything away.

Oscar, backstage: “They’re like… glowing.” Lando: “I hate how soft this is.” George: “I think I cried a little.”

-

Sunday – Race Day

He doesn’t win. You don’t either.

P2: You. P5: Charles.

But you finish, hand brushing his when you walk back to the garage, smiles lingering on your faces like the secret is still just yours.

That night, the grid goes out for dinner.

Lando raises a glass to “the worst-kept secret in the paddock.”

Lewis adds, “Protect it. Don’t let the noise ruin the real.”

And for the first time, you’re not scared.

Not of being seen. Not of being known.

Because the people who matter?

They already see you.

And they still chose to sit at your table.

-----

Mexico

Thursday – Media Pen

The air in Mexico City is thin. Not metaphorically, literally. High altitude. Short breath. Long days.

You’re used to pushing your limits, but this weekend? You feel every step.

Not because of the track.

Because of everything else.

The points gap is shrinking. The world is watching. The cameras are close. Too close. And you’re trying to pretend that your heart doesn’t skip every time Charles brushes your hand in the garage.

You answer the usual questions.

“Yes, the car feels good.”

“Yes, we’re confident going into quali.”

“No, there’s no extra pressure.”

You lie cleanly. Casually. Rehearsed.

But when someone asks, “You and Charles seem closer than ever. Has that helped the team dynamic?”

Your smile slips for half a second.

Then you recover. “We’ve always had chemistry,” you say. “Even when it wasn’t easy.”

Charles, in the pen next to you, glances over.

And smiles.

-

Friday – Practice Sessions

You’re fast.

He’s faster.

Not by much. Just enough to make it a game.

Every lap you close the gap, he finds another tenth. Every time he outbrakes you into Turn 4, you take it back in Sector 3.

It’s fun. It’s flirty. It’s frustratingly addictive.

And it’s starting to look a lot like foreplay.

Carlos says nothing. But he’s watching.

-

Friday Night – Private Dinner

It’s not a date. It can’t be. Not here.

But the restaurant is quiet. The table in the corner is yours. And when Charles reaches for your hand across the table halfway through your pasta…

You let him hold it.

No one’s looking.

Or so you think.

Until your waiter comes by with the dessert menu and smiles too knowingly.

Charles just shrugs. “We’ll take two spoons.”

-

You’re lying in bed, side by side, your legs tangled under the sheets and your fingers playing with the edge of his T-shirt.

He’s staring at the ceiling.

“I want you to win it,” you says quietly.

He turn to face you. “What?”

“The championship,” you says again. “If it’s between us… I want you to have it.”

His heart lurches.

“Don’t say that,” he whisper.

You look at him, eyes soft but serious. “You deserve it.”

“You do too.”

He kisses your forehead. “Not this year.”

You press your face into his chest and enjoy the silence.

Because the truth?

You’re not sure what it would feel like to win without him beside you.

-

Saturday – Quali

You go P2. He goes P1.

He beats you by two-hundredths of a second.

You watch his pole celebration from the garage, pretending to smile, even though your chest aches a little.

Later, he finds you sitting alone in the data room, sipping water and reviewing lap deltas.

“You’re pissed,” he says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.”

You look up. “You beat me.”

He steps closer. “By less than a blink.”

You nod slowly. “Still counts.”

He crouches in front of you, hands resting on your knees. “You’re still the better driver.”

You meet his eyes. “Not today.”

He lifts one hand and tucks your hair behind your ear.

“I don’t care what the numbers say,” he whispers. “I know who I’d put everything on.”

Your heart breaks a little. And heals all at once.

-

Sunday – Race Day

The race is chaotic.

Tyre degradation. Double yellows. A late safety car.

But in the end, you finish P1.

Charles, P3.

It’s the second-to-last race of the season.

You’re leading the WDC.

By five points.

-

Podium Room

You sit beside him, both of you drenched in champagne and sweat. He hands you a towel.

You wipe your face.

You lean into his side.

And when you think no one’s looking, he whisper:

“I don’t want to win without you.”

And you says,

“You won’t.”

--------

Las Vegas GP

Thursday – Welcome Night

Vegas is chaos disguised as celebration. A glittering distraction. A neon fever dream. And somehow, this city, loud and cracked at the seams, feels quieter than the storm building inside you.

You and Charles are tied. On points. On momentum. On the line between love and legacy.

And there are only two races left.

-

“Is this the airport or a catwalk?” Carmen mutters, squinting at the camera crew waiting outside.

You smirk. “Both. Welcome to Vegas.”

You’re flanked by Lily and Carmen, weaving your way through a sea of suitcases and fluorescent fan signs when you finally spot him. Charles, exiting a sleek black car like he’s in a Bond film. Hair perfectly tousled. Aviators too expensive. Strut annoyingly effective.

“You’re late,” you say as he falls in step beside you.

He doesn’t look at you, but his voice is warm. “You’re glowing.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

Still no glance. “Still worked.”

-

Thursday Night – Dinner at the Bellagio

The private dining room is perched on the 43rd floor, all glass and skyline. Your families are already seated when you arrive.

Your mom waves you over, cheeks flushed. “You missed the toast! Charles’s mom already tried to sneak in a wedding joke.”

“I did no such thing,” Pascale says, fake-offended. “I simply said you two make a perfect pair. That’s not a proposal.”

Charles slides a hand to the small of your back. “Please don’t encourage her.”

Your dad raises his wine. “You’ve got all of us here in Vegas. You sure you’re not eloping tomorrow?”

You laugh, cheeks hot. “We’re just racing, remember?”

Charles glances sideways. “Are we?”

You shoot him a look. He smiles like it’s nothing.

But your mom and his mom catch it.

And they say nothing.

But they see everything.

-

You’re wrapped in a blanket, Charles beside you, drinks in hand. The city is a blur of movement below.

“Abu Dhabi’s in two week,” you murmur.

“Don’t remind me,” he sighs.

You look at him. “Are we ready for that?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts slightly, voice quiet. “My mom asked me tonight if I would be okay if you won.”

You freeze. “What did you say?”

He exhales. “I said yes. Because I would be.”

You blink, throat tight. “That’s a lie.”

“No,” he says softly. “It would hurt. But not like losing you would.”

Silence hangs between you.

“I love you,” you whisper. “More than I want to win.”

He leans in. Foreheads touching. “Then we’ll figure it out together.”

-

Friday – WAG Suite, a.k.a The Real Paddock Power

You’re curled up on the couch of Lily’s suite with Carmen, Kika, and a few others, feet tucked under you, champagne in hand.

Lily passes you a snack. “So. Still pretending you’re single?”

You smirk. “I’m not pretending. I’m… filtering.”

Kika raises an eyebrow. “You told the media your ‘ideal weekend’ was pizza and a movie alone. Meanwhile, Charles posted a story of someone’s knee in his lap.”

You cough. “Could be anyone’s knee.”

“Sure,” Carmen drawls. “And my boyfriend never overshoots turn one.”

They all laugh.

Kika leans closer, smirking. “So what’s next? Secret marriage in Monaco?”

You roll your eyes. “No weddings. No announcements. Just us.”

“And the entire grid already knowing,” Lily grins.

You hide your face behind a pillow.

“God,” you groan. “I hate how obvious we are.”

“Sweetheart,” Carmen says gently, “you’re not obvious. You’re in love.”

-

Meanwhile

“You think they’ll make it through Abu Dhabi?” your dad asks, sipping from a lowball glass.

Arthur shrugs, glancing toward the table where you and Charles are laughing. “Depends who finishes ahead.”

“I don’t care who wins,” Lorenzo adds, more serious. “I just want them to get through it intact.”

“They’ve got fire. That’s the good news,” your dad says.

Arthur smirks. “And the bad news?”

“They’ve got fire.”

They all laugh.

A beat passes. Then your dad murmurs, “She really loves him, you know.”

Lorenzo nods. “He loves her too. He just… overthinks.”

Arthur leans back. “Then he better not mess it up this time.”

-

Friday Night

Charles runs his fingers down your arm. “I used to be scared of you.”

You look up from your pillow. “Me?”

“You were everything I didn’t know I needed.”

You smile. “And now?”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Now I’d rather lose to you than never feel this again.”

-

Saturday

Charles goes P1. You go P2. The front row is Ferrari red.

The moment you step off the track, you hear the cheer.

And then you feel it, his fingers brushing yours.

No one’s watching. You’re sure of it.

So you kiss him.

Just once. Soft. Quick.

Enough to feel real.

-

Sunday

The race is chaos. One red flag. Two safety cars. You nearly clip a barrier. Charles blocks Max like his life depends on it.

P2: You P3: Charles

But it’s not the podium that everyone talks about.

It’s you, gripping Charles’s face post-race in the cool-down room, whispering something that makes him laugh, truly laugh, for the first time all weekend.

No cameras catch it.

But the paddock knows.

-

Later that night, you’re sitting side by side on an overturned crate, suits still half-zipped, sharing a water bottle.

“We’re tied,” you say.

He nods. “I know.”

“Two races left.”

Another nod. “I know.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Are you scared?”

He doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “No. Because whatever happens, you’ll still be mine.”

You smile.

“You really believe that?”

“I know it.”

--------

Abu Dhabi

The desert is unforgiving.

It bleeds heat into your bones and tension into your chest.

Abu Dhabi has always been the jewel of the calendar, but this year, it isn’t a finale, it’s an execution. One race. One track. One title.

And two hearts on the line.

You and Charles.

Tied.

It couldn’t be scripted better. The season that started in ruins, heartbreak stitched under red Ferrari race suits, has come down to this: one last lap.

And no one, not the media, not the paddock, not the fans, knows what’s about to happen.

Not just on track.

But off it too.

-

Wednesday

The jet lands just past midnight, the tarmac shimmering from heat despite the late hour.

You step down with sunglasses already in place, because even if the sun isn’t up yet, the world is watching.

Charles descends behind you. For the first time in months, there’s no strategic delay, no quiet choreography to avoid suspicion. You walk side by side.

“You think anyone knows?” you whisper as you pass the cameras.

“I think everyone knows,” he says.

“Think anyone will ask?”

He glances sideways. “They won’t have to. Not after Sunday.”

-

Thursday

The paddock is buzzing. Cameras, journalists, influencers, all swarming like bees around a championship honeypot.

You’re seated beside Charles in the press conference. Ferrari PR didn’t even bother pretending this year.

Every question is barbed.

Every smile is rehearsed.

“Charles, you’ve never won a world title. Y/N’s leading on wins. Does that add pressure?”

“No,” he answers smoothly. “It adds fuel.”

“Y/N, can you separate your feelings for Charles from the race itself?”

You smile. “I’ve done it for twenty-two races. One more shouldn’t be hard.”

Charles snorts beside you.

You elbow him beneath the table.

The journalists catch the moment. And you know that picture will be everywhere before the end of the hour.

-

Ferrari has rented you both a secluded villa for focus and privacy.

You’re in the kitchen, barefoot, chopping vegetables with more aggression than needed.

Charles leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re going to lose a finger.”

“I’m going to lose my mind,” you mutter.

He walks over, gently taking the knife. “You don’t have to be perfect.”

You meet his eyes. “Don’t I?”

He tilts your chin. “No. Just fast.”

You laugh, a shaky, exhausted sound. “What if we crash? What if I ruin everything?”

Charles doesn’t flinch. “Then we rebuild. Like we always do.”

-

Friday

FP1: You top the charts. Charles trails by three-tenths.

FP2: He fights back. Finishes P1 by a margin so slim it takes the stewards five minutes to confirm it.

The garage is electric. The engineers speak faster. The fans chant louder.

But it’s the look Charles gives you across the paddock; calm, focused, and  tender that leaves you breathless.

It’s not rivalry anymore.

It’s reverence.

-

Saturday

The paddock is silent before Q3.

You sit in your car, hands on the wheel, Charles beside you in the next garage.

Through the comms, your engineer whispers, "You’ve got this."

You breathe in. Exhale. The lights flash green.

And you fly.

You set a blistering lap.

And then Charles goes one better.

The front row is red again, him on pole. You beside him.

It’s poetry. Tragic, beautiful poetry.

-

You’re both in race suits still, sitting on the balcony floor with takeout containers between you.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

He nods. “Me too.”

“But not of the race,” you clarify. “Of what comes after.”

Charles reaches for your hand. “Whatever happens tomorrow win, lose, crash, podium, I’m with you.”

Tears sting your eyes. “Even if I beat you?”

He smiles. “Especially then.”

You lean in. Forehead to forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

-

Sunday

The sun rises slow and unforgiving.

The grid is chaos. Drones. Celebrities. National anthems. Your heartbeat in your ears.

You don’t speak much. There’s nothing left to say.

Formation lap. Lights out.

And then: war.

You trade positions. He cuts you off in Turn 3. You slipstream past him in Lap 11. A safety car resets everything on Lap 29.

You pit first. He stays out. Then he pits. You regain the lead.

Then:

Lap 53 of 55.

Charles is behind you by four-tenths. DRS is open.

The fans are on their feet.

You hear his voice in your head: Whatever happens...I’m with you.

You defend into Turn 9. He tries to dive into Turn 11.

And on the final lap, he’s right there.

You don’t blink.

You don’t flinch.

You cross the line.

P1: Y/N Y/L/N – World Champion

-

The car stops. You scream into the radio. The team erupts.

You jump out. Charles is already there, helmet off.

And in front of the entire world, he wraps his arms around you.

Lifts you off the ground.

Kisses you.

A full, real, soul-shattering kiss.

The world gasps.

And you don’t care.

Because love was never supposed to survive Formula 1.

But yours did.

-

“Y/N, how does it feel?”

You laugh through tears. “Heavy. Fast. Beautiful.”

“Charles, you’ve been chasing this for years. How are you feeling?”

He smiles. “Like the right person won.”

“And… the kiss?”

You look at him. He shrugs.

You answer: “That was magic.”

-

Epilogue

You’re in Monaco. The season’s over. The sun is gentle again.

There’s a scrapbook on the coffee table.

Inside it: a photo of two Ferrari drivers kissing in Abu Dhabi.

And a note Charles left in the front pocket:

We didn’t just finish the race. We started everything.

He finds you in the kitchen, stirring tea with one hand, flipping through a magazine with the other.

“You know,” he says softly, wrapping his arms around your waist, “you’re still the fastest person I know.”

You smirk. “Faster than you?”

“Always.”

The laughter is easy now.

There are moments of stillness, sunsets over the harbor, dinner with family, Charles asleep with his head on your lap while you watch replays of the season.

One night, you’re on the balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the city sparkle.

“I used to be scared this wouldn’t last,” you whisper.

Charles turns to you. “And now?”

“Now I want forever.”

He pulls something from his hoodie pocket. A small, velvet box.

“I was going to wait until the gala next month,” he murmurs. “But maybe now’s better.”

You freeze.

The box stays closed. His thumb brushes over it like a promise not yet spoken.

“No pressure,” he says. “Just... someday?”

You nod, throat tight. “Someday.”

He kisses your knuckles. “One last lap, huh?”

You smile. “No. The first of many.”

TAGLIST:

@angelluv16 @angstynasty @hisashifrey @mynameisangeloflife @evalynkillgrave @lorena-mv33 @frenchtwistedd @baechugff @devilacot

[fligniuz]

flig, would you or anybody else be willing to elaborate on the behaviours and things people around him said that made you think he's autistic? I'm just curious, you could delete after a while if you want to

hi ok SO. i made a post about this when i first started my blog that you can read here but honestly i’m just gonna type out a more thorough response because the post i made kinda rambles on idk😭i wanna stress that none of these things on their own are necessarily signs of autism, rather it’s the combination of all of these things together that strongly leads me to believe luigi is on the spectrum. these traits stand out the most to me:

minimal eye contact. i have seen a few people mention that this could very well be him following the advice of his prison/DP consultant (moskowitz i believe), and that’s always a possibility, but i personally think it’s more likely to be autism considering everything else i’m about to list

restricted interests. there’s not too much to go off of here but i do think his goodreads is quite interesting… there are clear patterns of interests in the books luigi has read or wants to read. for example, in 2022, he read several books relevant to back pain (there are many more on his want to read):

predictably, there are multiple books on computer science and math:

nerd ranch…🥺

aaand a bunch about tech as well:

lol

this pattern of getting “hyper focused” on a specific topic/having a special interest is common for neurodivergent people (especially if it’s something personally relevant to you—lots of autistic people have a special interest in autism itself, for example!) you can see his list of books he’s read here, and his want to read list is here. i highly recommend scrolling through this archive of luigi’s goodreads if you haven’t already—you can learn so much about him just from looking at everything he wanted to read

very expressive with his face and hands. i know this is the exact opposite of the stereotype but many many MANY of us have exaggerated facial movements and gestures as opposed to very minimal ones. autism is a spectrum for a reason! examples:

^ also notice here how he fidgets around a lot!!

this cute lil thing

(i hope you can kinda see what i mean from these gifs. this is one of those things that’s really hard to describe, like you know it when you see it, but as someone who’s also more expressive than not i see a lot of myself in him)

it’s possible he does this to overcompensate for/“mask” a more minimal and natural reaction (and i do believe he’s very good at masking), but regardless it was still one of the things about him that gave me pause

this quote (source):

i recommend reading the other post i made for an explanation of why this screamed autistic to me but essentially this is a very commonly expressed sentiment among autistic people across the spectrum, often stemming from our difficulties with social interaction and, in luigi’s words, finding a community of like-minded people. obviously we have different ways of expressing it but i guarantee that just about every one of us has felt this way at some point in our lives

and perhaps most damning (for lack of a better word) of all…

this substack luigi subscribed to:

HONORABLE MENTIONS:

…this:

i just can’t explain it like have you EVER heard somebody say this about a neurotypical person😭it’s mike so take it with a grain of salt (along with the rest of this post, because i don’t know shit!!!) but idk it stood out to me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

this pose:

AGAIN I CAN’T EXPLAIN BUT I SWEAR. WE SIT IN REALLY ODD POSITIONS LIKE THIS AND FIND THEM COMFY… ive always thought it’s related to our need for sensory stimulation?? but i honestly have no idea what’s up with it. i have hit this exact stance while playing with my toys or reading when i was little. like it’s not just the legs it’s the way the fingers are tucked under his foot too this picture is just so dear to me💔

SORRY for the novel ok i hope this gave you a good idea of why, i won’t write my whole disclaimer again—see other post for that—but to reiterate only luigi knows the answer to this (and he may not actually!! we don’t know, that’s my point) and i obviously do not want to armchair diagnose him or anything. i am autistic, many of my friends are autistic, and my understanding of autism comes from not just my own experience but lots and lots of research; this is all just stuff that sticks out to me and the vibes that i personally get from him, but this man is a stranger to me at the end of the day and i’m not going to say that any of this is definitive at all. just my observations💚

[skepticalarrie]

https://www.tumblr.com/skepticalarrie/786782913741062144/why-do-you-focus-so-much-on-louis-being-gay-ill?source=share

Allie, just to understand the context better...why was Harry allowed to do all of that back then?

I always thought it was because once he met the azffs, he kind of got some support that gave him more freedom (like growing out his hair, painting his nails, publicly supporting the NFL player who came out)… But then I realized Harry started hanging out with Nick back in 2012, way before the azffs came into the picture. And even the kiss with JC happened before that too.

When it comes to the denials, I do get why that role was mostly assigned to Louis. Harry’s always had a hard time lying directly, and you could tell when he was struggling (until he became difficult to read). I think they both did what they could to push back against the closet, but Harry really had a hard time with the act of lying itself.

Do you think maybe the reason for all of it is that Louis was the more flamboyant one between the two (and better at lying), so he ended up being the one more heavily closeted?

Allowed? No. We’ve lived through so much... it’s honestly insane. That post is from 2014, right in the middle of the eye of the storm, and it’s wild how little has changed, especially when it comes to how people perceive Louis as someone queer. That said, I do think we have to keep some things in perspective. I disagree with a few points that, to me, have become a lot clearer with time. I wouldn’t say Louis was more heavily closeted... maybe more aggressively though. But I think they were closeted in different ways.

Let’s rewind to what we used to call the Big Gay War™. It’s hard to sum things up, but basically: Harry and Louis were actively fighting back against the closet. Every little rebellious move they made triggered an immediate reaction... punishment from management/label. Every action had a reaction. They were powerless… until they weren’t. Until they realised just how much power they did have, and they started fighting back. Painted nails? Punishment the next day. Happy Pride on stage? Punishment. Rainbow shirt? Punishment. Every gay-coded moment was followed by a new stunt, rumour, manufactured tweet. Every. Single. Time.

Harry was the most aggressive in these moves, I think. Because I honestly can’t imagine being 16 and having people talk about you like that—being forced to kiss random women, answer the most invasive questions. His stunts were way too aggressive, and it was all about making money. Until he was ANGRY and ready to burn it all down. He had too much on his plate since such a young age, so he was bold, he was loud. And he knew the power he held... I think a lot of what he did between 2010-2013 was just him being innocent, but then things started being intentional. His sex life was media bait from day one, so even though they worked hard to keep him straight-coded, the rumours still made them money. So I'm really not here to say Harry's closet wasn't just as hard. I'm really not. I won't be the judge of that. Also - I don't think the Azoffs showed up and magically “free” him. But I do think they helped him see how profitable he was on his own and gave him the business tools and leverage to lean into that.

With Louis, it was different. He didn’t have the same cards to play. He didn’t have Harry’s sex-symbol appeal to women, he wasn’t the tabloid darling... he was just obviously, visibly, unapologetically queer since day one. And that terrified the machine behind them. So they shut him down, again and again. The problem wasn’t just that they were gay—it was that they were gay together, in the same band. Louis’s stunts weren’t about making money. They were about making a point: “Look how straight I am.” His entire image had to scream heterosexuality at all times. That’s why his stunts always felt more aggressive, more suffocating. And yeah, his rebellious moments came with harsher consequences... for both of them. I also think Louis became better at lying, he is a natural. But at the end of the day, I think he had to. The stakes were different for him. It also makes sense that he was the one always shutting down rumours. Harry wasn’t supposed to be the one denying anything. Louis had to carry the brunt of that, because his queerness was the bigger “problem.”

Now it’s 2025, and honestly? Their closets haven’t changed that much. Harry still benefits from the ambiguity. People eat up the mystery, and it keeps him profitable. Louis? Still the “straight” family guy. Still reduced to pap walks and media narratives that try to make him fit a mold he never belonged in. Same fight. Just quieter.

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | Chapter Fourteen | Angels Like You

✨ Catch up on Hide before reading this chapter ✨

✧ the masterlist, babes ✧ 💌 so you can read all my stuff 🧃📚

💌 my inbox is open — come yell at me about the fic or just say hi

pairing: joe burrow x riley carter (oc) word count: 10.5k ish requested: no ⚠️ just a little warning: joe gets hurt in this one—not graphic, but it’s serious—and the emotional vibes are very much “something’s not right.” if that’s a tough headspace, skip or pause as needed.

📝 this story is only posted on wattpad and tumblr under miss_delaney. if you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. 🚫 do not repost, translate, or share my work without permission. 🌻 requests: closed! 💌 want to be added to the taglist? drop a comment or message me.

Author’s Note: posting two days in a row?? wild. who is she??

work’s been a little slow this week so i’ve been writing in between meetings (sorry to my boss..even though he sees me fuckin' around). this one’s a bit shorter, but it felt right to give it its own space.

this chapter's got that underlying hurt—you know, where nothing's actually exploded but everything still feels wrong somehow. not broken exactly, just... uneasy. like everyone's walking on eggshells but trying to pretend they're not. that's kind of where we are right now.

this part of the story is loosely based on real events. creative liberties were taken. timelines were bent.

thanks for being here. i really mean it. 💛

Taglist: @wickedfun9 @starsyoongi @amiets2 @palmettogal508 @throwaway12356123 @lilfreakjez @destinyg237

August 26

Joe walks off the sideline still thinking about Riley's voice when she hung up on him days ago. The preseason game against the Commanders just ended—they won, 24-17—but he spent most of it watching from the bench, his mind three thousand miles away. He played one series in the first quarter, handed off twice, and that was it.

"Good game, Joe," someone calls out, maybe a coach, maybe a teammate. He nods without really seeing them, already pulling his phone from his locker.

Still no response to any of his texts. It feels like an eternity of silence.

Joe showers quickly, throws on sweats and a hoodie, and ignores the team bus idling outside the stadium. Instead, he calls Sarah.

"I need a jet," he says without preamble.

"Tonight? Joe, you just played—"

"Tonight. To LAX. How fast can you make it happen?"

There's a pause. Sarah's been his assistant for two years; she knows when not to ask questions. "Give me an hour. Where are you going from LAX?"

"I'll figure it out when I get there."

The drive to the private airfield outside Washington gives Joe time to think, which is both a blessing and a curse. He keeps replaying Riley's voice from that phone call—When push comes to shove, I'm the problem you need to manage—and realizing she wasn't wrong.

He tries calling her again as he waits for the jet to be prepped. Straight to voicemail, same as it's been for days.

"Riley, it's me again," he says after the beep. "I know you probably don't want to hear from me right now, but... just call me back. Please."

He hangs up and immediately wants to try again, but forces himself to put the phone away. If she wanted to talk to him, she would have by now.

The pilot doesn't ask questions about the last-minute flight or why Joe looks like shit.

He pulls out his phone and stares at his last text to Riley: Still hoping you'll be there Saturday.

She never responded. Which means she's probably not coming to Cincinnati. Which means this thing between them might actually be over, might have ended with that terrible phone call where he said all the wrong things and she hung up on him.

Joe opens a new message and starts typing: I'm coming to see you.

He deletes it. Tries again: We need to talk.

Deletes that too.

The truth is, he's terrified she'll tell him not to come. That she'll say she doesn't want to see him, that they're done, that he's too late. So instead of giving her the chance to reject him, he's just going to show up and hope she'll at least let him explain.

It's not his usual approach—Joe plans things, thinks them through, weighs the options. But planning hasn't been working when it comes to Riley. Every time he tries to be careful, to manage the situation, he makes it worse.

Maybe it's time to stop being careful.

The flight attendant offers him dinner, but Joe's stomach is too twisted to eat. He accepts water instead and uses the wifi to book a rental car, then immediately second-guesses the choice. Should he take an Uber? Less traceable, but also less reliable if Riley wants him to leave quickly.

God, he doesn't even know if she's home. For all he knows, she could be anywhere—New Orleans, Nashville, Colorado, literally anywhere. He hasn't heard from her team either, despite texting Pete directly yesterday.

Joe stares out the window at the dark expanse of America passing below and tries to figure out what he's going to say when he sees her. I'm sorryseems inadequate. I was scared sounds like an excuse. I love you feels true but not enough - not when love hasn't stopped him from hurting her.

His phone buzzes with a text from his dad: How'd the game go?

Joe types back: Fine. Flying to LA.

The response comes quickly: Good. Bring her home.

It's such a simple statement. Bring her home. Like she belongs there, like she belongs with him. Even though they haven't met her yet.

The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom: "We'll be beginning our descent into Los Angeles in about twenty minutes."

Joe's hands start to sweat. Twenty minutes until he finds out if the person he loves still wants anything to do with him.

He tries her number one more time. It rings once, twice, three times, then goes to voicemail. 

"It's me," he says. "I... I'm sorry about everything. About the phone call, about not being there when you needed me, about being an idiot. I'm going to try to fix this, okay? If you'll let me."

He hangs up and immediately regrets it. He should have said more, should have explained, should have told her he was coming. But it's too late now.

The rental car is waiting. Joe plugs Riley's address into the GPS and drives.

The drive from LAX to Laurel Canyon takes forty minutes. Joe's locked in now, the way he gets before big games. One objective: get to Riley. Everything else is noise.

But what if she's not alone?

It's been days since they talked. Days for her to decide she's done with his shit, done with being treated like a secret, done with dating someone who chooses his image over her every time it matters. Someone like maybe Dom.

Joe pushes the thought away and focuses on driving, on the narrow roads and expensive houses hidden behind gates and perfectly manicured hedges. Riley's neighborhood is quiet, peaceful, the kind of place where showing up unannounced at midnight might get the cops called.

He turns onto her street. Her house sits at the end of a curved driveway, lights on in the living room. Her car's the only one there.

Joe parks on the street and sits in the rental car for a full minute, staring at her front door. This is it. This is where he finds out if he still has her or if he's lost the best thing that's ever happened to him.

He gets out of the car and walks to her door.

Once he reaches her front door he just stands there, hand raised to knock, suddenly terrified of what comes next.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on her living room floor, acoustic guitar balanced across her lap, surrounded by scattered pieces of paper covered in crossed-out lines and half-formed verses. It's past 1 AM, but sleep feels impossible when her chest is this tight with words that need to come out.

She strums the same chord progression she's been working on for the past hour, humming a melody that feels too raw to sing at full voice yet. The notebook beside her is open to a page that reads:

Baby, angels like you can't fly down hell with me I'm everything they said I would be

She stops playing and scratches out the second line, tries again:

I'm everything you didn't want me to be

That's not right either. Riley sets the guitar aside and pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the mess of papers around her. Days of not responding to Joe,  days of writing songs that all sound like goodbye letters she'll never send.

Her phone sits face-down on the coffee table, silent since she finally set up the new one yesterday and saw all his unanswered messages flood in at once. She'd read them, all of them, but couldn't bring herself to respond. What was there to say? That she missed him? That she was tired of feeling like a problem he needed to solve?

Riley reaches for the guitar again, finds the melody, tries a different approach:

They say that misery loves company It's not your fault I ruin everything

The knock at her front door makes her freeze mid-strum.

She glances at the clock on her phone. 1:23 AM. Who the hell shows up at her house at 1:23 in the morning?

The knock comes again, more insistent this time.

Riley sets the guitar aside and pads to the front door in her bare feet, wearing an oversized t-shirt that hangs to her mid-thigh and shorts that disappear under the hem. She expects to see Pete through the peephole, or maybe Andy having another late-night crisis about some girl.

Instead, she sees Joe Burrow standing on her doorstep in sweats and a hoodie, looking like he just traveled three thousand miles to be there.

Which, apparently, he did.

Riley stares through the peephole for a full ten seconds, convinced she's hallucinating. Joe doesn't make grand gestures. Joe doesn't show up unannounced. Joe definitely doesn't fly across the country in the middle of the night.

But there he is.

She unlocks the door and opens it slowly, not trusting her voice yet.

"Hi," he says simply.

Riley blinks at him, still processing. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to make sure you get on a plane to Cincinnati."

Riley stares at him. "You... what?"

"Your flight. Tomorrow. I need to know you're still coming."

She opens her mouth, closes it again. Of all the things she might have expected Joe to say, this wasn't one of them. "You flew here to ask me that?"

"I flew here because I fucked up…again."

Riley stares at him for another long moment. "You got that right," she says finally. 

She steps back from the door, and Joe takes it as an invitation to come inside. The living room is covered in evidence of sleepless nights: papers scattered across the coffee table and floor, her guitar propped against the couch, lyrics scrawled in her messy handwriting.

Riley closes the door behind him and crosses her arms, suddenly aware that she's barely dressed and he's standing in her living room in the middle of the night like this isn't completely insane.

"Shouldn't you be in Maryland?" she asks, trying to find her footing in this conversation.

"Game ended hours ago." Joe's looking at the papers around her guitar, probably reading the fragments of lyrics she's been working on. "You've been writing."

"I've been doing a lot of things." Riley moves to gather some of the papers, suddenly self-conscious about him seeing her raw thoughts scattered everywhere. "What do you want, Joe?"

"I want to know if you're coming to Cincinnati tomorrow."

Riley stops collecting papers and looks at him. "Why would I be coming to Cincinnati?"

"Your flight. You had a flight booked."

"Had being the key word." Riley sits down on the edge of her couch, putting some distance between them. "I canceled it."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. "When?"

"The other day. I'm exhausted with this, Joe."

"I know. That's why I'm here."

Riley looks at him for a long moment. "You think showing up fixes it?"

"I think not showing up definitely doesn't."

She's quiet, processing that. Joe stays where he is, not moving closer, not trying to crowd her space.

"My team lost their minds when they saw the headlines," he says finally. "Started talking about damage control and how this could affect my image. And I listened to them instead of calling you back first."

Riley doesn't respond right away.

"I panicked. When I saw those photos, when I heard what people were saying... I thought about protecting myself before I thought about protecting you."

Riley wraps her arms tighter around herself. "That's the problem, Joe. When things get hard, your first instinct is to pull away from me, not toward me."

"I know."

"Really? Do you Joe? Because this isn't the first time. Every time there's any kind of pressure or scrutiny, you treat me like I'm the complication."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "You're not a complication."

"Then why do I always feel like one?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment. "Because I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to have you in my life and deal with everyone else's opinions about it. So when things get complicated, I default to what I know - protecting what I can control."

"At least you're honest about it. But Joe, I can't keep being the thing you sacrifice every time you get scared." Riley shifts on the couch, pulling her knees closer. "I know I'm not easy. I know my life is messy and unpredictable and nothing like what you're used to. But I can't keep wondering if you're going to choose me or choose everyone else's opinion of me."

"I'm trying to figure out how to do that.  Choose you."

Joe moves closer, crouching down in front of the couch so he can see her face. "Don't give up on this. On us."

Riley looks at him, eyes tired. "This hurts, Joe."

"I know. I don't want to hurt you. Stay with me while I figure it out?"

She studies his face like she's looking for something she's not sure is there. "You keep asking me to wait while you figure it out. But what if you don't? What if this is just who we are?"

"I don't want it to be."

"Wanting isn't the same as changing." She's quiet for a moment. "But yeah. Okay. I'll stay."

"Even though you shouldn't."

"Probably because I shouldn't."

Joe takes what feels like the first deep breath he's had in days.

He reaches for her hand, and she lets him take it. Her fingers are cold, and he realizes she's been sitting here for hours writing, probably not taking care of herself the way she does when she's processing something hard.

"Come here," he says quietly, and gently pulls her up from the couch.

Riley stands on unsteady legs, and Joe wraps his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. She melts into him immediately, her face pressed against his hoodie, and he can feel some of the tension leave her body.

They stand like that for a long moment, just holding each other. Joe rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo, feeling the relief wash over him that she's here, that she's his, that she said okay.

Riley's arms tighten around his waist, and Joe realizes she's crying - not sobs, just quiet tears that soak through his hoodie.

"I missed you," she whispers against his chest.

"I missed you too," he says, his voice rough. "So much."

* * *

They stay like that, wrapped around each other in her living room surrounded by scattered lyrics and the evidence of her sleepless nights. It's relief and comfort and the simple fact that they fit together, even when everything else feels broken.

Riley pulls back just enough to look at his face, her hands coming up to rest against his chest. "You hate grand gestures."

"I had to. I was going crazy."

She studies his expression, searching for something. When she finds it, Joe leans down and kisses her.

It's soft at first, tentative, like he's not sure if this is allowed. But Riley's hands fist in his hoodie, and she kisses him back with weeks of missing him, and Joe makes a small sound against her mouth that goes straight through her.

"Bird," he breathes against her lips.

"I know," she whispers. "I know."

She takes his hand and leads him down the hall to her bedroom, and this time it's different from every other time they've been together. Slower, more careful. Like they're both afraid the other might disappear.

Joe pulls off his hoodie while Riley sits on the edge of her bed, just watching him. When he reaches for the hem of her oversized t-shirt, she lets him pull it over her head, and then they're skin to skin for the first time in too long.

"I thought I fucked this up forever," Joe says quietly, his forehead resting against hers.

"You didn't," Riley says, even though they both know how close he came.

When he touches her, it's with reverence, like he's memorizing every inch. When she moves against him, it's with a kind of desperate tenderness, like she's trying to pour all her forgiveness into the space between their bodies.

It's not gentle, not really. They cling to each other, pace quick and rough, both of them chasing relief and something like grace. Neither of them talks. Just the sound of skin and breath, desperate and seeking, like they're trying to say I'm sorry, I love you, don't leave again—all without words.

"Joe," Riley breathes against his mouth, her hands fisted in his hair.

"Me too," he says back, his voice rough.

She pulls him closer, desperate. "Don't—" she starts, then stops, but Joe knows what she means.

"I won't," he promises against her throat. "I'm not stopping. I'm not going anywhere."

When she's close, she whispers his name like a prayer, over and over, and Joe has to bite down on her shoulder to keep from falling apart completely.

"Please," she whispers, and he knows what she needs.

"Come on, baby," he murmurs back.

When Riley comes, it’s quiet, her body shaking with it, face pressed to his shoulder. Joe follows right after, everything tightening at once, her name muffled against her skin.

After, they don’t move. He just holds her, breathing her in, as if he could anchor himself to this moment and never let go.

"Come back with me," Joe says eventually. 

"Joe." 

"Please, Riley." 

"You know I will." She sighs. "When do you want to leave?" 

"In the morning? When we wake up?" 

"Okay."

She settles back against his chest, and Joe feels something ease in his chest that's been tight for days. It's not fixed - he knows that. The conversation they had in the living room doesn't solve the fundamental problem between them. But she's here, and she's his, and tomorrow they'll figure out the rest.

* * *

Early September 

Riley stares out the airplane window at the darkness below, her reflection ghostlike in the glass. The red-eye from Cincinnati to London is half empty, which means she has an entire row to herself to spread out and pretend she's not exhausted down to her bones.

Thirty-six hours. She could have stayed in London, slept off the jet lag, maybe seen a show in the West End. But no—she flew to Cincinnati instead, burning through her only real break because she thought things might be different after LA. Thirty-six hours of watching Joe slip right back into the same patterns that broke them apart in the first place.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Pete: Safe flight. Get some sleep. Love you.

She types back: Can't sleep. Too wired.

What she doesn't text is that nothing has changed. That Joe flying to LA, showing up at her door, asking her to stay with him—none of it actually fixed the thing that's wrong between them.

Yesterday afternoon, Joe's living room:

"The Steelers run a lot of zone coverage on third down," Joe muttered to himself, remote in hand, rewinding the same play for the fourth time.

Riley looked up from her book—she'd given up trying to have a conversation twenty minutes earlier. "Joe."

"Mmm?" He didn't look away from the screen.

"Remember when you said you were trying to figure out how to choose me?"

That got his attention. He paused the film and turned to her. "I am trying."

"Yeah? Because this feels exactly like it did before."

Joe's jaw tightened slightly. "It's Week 1, Riley. This is important."

"And I'm not?"

"That's not what I said."

But Riley could see it in his face—the same look he got whenever football took priority. The same wall going up.

Riley shifts in her seat now, curling sideways against the window. The flight attendant offers her a blanket, which she accepts with a tired smile.

Her phone lights up with a message from Joe: Miss you already.

She stares at the text for a long moment before responding: Miss you too.

But the truth is she doesn't just miss him—she misses who he used to be with her. The Joe who would actually turn off his phone. Who cared about her day, not just the parts that fit around football. This version feels like someone else entirely.

This morning, Joe's kitchen:

"I can drive you to the airport," Joe offered, grabbing his keys.

"It's fine. I called a car."

"You sure? I don't have meetings until noon."

Riley could see he was already mentally somewhere else—probably thinking about practice, about the game plan, about everything except the fact that she was leaving again. "Yeah, I'm sure."

He kissed her goodbye at the door, distracted and quick. "Text me when you land?"

"I will."

But they both knew he probably wouldn't see it until hours later, buried between messages from coaches and teammates and everyone else who took precedence during football season.

Riley closes her eyes and tries to find a comfortable position. Seven more hours until London, then a full day of interviews where she'll have to smile and talk about her music while running on no sleep and too much caffeine.

Her phone buzzes again. A text from Andy: How was Cincinnati?

She types and deletes three different responses before settling on: Fine.

It's not fine, though. Nothing about this feels fine. Joe said he was trying to figure out how to choose her, but the moment football season started, everything went right back to how it was before.

She's still the only one reaching. Loving him is starting to feel like chasing him.

Riley looks at her phone again. Joe's "miss you already" text, her automatic "Miss you too" response. A week ago, that exchange would have made her heart race. Now it just feels hollow.

When did she become the only one reaching? When did loving him start feeling like chasing him?

Seven hours to London. Seven hours to figure out how to smile and talk about her music while pretending everything's fine.

For the first time since that night in her living room when Joe asked her to stay with him, Riley wonders if she should have said no.

* * *

September-1st Game of the Season

Riley - 2:47 PM London time (9:47 AM Cincinnati): Good luck today baby. I know you're going to be amazing.

Riley - 3:15 PM: Thinking about you. Wish I could be there.

Riley - 4:30 PM: Still no response? Everything okay?

Riley - 5:45 PM: Joe?

Riley stares at her phone screen in her London hotel room, watching the delivered messages pile up with no response. She's been up since 6 AM doing BBC Radio interviews, but all she can think about is Joe's first game of the season starting in an hour.

Riley - 6:00 PM (1:00 PM Cincinnati - Kickoff): Game's starting. I'm watching on my laptop. You've got this.

She settles into bed with her laptop balanced on her knees, the NFL app streaming the Bengals vs. Steelers game. The hotel room is dark except for the glow of the screen, and Riley pulls a blanket around herself as she watches Joe take the field.

Riley - 6:23 PM: You look so focused out there. Doing amazing.

Riley - 6:45 PM: I have no idea what's happening but you look good doing it.

Riley - 7:30 PM (Halftime): They're winning but you've got this. Second half.

The Bengals are struggling. Pittsburgh's defense is relentless, and Joe's getting pressured on every play. Riley finds herself holding her breath every time he drops back to pass, texting encouragement she knows he won't see until after the game.

Riley - 8:15 PM: That hit looked bad. Are you okay?

Riley - 8:47 PM: Come on baby. One touchdown. You can do this.

Riley - 9:20 PM (Game ends, Bengals lose 21-10): I'm sorry. You played your heart out. You'll get them next time.

Riley - 9:45 PM: Joe? Just want to make sure you're okay.

Riley - 11:30 PM: I know you're probably in meetings or with the team. Call me when you can?

Riley - 1:15 AM: Are you ignoring me?

It's nearly 2 AM London time when Riley's phone finally buzzes with an incoming FaceTime call. She answers immediately, and Joe's face appears on screen—hair still damp from the shower, jaw tight with frustration.

"Hey," she says softly. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. We lost." His voice is flat, exhausted.

"I watched the whole game. You looked good out there, even though they kept hitting you—"

"Riley, I don't want to talk about the game."

She blinks, taken aback by his tone. "Okay. I was just... I was trying to be supportive. I sent you texts all day."

"I don't check my phone on game days."

"What?"

Joe rubs his face with his hands. "I don't talk to anyone the day before or day of games. I go dark."

Riley stares at him through the screen. "You never told me that."

"I thought you knew."

"How would I know that? You've never mentioned it once." Her voice gets sharper. "I stayed up all night watching your game, Joe. I've been worried sick because you weren't responding to anything."

"I can't be thinking about texts when I'm trying to prepare."

"I wasn't asking you to respond during the game. But before? After? Some acknowledgment that your girlfriend exists?"

Joe's expression hardens. "This is exactly why I don't talk to people on game days. I can't deal with this right now."

"Deal with what? Me caring about you?"

"I lost, Riley. I threw two interceptions. The last thing I need is—"

"Is what? Support? Someone who care about you trying to be there for you?"

"I need space to process this."

Riley feels something cold settle in her chest. "Space from me."

"Space from everyone."

"But especially me."

Joe doesn't deny it, and that silence says everything.

"I can't do this," Riley says quietly. "I can't keep being shut out of the most important part of your life."

"Football has to come first during the season. You know that."

"I know that football is important. What I didn't know is that means I don't exist."

Joe's jaw tightens. "That's not fair."

"Are you kidding me? When do I come first, Joe? When do I get to matter?"

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in her dark hotel room, staring at the black screen of her phone. It's 2:30 AM in London, and she has morning interviews in six hours. But all she can think about is the look on Joe's face when she asked when she gets to matter.

Like it was a question he'd never considered before.

Riley's phone buzzes less than five minutes after she ended the call. Joe's name appears on the screen.

She stares at it for two rings before answering.

"What?"

"Don't hang up." Joe's voice is quieter now, less sharp. "Please."

Riley doesn't say anything, but she doesn't hang up either.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have taken the loss out on you."

"No, you shouldn't have."

"And I should have told you about game days. I assumed you knew, but you didn't. That's on me."

Riley shifts against her hotel pillows, exhausted. "Joe, I stayed up all night to watch you play. I was trying to support you."

"I know. And I appreciate that, I do. I just... I don't think clearly after losses."

"It's not just about tonight. It's about me not knowing basic things about your life. About feeling like I'm always on the outside of the most important part of who you are."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I'll try to be more upfront about what game day stuff looks like for me. What the season looks like. I don't want you feeling shut out."

"Okay."

"Are we okay?"

Riley closes her eyes. She's too tired to fight, too tired to explain again why this hurt. "Yeah. We're okay."

"Get some sleep. I know you have early interviews."

"Yeah. I do."

"Riley?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For watching. For caring. I know I didn't say that before."

"You're welcome."

After they hang up, Riley lies in the dark staring at the ceiling. Joe apologized, promised to be more communicative about his boundaries. It should feel like progress.

Instead, it just feels like another conversation where she has to adjust her expectations to fit his world.

Riley sets an alarm and tries to fall asleep.

* * *

Riley sits cross-legged on the floor of the rehearsal studio, still catching her breath from running through "Lonely Is the Muse" for the tenth time today. The mock stage setup towers behind her—lights, risers, even a replica of the LED backdrop that will follow them around the world. Her phone is propped against her water bottle as she FaceTimes Joe, who's presumably at home in Cincinnati.

"You should see this setup," she says, angling the phone so he can see the stage. "It's insane. Andy designed this whole lighting sequence that syncs with the guitar solo in 'Lilith,' and Pete's been working on these harmonies that—"

"That's cool," Joe says, but his attention seems split. Riley can see him looking at something off-camera.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Just checking something real quick." He looks back at the phone. "Sorry. The stage looks good."

Riley tries not to let her irritation show. "We've been rehearsing for twelve hours a day. I'm exhausted but also kind of terrified and excited all at the same time. Tour starts in three weeks."

"You'll be great. You always are."

"I hope so." Riley shifts, tucking her legs under her. "Actually, I was thinking—you have your bye week coming up, right? End of October?"

"Yeah."

"You should come here. See the rehearsals, hang out while we're in prep mode. I could show you around the studio complex, introduce you to everyone properly." Riley's voice gets more animated as she talks. "You could watch us work through the setlist, see what this whole thing looks like from the inside."

Joe is quiet for a moment. "I don't know, Riley."

"What do you mean you don't know?"

"I mean, bye weeks are usually when I catch up on rest. Recovery. I don't really go anywhere during the season."

Riley frowns. "But it's your week off. And I'm asking you to come see something that's really important to me."

"I know it's important—"

"I don't think you do. Because it feels like you think my work is just a fun little hobby compared to yours."

"That's not true."

"Then why won't you come?"

Joe runs a hand through his hair, looking uncomfortable. "It's complicated."

"How is it complicated? You get on a plane, you come to LA, you spend time with your girlfriend. What's complicated about that?"

"Riley, we're still laying low, remember? After the whole Ethan thing? My team thinks it's better if I'm not seen—"

"Your team thinks it's better if you're not seen with me."

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant." Riley's voice gets sharper. "Joe, that was two months ago. How long are we supposed to hide because my drunk ex made a scene?"

"It's not hiding, it's being smart. The season just started, and things are going well, and I don't want to create any distractions—"

"I'm a distraction."

"No, the media attention is a distraction."

"Same thing." Riley stands up, pacing the small area in front of her phone. "God, we're right back where we started, aren't we?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you're still more worried about how things look than about being with me. Nothing's actually changed."

Joe's jaw tightens. "Come on, Riley. I've been trying to be better about communication—"

"Communication isn't the only problem, Joe. The problem is that you don't want to be seen with me. The problem is that I've flown to Cincinnati three times in the past month, but you won't come here once because you're worried about your precious image."

"Riley—"

"When's the last time you came to my world? When's the last time you made an effort to see what my life looks like instead of me always fitting into yours?"

"I came to your show in LA—"

"You came to my show in July with your friends, and that's it." Riley's voice cracks slightly. "I'm about to go on tour, Joe. This is the last chance we have to spend time together before I'm gone for months, and you're worried about people taking pictures of us."

Joe is quiet, and Riley can see him processing what she's saying. Finally, he speaks. "I just think it's better to be careful right now."

Riley stops pacing. "Better for who?"

"For both of us."

"No, Joe. Better for you. This is better for you." She picks up her phone, bringing it closer to her face. "I'm tired of being your secret. I'm tired of being the thing you have to manage and protect and hide from the world."

"You're not—"

"I am, though. That's exactly what I am." Riley's voice gets quieter, more defeated. "You know what? Forget I asked. Enjoy your bye week. Rest up, recover, do whatever you need to do."

"Riley, don't hang up. Let's talk about this."

"What's there to talk about? You made your choice. You always make the same choice."

"That's not true."

Riley looks at him through the screen, this man she's been trying to love despite how hard he makes it. "Name one time you've chosen me over what's safe for your career. One time."

Joe opens his mouth, then closes it. The silence stretches between them.

"That's what I thought," Riley says quietly.

"Riley—"

But she's already ended the call.

Riley sits in the empty rehearsal studio, surrounded by the elaborate stage setup that represents months of planning and preparation for the biggest tour of her career. In three weeks, she'll be performing these songs for thousands of people who love her music, who've been waiting for this moment almost as much as she has.

And the person she wants to share it with most is too worried about his image to show up.

She picks up her guitar and starts playing the opening chords to "Lonely Is the Muse," letting the music fill the silence Joe left behind.

* * *

Late October 

Riley sits on Joe's couch, watching him ice his shin for the third time since she arrived two hours ago. He's been rotating between the couch and the kitchen, restless and irritated, moving the ice pack every few minutes like he can't get comfortable.

"How long has it been bothering you?" she asks, setting down her coffee.

"Couple weeks." Joe adjusts the ice pack, wincing slightly. "It's fine. Just annoying."

"Have you had it looked at?"

"Yeah. They said it's minor. Just needs rest."

Riley watches him fidget with the ice pack, his jaw tight with frustration. She flew in this morning from LA, using her one day off between rehearsal blocks to see him, and he's been like this since she walked in the door—distracted, moody, barely acknowledging that she's here.

"You've seemed off," she says carefully. She's been watching his games when she can, trying to understand his world better after their last fight.

Joe's head snaps up. "What?"

"In the games I've watched. You just look... frustrated. More than usual."

"Since when do you analyze my games?"

"Since I'm trying to understand what's going on with you." Riley shifts on the couch to face him. "You look different out there."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're limping around your house icing your leg every twenty minutes."

Joe stands up abruptly, the ice pack falling to the floor. "It's just a minor thing. Shin splints or something. It'll heal."

"Joe—"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Riley stares at him as he paces to the kitchen, his movements stilted and careful. She's seen him frustrated before, but this feels different. Angrier. Like he's mad at his own body for betraying him.

"I'm trying to help," she says when he comes back with a different ice pack.

"I don't need help. I need this thing to stop hurting so I can play."

"Maybe you need to take some time—"

"I can't take time. We're 4-3, Riley. Every game matters."

"Your health matters too."

Joe laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My health matters when we're winning. Right now, I need to play through whatever this is."

Riley watches him settle back on the couch, immediately shifting to find a comfortable position for his leg. "Is this why you've been so..."

"So what?"

"Distant. Moody. Harder to reach than usual."

"I haven't been moody."

"Joe, I texted you good morning three days ago and you responded with 'ok.'"

"I was busy."

"With what? Icing your shin?"

Joe's expression darkens. "Don't."

"Don't what? Point out that you're taking your frustration out on me?"

"I'm not taking anything out on you."

"Then why does it feel like you resent me being here?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at the ice pack on his shin. "I don't resent you being here."

"You haven't asked me about tour prep once since I got here. You haven't asked about my day, about the flight, about anything. I might as well be invisible."

"I've got a lot on my mind."

"I know. Your shin, the games, the pressure. I get it. But I'm here, Joe. I'm trying to be supportive, and you're acting like I'm bothering you."

 Joe looks at her then, and for a moment his expression softens. "You're not bothering me."

"Then what's going on? Because this feels like more than just a sore leg."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, a gesture Riley recognizes as him trying to find words he doesn't want to say. "Everything's off right now. My timing, my accuracy, my decision-making. And this stupid shin thing is making it worse because I can't plant my foot right."

"So fix it. See a specialist, get treatment, whatever you need to do."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"Because if they think it's serious, they'll want me to sit. And I can't sit. Not with how we're playing."

Riley stares at him. "You'd rather play hurt than take care of yourself?"

"I'd rather not let my team down."

"What about letting yourself down? What about letting me down by shutting me out every time something goes wrong?"

Joe's jaw tightens again. "That's not what I'm doing."

"But that's what it feels like. From where I'm sitting, it feels exactly like what you're doing."

They sit in silence for a moment, the tension thick between them. Riley watches Joe adjust the ice pack again, his movements careful and frustrated.

"Maybe I should just give you some space," she says finally.

"You don't have to do that."

"Yeah, I do. You clearly don't want company right now."

"Riley—"

But she's already standing, heading toward the stairs. "I'm going to go read or something. Let me know if you need anything."

Joe doesn't argue, doesn't get up from the couch, doesn't try to stop her.

Riley goes upstairs to his bedroom and closes the door behind her. She sits on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone, wondering why she keeps coming back to someone who makes her feel more alone when she's with him than when she's actually alone.

Twenty minutes later, she hears footsteps on the stairs. Joe opens the bedroom door quietly, like he's not sure if she wants to see him.

"Hey," he says from the doorway.

Riley looks up from her phone. "Hey."

"Can I come in?"

She nods, and Joe walks over to the bed, sitting down beside her with a slight wince as he adjusts his leg.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I've been an ass."

Joe runs a hand through his hair. "This thing with my shin, it's got me all fucked up. I can't plant my foot right, and it's throwing off everything. My throws, my reads, my timing. Everything feels off."

Riley turns to face him. "So why take it out on me?"

"I don't know. Because you're here, I guess. Because it's easier than dealing with the fact that I might be losing a step."

"You're not losing a step. You're hurt."

"Same thing in this business."

Riley studies his face, seeing the frustration and fear he's been hiding behind his moodiness. "Joe, you can talk to me about this stuff. I want you to talk to me about it."

"I know. I just... I don't like feeling weak."

"Being hurt isn't weak. Being an asshole to the people who care about you is."

Joe looks at her, and for the first time all day, he really sees her. "You flew here to see me."

"I did."

"And I've been treating you like shit since you walked in."

"Pretty much."

Joe reaches for her hand. "I'm sorry, Riley. Really. I don't want you to feel like you're not welcome here."

Riley squeezes his hand. "I just want to help. I want to be here for you when things are hard."

"You are. Even when I'm too stupid to appreciate it."

They sit in silence for a moment before Joe lies back on the bed, pulling Riley down with him. She curls up against his side, careful of his injured leg.

"I'm sorry I made you feel like you didn't matter."

Riley lifts her head to look at him. "Do I matter?"

"You matter the most Birdie."

* * *

November

The pocket collapses faster than Joe expects.

He's got Ja'Marr running a comeback route, sees the window opening, but Baltimore's pass rush is relentless tonight. Roquan Smith is coming hard from the left side, and Joe feels the familiar pressure that means he's got maybe half a second to get rid of the ball.

He steps up in the pocket, trying to buy time, but the protection breaks down completely. Bodies everywhere, purple jerseys converging. Joe scrambles right, looking for an escape route, the ball still tucked against his chest.

The hit comes from behind and to the side—a combination of defensive linemen collapsing the pocket. Joe goes down hard, his right hand hitting the turf first as he tries to brace his fall. The impact sends a shock wave up his arm, but it's not until he tries to push himself up that he feels it.

Sharp, electric pain shooting from his wrist straight up to his elbow.

Joe rolls over, sitting up on the field, and looks down at his right hand. It looks normal, but when he tries to flex his wrist, the pain is immediate and breathtaking. Not the dull ache of his shin, which has been manageable for weeks. This is different. This is wrong.

"You good, Joe?" Ja'Marr is standing over him, helmet off, concern written across his face.

Joe nods automatically, the way he always does, but when he tries to push himself to his feet using his right hand, the pain nearly makes him sick. He gets up using his left hand instead, cradling his right arm against his body.

The Ravens defense is celebrating—they got the sack, stopped the drive. The crowd at M&T Bank Stadium is deafening. Joe walks slowly toward the huddle, trying to shake off whatever's wrong with his wrist, but every step sends jarring pain up his arm.

"Let's go, offense!" he calls out, trying to sound normal, but his voice feels tight.

In the huddle, Joe holds the play sheet with his left hand. When he claps to break the huddle, he uses his left hand against his thigh instead of clapping normally. His teammates don't notice, but Joe notices everything. The way his right hand feels weak and unstable. The way gripping the football sends shooting pain through his wrist.

The next snap comes fast. Joe takes the ball, tries to set up for a quick slant to Tyler Boyd, but when he goes to release the ball, his wrist can't support the throwing motion. The ball wobbles out of his hand, falling incomplete five yards short of the target.

Joe stares down at his right hand, flexing his fingers. They move, but his wrist feels like it's full of broken glass.

"Joe!" Coach Taylor is calling for a timeout, jogging onto the field. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Joe says, but he's not good. He knows he's not good. He's played through pain before—the shin, countless bumps and bruises, the appendectomy his rookie year. This is different.

Dr. Sparks, the team physician, approaches with the medical staff. "What's going on?"

"Wrist," Joe says simply, holding up his right hand. "Landed on it weird."

Dr. Sparks takes Joe's hand, gently rotating the wrist. The pain is immediate and sharp enough that Joe has to bite back a curse.

"Can you grip?" Dr. Sparks asks, handing Joe a football.

Joe takes it with his right hand, tries to squeeze. His grip strength is maybe thirty percent of normal, and even that causes significant pain. When he tries to cock his arm back in a throwing motion, the pain is so intense his vision blurs for a second.

"I can't throw," Joe admits, the words feeling like giving up.

Coach Taylor's face falls. "Can you hand it off? Run some read-option?"

Joe tries to grip the ball again, tries to simulate a handoff motion. Even that simple movement sends pain shooting up his arm. "I don't think so."

The stadium noise fades into background static as Dr. Sparks examines Joe's wrist more thoroughly on the sideline. Teammates pat his shoulders as they pass, offering encouragement, but Joe barely hears them. All he can think about is the calendar in his head—nine games left in the season, playoffs within reach, everything they've worked for since August.

"We need to get this X-rayed," Dr. Sparks says quietly. "Tonight."

Joe looks out at the field, where Jake Browning is warming up, preparing to take over. The scoreboard shows 10-7 Ravens, second quarter, plenty of time to come back. Except Joe won't be the one leading the comeback.

"How bad?" Joe asks.

Dr. Sparks doesn't answer immediately, which tells Joe everything he needs to know.

As Joe walks toward the tunnel, his right arm held carefully against his body, he thinks about Riley. She's in New York doing press appearances, probably at some late night show, completely unaware that his season might have just ended on a routine play against a Baltimore pass rush that got home half a second too fast.

The crowd noise follows him into the tunnel—cheers for Baltimore, sympathy from the few Bengals fans who made the trip. Joe doesn't look back at the field. If this is as bad as it feels, he's already seen enough football for 2023.

In the locker room, alone except for medical staff, Joe sits on the training table and stares at his right hand. The hand that's supposed to hold footballs, sign autographs, win championships. The hand that's supposed to touch Riley's face when he tells her he loves her, whenever he finally works up the courage to say it.

Right now, it can barely hold a cup of water.

Dr. Sparks returns with preliminary results that confirm what Joe already knows: his season is over. The scapholunate ligament in his wrist is torn, requiring surgery and months of rehabilitation.

Joe nods when he hears the diagnosis, like he expected it. Because deep down, from the moment he hit the ground, he knew. You don't play quarterback in the NFL for five years without learning to distinguish between pain you can play through and pain that means something is fundamentally broken.

As the medical staff discusses surgery timelines and recovery protocols, Joe's phone buzzes with texts he can't respond to yet. Teammates, family, reporters. The outside world learning what happened.

But the person he most wants to talk to is in New York, probably charming some talk show host or doing interviews, completely unaware that everything just changed.

Joe closes his eyes and tries not to think about how long it's going to be before he can throw a football again. Tries not to think about Riley, and how she's going to drop everything to be here for him, just like she always does.

Tries not to think about how he doesn't deserve that kind of loyalty, but how desperately he needs it anyway.

* * *

Riley sits in the green room at The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, watching Thursday Night Football on her phone while Stephen's monologue plays on the monitor overhead. Pete, Andy, and Daniel are sprawled across the couches around her—they're all appearing together tonight, doing "Daylight" as a full band performance.

"Twenty minutes until we're on," Andy says, tuning his guitar. "You nervous?"

"Nah, this is easy compared to tour prep," Riley replies, though she's actually looking forward to it. Playing with the guys always feels more natural than solo appearances.

Daniel's practicing paradiddles on his thighs while Pete scrolls through his phone. Riley keeps her phone tilted toward herself, watching the Ravens at Bengals game. Joe mentioned this game in his last text—division rival, important for playoff positioning.

She sees him drop back to pass, the pocket collapsing, bodies in purple jerseys converging.

Then she sees him go down.

At first, it looks like any other sack. Joe gets hit, stays down for a moment, then starts to get up. But something about the way he's moving catches Riley's attention. He's cradling his right arm against his body, his throwing hand held carefully away from his body.

"Oh no," Riley whispers, sitting up straighter.

"What?" Pete looks over at her.

Riley doesn't answer, too focused on her phone screen. The next play makes it obvious. Joe takes the snap, tries to throw, and the ball comes out weak and wobbly, falling short of the receiver. Even Riley, who knows nothing about football technique, can see that throw was wrong.

"Shit," she breathes, turning her phone so the guys can see. "Something's wrong with Joe."

All three of them crowd around her phone now, watching as Joe walks toward the sideline, medical staff surrounding him. The camera zooms in on his face, and even through his helmet, Riley can see the frustration and pain written there.

"That's not good," Daniel says quietly.

"That looks really bad," Andy adds.

Riley's phone starts buzzing with notifications, but she keeps watching. Joe's on the sideline now, clearly not going back in. Jake Browning is warming up on the field.

A production assistant appears in the doorway. "Five minutes to places, everyone."

Riley looks up, torn between professional obligation and personal crisis. "I need to—"

"You need to perform," Pete says gently. "You can't do anything right now anyway. Do the song, then figure out what's next."

Riley nods, knowing he's right but hating it. She puts her phone in her jacket pocket, but her hands are shaking slightly.

"Hey," Andy says, catching her arm. "He's going to be okay."

"You don't know that."

"No, but I know you. And I know you'll go crazy if you don't at least try to get through this performance first."

Riley takes a deep breath, trying to center herself. "If I get through this song and fly out tonight, can you guys handle the interview? And tomorrow's press?"

"Of course," Daniel says immediately.

"Whatever you need," Pete adds.

Riley nods, grateful for the millionth time that these three have her back no matter what.

"Alright, let's go play a song."

The performance is muscle memory. Riley's done "Daylight" hundreds of times now, and playing with Pete, Andy, and Daniel feels natural even when her mind is three hundred miles away in Baltimore. She smiles when she's supposed to, and to anyone watching, she probably looks like an artist having fun promoting her upcoming tour.

But the entire time, all she can think about is Joe walking off that field, holding his wrist like something inside it was broken.

The moment they finish the song and the cameras cut to commercial, Riley is already moving.

"That was great, guys," Stephen says, shaking hands with the band. "We'll do a quick interview segment when we come back."

"Actually," Pete jumps in smoothly, "Riley has to step out for a family emergency, but we'd love to chat with you about the tour."

Riley shoots him a grateful look as she heads toward the exit. Her phone is already in her hand, pulling up flight apps as she walks.

"Riley!" Andy calls after her. "Text us when you know something."

She nods without looking back, already focused on getting to Cincinnati as fast as possible.

In the hallway outside the studio, Riley calls Scout while simultaneously booking the next available flight.

"Riley? How was Colbert?"

"Joe's hurt. I need to get to Cincinnati tonight. Can you handle the Morning Show appearance tomorrow, the guys are gonna do it alone.  Can you make sure they are prepped?"

"Of course. How hurt?"

Riley pauses, watching the replay of Joe's injury that's now cycling on sports news. "Bad, I think. Really bad."

"Go. I'll handle everything here."

An hour later, Riley is in an Uber Black to JFK, still in her black leather jacket from the show. Her phone buzzes constantly with updates from ESPN, texts from friends who saw the news, missed calls from people wanting to know if she's okay.

But the only call that matters—from Joe himself—never comes.

Riley stares out the window at the New York City lights rushing past and tries not to think about what it means that he hasn't reached out. Tries not to think about how she's dropping everything, again, for someone who might not even want her there.

But she knows she doesn't really have a choice. When someone you love is hurt, you go. Even if the relationship is complicated, even if you've been fighting, even if you're not sure where you stand.

You go anyway.

* * *

Riley manages to get on the last flight to Cincinnati, a red-eye that doesn't leave until 11:47 PM. She sits in her window seat, finally allowing herself to process what just happened. Four hours ago she was getting ready to perform on national television. Now she's flying to Cincinnati because the man she loves got hurt and she couldn't stay away.

Once the plane reaches cruising altitude, Riley pulls out her phone and opens her text thread with Joe. Their last exchange was three days ago—him saying good luck with Colbert, her thanking him.

She starts typing.

I'm on a plane to Cincinnati. Landing at 3:20 AM. No use arguing about it, I'm already in the air. I'll call a car from the airport, don't worry about anything.

She hits send before she can second-guess herself.

The response comes faster than she expected.

Riley you didn't have to do that

I know. But I did.

I'm having someone pick you up. Don't argue.

Riley stares at his text, feeling something loosen in her chest. He's not telling her not to come. He's not angry that she dropped everything. He's making sure she gets to him safely.

Okay.

Thank you for coming.

Riley closes her eyes and leans back against the headrest. Outside the window, the lights of the East Coast pass by below. In a few hours, she'll be in Cincinnati, and whatever happens next, at least she'll be there.

Always, she types back. I'll always come.

* * *

Joe sits in the back of a team car leaving Baltimore, his right wrist wrapped and elevated against his chest. It's past midnight, and the highway stretches ahead—about six hours back to Cincinnati so he can see the team doctors first thing in the morning. His wrist throbs with every bump in the road despite the pain medication.

Riley's coming. She's on a plane right now, flying here because he got hurt, even though they've barely been talking and he's been a complete ass to her for weeks.

He calls his parents in Athens.

"Joey?" Robin Burrow answers on the second ring, her voice tight with worry. "We saw what happened. How bad is it?"

"Bad, Mom. Season-ending. I'm flying back to Cincinnati now to see the team doctors tomorrow."

"Oh, honey. We're so sorry."

"Listen, I need a favor, and it's kind of a big one."

"Anything."

Joe takes a breath. "Riley's flying in from New York. Her plane lands at 3:20 AM in Cincinnati, but I won't get home until around six or seven. Could you and Dad drive up and pick her up, then stay with her until I get there? I don't want her sitting alone in my house for hours."

There's a pause, and Joe can practically hear his mom's understanding smile through the phone.

"Of course we can do that. Your father's already getting his keys."

"Mom, I knows it's the middle of the night—"

"Joey, if that girl is dropping everything to come here for you, the least we can do is make sure she's taken care of until you get home."

Relief floods through him. "Thank you. Seriously."

"I'll find her," Robin says. "She'll probably look exhausted."

"Yeah, she just finished a TV show in New York and got on the first plane she could find."

"I'm finally going to meet her," Robin says, and Joe can hear the mixture of excitement and concern in her voice.

"Yeah. I just... I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Honey, she's coming because she loves you. The circumstances don't matter."

After they hang up, Joe texts Riley: My parents are driving up from Athens to pick you up. Robin and Jimmy Burrow, they'll be at baggage claim. They're going to stay with you at my house until I get home around 7 AM.

Riley's response comes quickly: Joe, it's 3 AM and you're asking your parents to drive two hours to pick me up? I can't let them do that.

Too late. Already asked. Dad's already in the car.

I'm going to feel terrible about this.

Don't. They want to meet you anyway. And I don't want you sitting alone in my house for hours.

This isn't exactly how I imagined meeting your parents.

Joe stares at that text for a long moment. He hadn't really thought about Riley meeting his family before, but now that it's happening, it feels right. Inevitable, maybe.

They're going to love you, he types back.

I hope so.

Promise. See you in Cincinnati.

* * *

X (Twitter)

@NFLNewsNow BREAKING: Bengals QB Joe Burrow suffers season-ending wrist injury during Thursday Night Football loss to Ravens. Surgery expected within days. #Bengals #NFL

@SportsCenter Joe Burrow's 2023 season is over. The Bengals QB suffered a scapholunate ligament tear in his right wrist during tonight's game in Baltimore. 📺: ESPN

@PopCultureDaily Riley Carter just performed on @colbertlateshow but apparently left before the interview portion? The band did the interview without her. Wonder what was so urgent 👀

@bengalsfan2012 Replying to @PopCultureDaily Wait wasn't this the night Joe got hurt? Timeline seems suspicious...

@musicnews247 UPDATE: Sources say Riley Carter had a "family emergency" and had to leave Colbert taping early. The Rambles covered for her during interview segment.

@rileystanaccount Something's not right. Riley NEVER misses interviews. She's been promoting this tour for months. What kind of family emergency happens at 11 PM on a Thursday?

@footballwife23 Did anyone else notice the timing? Joe gets hurt around 9:30 PM, Riley leaves Colbert around 11 PM. Just saying 👀👀

@bengalsbabes Replying to @footballwife23 I've been saying they're together for MONTHS. This basically confirms it

Instagram Stories & Posts

@entertainmenttonight 🚨 JUST IN: @rileycarter unexpectedly left tonight's @colbertlateshow taping due to "urgent family matter." The singer performed but skipped the interview portion. Swipe for more ➡️

@deuxmoi Submitted Anon: "Was at Colbert taping tonight. Riley Carter seemed fine during performance but left immediately after. Heard someone say she was getting calls during commercial break and looked really upset. Band members covered for her with Stephen."

@popsugar Riley Carter makes rare early exit from late night TV 👀 The "Daylight" singer left @colbertlateshow before her scheduled interview, citing family emergency. This comes just hours after Bengals QB Joe Burrow's season-ending injury... 🤔 #RileyCarter #JoeBurrow

Reddit

r/bengals

Title: Anyone else think Riley Carter is flying to Cincinnati right now? Posted 3 hours ago

The timing is too perfect. Joe gets hurt around 9:30, she leaves Colbert around 11. "Family emergency" my ass. She's definitely on a plane.

UPDATE: Just checked flight tracking apps. There was a red-eye from JFK to CVG that left at 11:47 PM. Landing at 3:20 AM. 👀

Top comment: No way they're actually together though right? Wouldn't we have seen them by now?

Reply: They've been SUPER private if they are. Remember all those rumors that started back in February? But nothing ever confirmed even after all these months.

Reply: If this is real, Joe's making a huge mistake. She's nothing but drama and bad headlines. Remember that bar fight with her ex? We don't need that circus around our franchise QB.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. She's been linked to like 3 different guys this year. Party girl with substance abuse rumors. Joe needs to focus on football, not babysitting some rock star.

Reply: Called it months ago - she's a clout chaser. Probably saw Joe get hurt and smelled an opportunity for sympathy headlines.

Reply: If Joe's really dating her, his performance this season makes SO much sense now. Dude's been off his game.

r/rileycarter

Title: What "family emergency" happens at 11 PM on a Thursday??? Posted 2 hours ago

Riley has never, and I mean NEVER, bailed on a major interview. She's done shows while sick, she's done press with bronchitis, she showed up to that radio interview the day after her grandma's funeral.

This is about a boy. Specifically a quarterback boy. Calling it now.

Top comment: The math is mathing. Joe injury -> Riley panic -> immediate flight to Cincinnati.

Reply: But why would she do that if they're not serious? You don't drop everything for a casual thing.

Reply to reply: EXACTLY. This feels like real relationship territory.

TikTok

@nflteaa (457K followers) Video showing side-by-side timeline "POV: You're connecting the dots 👀"

Sound: "And all the pieces fall right into place"

Comments: "NO WAY this is a coincidence" "She really said family emergency and got on a plane to Cincinnati I can't 😭" "This is either the most romantic thing ever or I'm delusional" "Plot twist: they've been dating this whole time"

@popculture.detective (1.2M followers) Video compilation of clips

Comments: "The way she RAN to that airport"

"This is giving secret relationship energy" 

"Imagine dropping everything and flying across the country for someone 🥺" 

"OK but if this is real they're actually perfect together???"

@riley.carter.updates (89K followers) Screenshot of Colbert audience member's tweet "GUYS. I was at the taping. Riley did her performance but then just... left. Didn't do the interview. Band said 'family emergency' but she looked completely shaken. Security rushed her out during commercial break."

Text overlay: "Family emergency or boyfriend emergency? 👀"

[my-alter-ego777]

Short Clips

Eminem fanfic, Singer!reader, language, angst, loss, comfort, fluff, pda, made-up usernames for comments, shitty title, sry if I missed anything.

Word count: 2,421

Note: I just wrote a handful of ideas that popped into my adhd, scatterbrained head, and put them into one post. Hope y'all enjoy some random-ass content! - xo

One more thing, these clips are not in any particular order or specific era of Eminem's career.

Clip 1

The video showcases a fan's viewpoint from the audience. The loud cheers from those nearby overwhelm the phone's speaker as Marshall finishes the final line of his song.

-

You and Marshall have embarked on a world tour together, and tonight is your inaugural performance in this two-month adventure.

The audience is ecstatic to see you on stage beside him, especially after the news broke just before the tour commenced about your grandmother's passing.

People were genuinely concerned about you, knowing how much she meant to you (you often spoke about her in interviews when asked about your biggest supporter and inspiration). It was evident to everyone that your grandma was your foundation, your everything.

This led them to ponder whether you'd choose to step back from the world tour to take some time for yourself, which they would completely understand and not hold against you, but it wouldn't stop them from feeling sad at your absence.

So, when you stepped out onto that stage at the beginning of tonight's show, everyone was taken aback but utterly delighted by your appearance.

You mentioned early on that despite being profoundly affected by loss, you (and anyone in similar circumstances.) should have the freedom to feel and express your pain, sadness, and grief... however, it's also crucial to remember to keep moving forward in life, as your grandma would say, and not allow difficult times to hinder you from pursuing your dreams and doing what brings you the most joy.

So that's the reason you are here tonight. Standing before all these people you regard as family and alongside your best friends, who are so dear to you.

-

Marshall's song flows seamlessly into one of yours. The intro itself captivates everyone, including Marshall and Denaun, drawing them into its own world, its own universe. The melodic strings tug at the hearts of the listeners, while the low hum of your siren-like voice makes the hairs on their bodies stand up.

Not even three seconds into the song, fans, especially those who have been with you for a long time, recognize it instantly.

This is the song you composed and dedicated to your grandma some time ago, and everyone in the stadium proceeds to experiences a simultaneous wave of warmth and sorrow.

The phone's camera zooms in on you, adjusting to the spotlight that highlights your facial features.

You look gentle. Celestial.

Your eyes flutter open as you begin the first verse, and the corners of your lips lift into an endearing smile as you see every single person in the stadium turn on their flash.

Your voice glides effortlessly and gracefully alongside the instrumentals.

However, as you reach the midpoint of the song, you sense a tightening on your throat, making it somewhat difficult to deliver the next line.

And others can see you beginning to struggle.

This is the first time you're performing this song since your grandmother's passing, and some might argue that it's too soon, that you're too vulnerable to take this on right now. Yet, you felt compelled to sing it for her tonight.

To sing it to her as she watches over you.

You thought you could manage it, you really did... but at this moment, you're not so sure anymore.

Out of nowhere, you feel a solid, warm, familiar body pressing against your side, and tatted arms gently lift your trembling shoulders - When did they start trembling? - bringing you upright from where you were leaning forward, your hands resting on bent knees, - And when did you manage that? - wrapping you in a comforting embrace.

-

Marshall observes you from across the stage, admiring how effortlessly you can be vulnerable in front of an audience, the way you peel back your layers, while still maintaining control of yourself.

That was until you reach the midpoint of the song, and he hears your voice start to crack, and catches a tear somehow escape past your tightly shut eyelids.

The camera lens captures the shimmering water droplets on your cheekbones, reflecting the stadium lights, while your chest rises with a deep, albeit shaky, breath. Your shoulders roll back as you try to hold it together enough to finish the song, but it has become too much to handle.

Both the crowd and Marshall can see this.

The moment the microphone slips from your lips, catching the tail end of a broken cry, and you lean forward, your hands barely supporting you atop your bent knees, Marshall can no longer just watch; the camera focuses, adjusting on his figure as he strides determinedly towards your fragile one.

-

The crowd grows more expressive during this interaction between you and Marshall, primarily to demonstrate their support for you. They are shouting various words of solace that you genuinely value, but it's Marshall's comforting words and familiar presence that keeps you grounded.

"I've got you, sweetheart, I've got you." He coos against your head, his hand rubbing soothingly along your spine.

The next action taken by Marshall is something no one would anticipate.

He raises his own microphone to his mouth and begins to sing the remainder of the song. - Now, while Marshall may not possess a traditional singing voice, he certainly knows how to carry a tune. - You look up, as he does, and into his eyes with your watery ones accompanied by a smile full of admiration, and find the strength to continue.

Raising your own mic to your lips and conveying a "thank you" with your gaze, you two finish the song in perfect harmony.

<Comments>

EminemStan14: Through thick and thin those two 🥺🩷❤️

(Y/n)sGuitarPick: Damn it, now I'm crying!😭 Hope she's doing better 🩷

(Y/n)sChild: Sending all my love @(Y/n)(L/n)🩷

Clip 2

The lone paparazzo's camera captures footage of you and Marshall as you walk to retrieve his vehicle in a parking garage located somewhere in Detroit. Both of you remain unaware of his presence, as he stands at a distance, just outside the boundaries of the complex.

The lens zooms in, offering a clearer view of your faces as the two of you appear to be engaging in light-hearted conversation.

However, the mood shifts when you say something with a mischievous look that causes Marshall's facial expression to drop and prompts you to cackle shamelessly at his now displeased features.

You revel in the moment, your head thrown back and hands clutching your stomach, before you fall a few steps ahead of him, continuing your journey to the car.

But, with an almost evil smirk, Marshall takes advantage of your turned back and delivers a firm smack to your rear, the sound resonating throughout the garage level and accompanied by your surprised yell, which is swiftly muffled by his hand as he pulls you back against his chest, his arm wrapping securely around your waist.

Marshall stops in his tracks and leans down to whisper something in your ear that causes your shoulders to shrink in a submissive manner. Then he proceeds to move the hand over your mouth down to your throat, holding it in a gentle yet assertive grip that has your eyes looking up into his as if you are entranced by a spell he just cast.

Marshall's predator-like stare looks about ready to devour you in the worst - or best - way possible.

The last thing the camera captures is Marshall leading you with purposeful steps towards the passenger side of his car, cutting off its view of you two completely.

<Comments>

Slim69_Shady: OMGGGG!! Sir! 😅😏🤭

(Y/n)Stan33: Did y'all see the recoil on that booty!?! 😳🍑 Eminem is a lucky man 😩

Slim12: Tell me you're in a brat-tamer x brat relationship without telling me. 😐🥵

Clip 3

An 11-second video from Denaun's Instagram story features him along with a bunch of others (who fans quickly identify as team members of Shady Records upon seeing Paul and Tracy, flanked by some hefty security personnel) walking down a long hallway.

"Countin' down, 20 minutes till showtime, baby!" He shouts at his phone, then flips the camera, making you and Marshall the center of attention now.

You two are positioned near the front of the group, and the sight alone has fans raving.

Your chest is pressed against Marshall's strong back while your arms are affectionately draped over his shoulders, and his tatted ones hold your thighs snugly against his hips as he carries you effortlessly.

"How you feelin' about tonight's performance, Chipmunk?" He asks you, all pumped up.

"I'm feeling fucking amazing!" You belt out, chin raised from where it rested on Marshall's head, and your heavenly voice echoes off the walls, captivating everyone nearby.

And as viewers look closer, they see a small, loving smile tugging at the corners of Marshall's lips as he attempts to look up at your stunning face.

"That's what I'm talkin' about!" Denaun exclaims before the video ends.

<Comments>

Emslover22: Em looks so happy! 🥰

Fan1999: Reply to Emslover22: Ikr, they deserve each other ❤️

BabySlim: Her vocals are unreal 🤩

AllAbout(Y/n): Love Denaun and (Y/n)'s relationship 😊

Clip 4

"Well, hello there!" The interviewer exclaims, both surprised and delighted, as a cat strolls into the camera's view.

Marshall and an interviewer, Stacy, were lounging comfortably on the couch in the spacious dressing room you and he have been using for tonight's show, and he had just finished answering a question when the friendly feline jumped into his lap, curious about the chunky foam head of the microphone he was holding, before rubbing its cheek against it.

"Who is this adorable little one?" She asks sweetly, observing as Marshall gently strokes the smoky orange fur along its back.

You are currently away at your meet and greet, which is happening somewhere on the property. You always held these events before shows so that you could head to bed afterwards.

"This is my son, Cowboy," he introduces the cat in a melodious tone. "How's it going, little man? Do you have something to say to the audience?" Laughter fills the room when Cowboy chirps into the mic as if he understood Marshall's question.

"How long have you had him?" Stacy inquires, extending her hand for Cowboy to smell.

"Well, he and Thalia over there," he gestures towards Cowboy's sister, who is lounging peacefully at the top of the cat tower in the corner like royalty. "are both originally (Y/n)'s cats. She adopted them from an Abyssinian cat rescue years ago, but I kind of became their cat-dad early on in our relationship. It's great."

"That's so lovely," Stacy coos. "I had no idea you were a cat lover," she adds with genuine curiosity.

Marshall lets out a soft, small laugh, "I had no idea either, to be honest," and gently scratches behind Cowboy's ear for a moment, who has decided to climb onto his shoulder and snuggle his face against his neck and cool gold chain. "But these two have really grown on me over the last couple of years. I love 'em like my own kids, ya know?"

<Comments>

(Y/N)sLover11: (Y/n) takes those cats everywhere. Amazing pet parent right there! 🐱❤️

(L/n)xMathersForever: Cowboy, if ever the attention whore 😂❤️ love him.

MathersMaddness: Aww! Marshall's finally a boy dad!

Clip 5

50 Cent is spotted lounging on a couch during his latest Instagram live session, with his phone propped up on the small table in front of him, while Marshall's body keeps appearing partially in frame as he sits next to him.

Curtis engages with his audience, responding to questions and more. Marshall even joins in occasionally.

Comment: IS (Y/N) THERE?!

Curt's gaze catches the question just before it gets pushed up with the other comments.

"Yeah, yeah, she's here." He nods and looks up past his phone at you and Denaun, who have been tossing jellybeans into each other's mouths for the last 15 minutes. (Every time one of you catches a jellybean, you take a step back. Right now, you both are standing 20 feet apart. You could say you're quite proud of how far you've come.) "She and Denaun are throwin' jellybeans at each other like a couple of kids." He jokes.

"Aye!" Denaun pretends to be offended, while you just laugh and shake your head, continuing your impressive streak of catching jellybeans.

Not even five minutes later, as Curtis and Marshall are discussing a particular topic, a loud crash, reminiscent of a bull in a china shop, erupts in the background, causing both men to look up, startled.

"Oh my- (Y/n)!" Marshall exclaims first, his eyes widening when they land on you.

"What in the hell happened?!" 50 nearly shouts in concern, standing up from his seat, unlike Marshall, who has already jumped up and rushed over to you.

"Shit, baby, you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?" The speaker picks up on Marshall's caring and worried tone, and the brief silence that follows is broken by your infectious laughter.

"That was freaking amazing!" You exclaim with a laugh.

"Oh my God." Curtis sighs, exhausted but relieved that you seem to be fine. "Look at this mess, man..." He grabs his phone to turn the camera towards your situation.

The chat is filled with a mix of concerned and amused comments as everyone sees you sprawled out in a pile of what used to be your perfectly upright drum set.

But that's the result of being so focused on catching a flying jellybean that you forget to watch where you're going.

"No, not fucking amazing," Marshall scolds in frustration, dragging a hand down his face. "'Aight, we're finished playing with jellybeans; hand me the bag." He extends his hand, and Denaun, who appears somewhat embarrassed and ashamed, gives it to him.

De understands that what happened isn't his fault, yet he can't shake off a slight feeling of guilt. Even though you show no signs of pain or injury, he has kind of taken on the role of your protective older brother, ensuring that you, his sweet and vibrant little sister, are always safe.

"No, no, wait, look," you say, capturing their attention once more as you move your tongue to your right cheek and then stick it out to reveal a green jellybean resting on your taste buds, a proud expression lighting up your face. "I actually caught it!"

< Comments>

(Y/N)sNum1Fan: I fucking love (Y/n) 🤣

SlimGravy: (Y/n) always keeping Em on his toes, lmfao!!

Superman69: This just made my day 💀. Glad she's okay, though. 🩷

Again, I hope y'all enjoyed this post, and let me know if you'd be interested in seeing more content like this!

[incloudcity]

hold the line | ld29

requests are open summary: leon’s always been hard to read — cold, some might say. But you’ve always known how he feels about you. Or you thought you did.

You always knew loving Leon would be quiet.

He’s not dramatic. Not a talker. He doesn’t do grand romantic gestures or stay up until 2 a.m. whispering promises into the phone.

He shows love in quieter ways. In the way he keeps a hand on your thigh when he drives. In the way he remembers how you take your coffee, even if he never drinks it himself. In the way he leans into your shoulder instead of saying, I missed you.

You were okay with that. You liked it, even. The steadiness. The security of it.

Until now.

Because lately, the silence hasn’t felt steady. It’s felt like a countdown.

You’re used to the distance — him in Edmonton, you in Vancouver. It's never been easy, but it's been doable. You’ve made it work for nearly a year. Calls, visits, weekends stolen between games and your job’s endless hours.

But two weeks ago, something shifted.

The calls got shorter.

Then they stopped entirely.

Texts went from thoughtful to sparse. One-word replies. Half a heart emoji. Sometimes, nothing at all.

You’d brushed it off at first. Everyone gets busy. He’d tell you if something was wrong.

Right?

But now it’s nine days until he’s supposed to fly out and you haven’t heard his voice in a week.

The last text he sent was five days ago.

“Busy day. Will call later.”

He didn’t.

You tell yourself you won’t spiral. Then you check his Instagram.

Nothing new. But that makes it worse. He’s been completely silent. No stories. No posts. Just gone.

So, you cave.

You call him.

It rings once. Then twice.

Straight to voicemail.

You try again.

Nothing.

Then, a third time. You leave a message this time, trying to sound light.

“Hey. Just… wondering what’s going on. You don’t have to call tonight, just let me know you’re okay. I miss you.”

You hang up and stare at the wall for five solid minutes.

Then you text.

“If you’re not coming next week, just let me know.” “You can say it, Leon. I can handle it.”

You end up deleting the last one.

You set the phone down and go to bed. Alone.

Again.

He calls two days later.

You’re half-asleep on the couch, the TV flickering some true crime doc in the background, when the screen lights up.

LEON DRAISAITL.

You answer on the second ring, voice flat. “Hey.”

He sounds rushed. Distracted. Like he’s walking through a parking lot or flipping through his bag.

“Hey—shit, sorry, I meant to call yesterday. It’s been a crazy few days.”

You press the phone harder to your ear. “Right.”

“I’ve just had a lot to figure out, and the flights were—uh, hang on—sorry, one sec.”

You wait. Silent.

He comes back, muttering something under his breath. “Anyway. It’s good now. I’ll explain soon.”

You pause. The silence buzzes in your ears. He sounds like he’s somewhere else. Wants to be somewhere else.

“You don’t have to explain anything,” you say, voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates. “What?”

You close your eyes. “Nothing. It's nothing.”

“Wait what—”

You hang up before he can answer.

He shows up the next morning.

You open the door in pajama pants and your ex’s hoodie — the one Leon always pretended not to hate but definitely did.

And there he is.

Leon. On your doorstep. With his duffel bag and his tired eyes and confusion written all over his face.

You cross your arms. Your voice comes out cold, flat, like you rehearsed it in a dream.

“So you really flew out just to break up with me in person, huh?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You could’ve just sent a text, you know. But I guess I should give you credit for flying across provinces to make it official.”

He steps inside slowly, like approaching a wild animal.

“What are you talking about?”

You laugh bitterly. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t know what this is.” Your voice wavers. “You’ve been ghosting me for days, Leon. You sound like you don’t even want to be here.”

His brow furrows. “I’ve been planning a trip. For us.”

You stare at him.

“I flew out early,” he says, a little breathless. “I booked us a cabin. In the valley. You said you were burned out. I wanted to give you a week away from your inbox and your shitty coffee maker.”

Your mouth opens. Closes.

“I’ve been trying to coordinate everything—rental, car, making sure the team didn’t say anything. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

You’re blinking fast now. “You planned a vacation?”

“Yes.”

“And you just… stopped talking to me?”

He rubs a hand over his face. “Okay I didn’t mean to. I was trying to do it right. Keep it a secret, make it perfect. But I fucked it up.”

You sink onto the arm of the couch, stunned. “I thought you were done with me.”

Leon’s face crumples. “I could never be done with you.”

You want to yell at him. You want to cry.

Instead, you just whisper, “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I don’t always know how to do this right,” he says, voice rough. “I’m not good with words. I don’t know how to show things in a way that makes sense to people. But I know what I feel.”

You look at him — really look at him. The way his shoulders slope slightly toward you. The nervous twitch in his thumb. The overnight bag still zipped like he didn’t expect to stay if this went badly.

You think of every time he’s flown out on a red-eye to make a dinner. Every text where he noticed something small you said days before. Every time he held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

“You’ve always been hard to read,” you whisper.

“I know.”

“Sometimes I don’t know if you love me, or if I’m just… convenient.”

He crouches down in front of you.

“You are everything to me,” he says. “Even when I don’t know how to say it.”

You believe him.

Not because it’s pretty.

But because it’s real.

Later, after you’ve both showered and eaten and laid in bed quietly for a while, you turn to him.

“You’re still taking me on that vacation, right?”

He smiles. “Already packed snacks.”

“And you’re not secretly planning to dump me by the lake?”

He laughs, pulling you closer. “Not unless you keep wearing that hoodie.”

You smack his chest and he catches your wrist, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like he doesn’t want to let go.

“You know I love you, right?” he says.

You nod. “Yeah. I do.”

You always have.

Even in the silence.

[quietplace26]

I became obsessed with your story, especially the "diary of secrets"

I really wanna know what happened after "diary of secrets time travel", after Focalors trial, like some fluffy moments with a yandere touch between Furina!MC and Neuvillette and what happened between them and their relationship, how Neuvillette bound her to his soul and by marriage, whatever you like.

How all of Fontaine treat Furina!MC like the most precious treasure, they are trying to forget the painful past. (I wonder what happened to Furina!MC in the past before the time travel?) Now she their beloved archon and spoiled queen.

Good Question!

Well, for starters when Furina!MC wakes up after Focalors' trial, she's gonna have a LOT of questions. Neuvillette answers them truthfully, and Furina!MC has to wrap her head around the fact all of the Court of Fontaine had time traveled from post Prophecy Fontaine, and they read her diary-

But she's brought out her now growing panic to Neuvillette calling out HER name. Not 'Furina', no, just regular MC. Or well, Lady MC. And it felt so damn good hearing her true name from someone's mouth after so very long...

She easily melts like goo against him when he offers her a hug, and she just asks him to say HER name again, and again, and again...

Besides this, there are other differences than the original Diary of Secrets au.

Like the vision necklace? It's still given to Furina!MC sometime after the prophecy, but it lacks some of the more... Unethical mechanisms. Like the charm to mess with her emotions and such, yeah, it's not a thing here. ...It still bonds her soul to Neuvillette's though, but at the very least he was giving her time in this au before actually doing that.

This man was going to spoil her silly while he courts her, so help him-

Adding to the trial never getting to happen, Furina!MC is in a more or less better mental space, not counting her 500 year trauma from Focalors, but still, definitely better off than what 'canon' Fontaine put her through.

The week before what would've been her trial originally and the prophecy instead of Focalors' own trial was the most fun she's had in all her 500 years! ...So would it be truly selfish of her to embrace it? Enjoy it? Feel like she's in control of her life again?

So, yeah, she more or less enjoy her life now.

Yeah, Fontaine and Neuvillette's unexpected obsessive behavior threw her off at first, but in a twisted way, she quickly comes to adore it.

She had friends now, she could easily talk with people without Focalors lurking in her mind. She was free to pick up old hobbies she like in her past life, eat snacks she loved. She could freely go out and explore Fontaine with friends, visit the Melusines' village for the first time, and even take time off from the opera house to just sit and relax.

Basically she's gonna be the spoiled Goddess she always deserved to be and she's going to enjoy it fully.

Ah, and about your question about what happened to Furina!MC in the past timeline, I'm going with the idea Fontaine time traveled the moment after Neuvillette destroyed that first Focalors' statue, if that makes sense.

[theferal-possum]

sorry to bring up klance in the big year 2025 but i found a w.i.p. i had with like. 4 scenes and a handful of paragraphs but why is this some of the most beautiful writing ive ever made

His mind pauses on the memory, a few years ago now, when this had all started. They had finally started getting along, just a bit after Sendak's attempt to take over the castle. After Lance had said they were a good team then forgotten about it.

..Asshole.

They were on the observation deck after running into eachother in the middle of the night. Neither wanting to admit the reason they were still awake.

(They both knew it was nightmares, nights after particularly gruesome battles were never easy.)

"Man, I can't wait to go back to Earth once this is all over."

He tilted his head at Lance, confused.

"Really? You want to go back?"

"Yeah? I mean I want to go home, don't you?"

Home?

Keith thought about it for a moment, trying to recall any place that's truly felt like home. He's been in many houses before, constantly filtering through different foster families that'd always trade him off the moment they could. And sure, he had a rundown shack in the middle of the desert that was barely safe enough to be considered a house.

But no, he's never had a home before.

----

And now here he stands, in knee length waves and the sun shining in just a way that makes his sun tanned skin look as if it was dusted with pure gold.

And for a moment, Keith thinks that Lance is the most beautiful person in the world.

No amount of war and scars and blood stained battles could ever take that away from him.

----

"There was this one time. On Naxzela." He breathes out. This was a over a year ago now, so why does he feel so anxious?

"I knew you guys had to get out, so. I was going to break through the barrier myself."

"That fighter.. Keith, that was you?" Lance sits up, staring down at where Keith laid uhhhword descipyor, sometjinggg.

"I had to get everyone home. Get you home." His voice barely above a whisper now. "I closed my eyes, a few seconds before I would've impacted. I didn't want to know how close I was."

He closes his eyes, and when they open again Lance can see the stars reflected in them. He can see the resignation, the acceptance, the odd calmness about the situation that makes Lance uneasy.

"Why would you- Keith, the ship would've exploded- you would've died. Why would you do that?"

"..You mentioned before your home, back here on Earth. Everyone did. Everyone had families to go home to. I thought, if I could do this one thing, nothing else would matter." He pauses, hand carding through the sand. "No amount of battles lost, no amount of painful injuries or days spent in pods, not even losing my life. None of it would matter if you got that. If I could give you that."

"Promise me you won't-" His voice breaks, a hiccup interrupting. "Won't do something like that, again."

"You know I can't do that.."

"Keith." He grips onto Keith's shirt, lip trembling from where he was biting it.

"..I promise."

He promised, because Lance asked. Only Lance could make him promise to not be reckless, something that was in his nature.

Only Lance.

----

(no idea what leads up to this.. will brainstorm)

The truth?

The truth was, that as much as any man could, Keith loved Lance McClain.

So much so that no words could ever describe it. Not a hundred, not a thousand, hell not even a million.

And so he kissed him.

Because if he couldn't say it, he was going to show him.

should i continue working on this??? its a post s8 technically canon compliant(/divergent???) and i already have a name for it, apparently

at the end of calamity (lies a home waiting for you)