#it wasn't a rhythm game apparently

[jinglebunns]

happy 3 yr anniversary to Kirby and the Forgor Land!! this game rewired my brain and cracked my life like a glowstick and i love it dearly

[onlyhereforvividstasis]

why did i think replaying the hardest normal level after not playing for like a year was a good idea

[logaenhowlett]

WHEN YOU TOUCH ME - L.H.

Summary: Since when do neighbours fuck like this?

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Female Reader

Warnings: Smut 18+ only, Fluff, Flirting, Dirty talk, Fingering, Nipple play (ft. Logan 'Big Hands' Howlett), Unprotected sex (hint: floor-length mirror)

A/N: Yes, I’m aware the image is from The Wolverine, but let’s pretend it’s Worst!Logan (this man needs more domestic scenes fr). Another one for my A Weekend with Logan Howlett event! The prompt was FURTHER. Title creds to Brandy.

MASTERLIST

Logan didn’t mean to kiss you.

Just as he didn't mean to unravel you, so mercilessly; two fingers deep, your desire a flame, licking at the edges of his own.

It so happened that, days ago, he'd eavesdropped on complaints of a broken AC amongst other casual chatter you and Wade shared in the hallway outside your apartments. And the thought of you, flushed and slightly dishevelled in the sweltering heat, was enough because the doorknob had somehow twisted itself, and just like that he was there with a playful "I can fix it".

God, he was such a liar.

Nerves coiled in his stomach every time. Still, he persisted, returning your sly comments, your teasing smiles, your barely-there touches. It was simply exhilarating - this game of cat and mouse.

So, when he showed up this morning, tools slung over a shoulder, mischief glazing his eyes, one thing was clear: trouble had certainly arrived. "Well, aren't you gonna let me in?" he'd drawled as you were suddenly, inexplicably, speechless.

Heat prickled his skin as he worked; the flannel stripped off without a second thought. Logan toyed with a bolt, biceps flexing with each turn until the wrench finally gave way. Even as your sharp gaze missed nothing - the slight tremor in his fingers, the slackening grip on the screwdriver - he remained stubbornly focused.

The lemonade you'd offered burned his throat with every swallow. He watched you tilt back, the ice in your glass clinking as you drank. A single droplet slid down your neck, his eyes fixed on its slow descent.

And then, snap.

It wasn't gentle, not at all. His tongue fought yours with a wild desperation, hands finding purchase on your hips until you were locked in place.

Logan had often imagined this. You, kissed by the warm glow of his bedside lamp, arching your back as he fucked you senseless. You, branded by his teeth marks, grinding against his abs till your cum smeared across his happy trail.

You. You. You.

But they were mere fantasies - well, until now.

Because somehow, in the stillness between one breath and the next, you're spun around. Logan's hand claims your chin, his thumb a shackle bruising your lower lip, forcing your gaze to the nearby mirror.

His fingers graze the hem of your skirt, the fabric bunches at your hips, and anticipation - tempting as the taste of forbidden fruit - stings between his legs.

Flush against your back, the jeans do little to conceal his arousal. Yet, he takes his sweet time, kneading the plump cushions of your thighs, savouring every whimper spilling from your lips.

It's almost lazy. The way his fingers pump in and out, a slow, mocking rhythm that just drips of cocky satisfaction - and the bastard has the audacity to pause.

"Eyes on me, darlin'," he rasps, leaving a fleeting kiss below your ear. It's enough, apparently. Dark lashes flutter in surrender as heavy lids part, finding him in the reflection. "Good girl."

His other forearm brushes your side, only briefly stealing your attention, before snaking beneath your shirt. The swell of your breast barely fills his palm, and he nearly loses it all right there.

Rough, calloused skin caresses your nipple. Logan rolls it between his index and thumb, toying the delicate bud until it hardens beneath his touch.

He could laugh, really.

And so, he does - something close to a growl that wakes goosebumps across your flesh. Even as you're writhing against him, hardly standing straight, he doesn't relent. Only deeper, only faster - his fingers thrust into your cunt.

"Fuck Lo– you're a lil’ shit, you know that?"

But he's heard the name you moan when you're playing with yourself. Late-night showers, hot water pounding down your back as you explore your body. Quiet afternoons on the couch, soft cushions muffling your gasps as you lose control. In bed, in the sun, in the shadows - whenever the mood strikes, it seems, he's on your mind.

"How 'bout you hm? Think I can't hear through these fuckin' walls?"

It's far from a threat, yet your laugh amuses him. Carefully, he brushes your hair aside, trailing his nose along your neck. And for a second - a single, pussy-drunk second - he's convinced you've doused yourself in every aphrodisiac known to man.

So he doesn't think twice.

His teeth close around your nape. Sharp and possessive, the bite makes you groan in pleasure. His tongue follows immediately, soothing the reddened bruise now begging to be kissed.

Mesmerised, Logan grins as your head slumps back on his shoulder, the world caught in a dizzying waltz as you lock eyes, your cum coating his hand while a sinful trail glistens down your thighs.

One lick.

That's all it takes; your sweetness lingers in his mouth as his fingers pop free, nice and clean. Logan twirls you between his arms until you're finally face to face. A visible bulge stretches the denim as you draw closer, your grip tightening around the contours of his biceps.

In the mirror, you're simply breathtaking.

His hands settle on your ass, playful squeezes shaping the soft curves beneath his touch. Giggles tumble from your lips, light and airy, as you melt against him.

"Since when do neighbours fuck like this?" you tease, kissing his jawline.

And suddenly, you're swept off your feet. Something like affection shines through his eyes as he nudges your bedroom door open.

"Think we're past that now, honey."

It's not long before your moans weave themselves into his name.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind the Lens | Joe's POV | Part One

📸 catch up on behind the lens before reading joe’s pov 🧃

📖 read my masterlist — if you’re into feelings, football, and a little bit of feral

✨ join my tag list if you want to be yelled at every time joe burrow has a feeling ✨

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 24.7k

Reader Request: Reader has been working for the bengals since Joe got drafted. She can be a social media admin, public relations liaison or even a physical therapist. She’s been in love with him but it is unrequited while he was with Olivia and when they break up she thought that she had a chance but he starts seeing the influencer but please make it a happy ending. Angst as fuck but happy ending. I want to see this girl yearning for fucking years before she gets him and I want him to realize that she is the love of his life.

Author’s Note: we did it Joe! thank y’all for your patience with me getting this out. i really wanted to make sure i captured it right. apparently joe’s pov is also gonna be wordy… so. let the games begin. i also really tried to make sure i got everyone tagged, but i’m certain i’m missing a couple people—please let me know if i am!

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility 

The media room was just like all the others Joe had experienced since high school. The setup was identical, the atmosphere was familiar, and the orchestrated hustle of people aiming for the "perfect" shot was the same. But this time, Joe wasn't just another player going through the motions of media duties. He was the top draft pick. A Heisman Trophy winner. The franchise quarterback around whom they had spun an entire story before he even played a game. The savior of Cincinnati football—or so everyone kept saying.

Joe surveyed the room as he entered, taking inventory the way he always did. Cameras, lighting equipment, PR staff with clipboards and anxious expressions. Standard operation. He'd done this dance enough times to know the rhythm: smile when directed, answer the softball questions, project confidence without arrogance, give them just enough personality to make good content without revealing anything personal.

His eyes swept across the media team, cataloging faces he'd need to remember, when his attention caught on a woman adjusting camera settings with methodical precision. She wasn't rushing like some of the others, wasn't looking at him with that mixture of nervousness and starstruck anticipation he'd grown accustomed to. She was just... working. Focused. Professional.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room generally, but found his gaze drifting back to the woman with the camera.

The photoshoot began predictably. Positions, angles, "Try this," "Hold that," the usual choreography. Joe moved through the motions with practiced ease, but he found himself paying attention to the woman behind the main camera. She gave clear, concise directions without the over-enthusiasm that usually made these sessions feel performative.

Then the assistant fumbled the football.

Joe watched it spiral awkwardly through the air, trajectory clearly wrong, heading straight for what looked like thousands of dollars worth of lighting equipment. Before he could move, before anyone else could react, the woman stepped forward and caught it one-handed. Clean. Natural. Like she'd been doing it her whole life.

The catch itself was impressive. The way she immediately transferred it to her throwing hand and sent a perfect spiral back to him was what got his attention.

"Nice hands," he said, and meant it. The throw had been textbook—tight spiral, perfect velocity, right to his chest.

"Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already stepping back behind her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something shifted in Joe's assessment of her. This wasn't just another media person going through the motions. She understood the mechanics of the game, the feel of the ball, the instincts required. When she mentioned her brothers, he caught something in her tone—affection mixed with exasperation, the kind that came from real family dynamics, not media-friendly talking points.

As the shoot continued, Joe found himself responding to her cues differently than he typically did. When she asked for adjustments, he made them without the subtle resistance he usually employed with photographers. When she called for different expressions, he found himself actually considering what she was asking for instead of just cycling through his standard options.

"Can we get a few looking directly into the camera?" she requested, adjusting her position.

Joe met her eyes through the lens. Most photographers wanted him to look at the camera. She wanted him to look at her. The difference was subtle, but it made this feel like a conversation rather than documentation.

"Perfect," she said, voice steady and professional. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

That surprised him. She could see the difference between his media smile and something genuine. Most people couldn't, or didn't care to. They wanted the smile that looked good in print, regardless of whether it meant anything.

Joe let his expression shift, allowing something more natural to surface. Not the careful, controlled smile he'd perfected for cameras, but the hint of amusement that appeared when someone surprised him. When someone actually saw him.

The camera clicked.

"Great," she said, and there was something in her voice—satisfaction, maybe, or recognition. Like she'd captured exactly what she'd been looking for.

As the formal portion wrapped up, Joe found himself lingering instead of immediately heading to his next obligation. The woman was reviewing images on her camera's display, that same focused attention she'd shown throughout the session.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asked, approaching her workstation.

She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Definitely. That last series will work well for the campaign."

"Thanks for being..." he paused, searching for the right word, "efficient. Some of these shoots can drag on forever."

"Time's valuable," she replied simply. "Yours and everyone else's."

Joe nodded, appreciating the practical approach. No false flattery, no attempt to extend the interaction beyond what was necessary. Just professional competence with a touch of personality.

As he headed toward the exit, Joe caught himself glancing back once. She was already organizing equipment, moving with the same methodical efficiency she'd shown throughout the session. Something about her stayed with him as he walked to his next meeting—the easy catch, the perfect throw, the way she'd asked for a genuine smile and waited until she got it.

Most people in this building wanted something from him. Performance, access, quotes, photo opportunities. She'd simply done her job exceptionally well while making him feel like a person rather than a product.

It was a small thing, probably meaningless in the broader scope of his transition to Cincinnati. But as Joe settled into his next obligation, he found himself wondering what she had thought of those final shots, and whether she'd noticed the difference between his camera face and the real one.

The wondering felt dangerous, and he pushed it aside. But it lingered anyway, a small thread of curiosity about the woman who could catch a spiral and see through his defenses with equal ease.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting 

Joe adjusted his laptop screen, settling into the home office chair as faces populated the Zoom window. Another virtual meeting, another adaptation to the strange reality of conducting team business through screens. The director of media relations was outlining COVID protocols, but Joe's attention kept drifting to the broader challenge they were facing: how to maintain connection with fans when everything that made football culture meaningful had been stripped away.

"We need to address the fan engagement problem," the director continued. "No fans in the stadium means we're losing that community connection that's central to the Bengals experience."

Joe had been thinking about this exact issue. The energy of a crowd, the visual of packed stands, the sense that the team and city were unified in something bigger than individual games—all of it was gone. How do you build a franchise identity when half the traditional elements were off the table?

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

"I have some ideas, if you're open to them."

Joe's attention sharpened. Y/N Y/L/N, the media coordinator who'd handled his photoshoot a few weeks earlier. He remembered her—professional, efficient, the woman who could throw a perfect spiral and didn't try to extend conversations beyond what was necessary. He hadn't expected to hear from her in a strategy meeting, but found himself curious about what she'd contribute.

"Go ahead, Y/N," Kayla encouraged.

Y/N straightened up as she began speaking, and Joe could see her settle into herself. This wasn't prepared talking points—this was someone who knew what she was doing.

"Okay, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could buy spots to get their photos up there. It gives them a way to be in the stadium, looks good on TV, and we could put the money toward COVID relief here in Cincinnati."

Joe sat forward slightly. The idea was clever—practical but also emotionally smart. It acknowledged the loss while creating something tangible fans could participate in. More importantly, it connected team revenue to community support, which aligned with the kind of impact he wanted to have in Cincinnati.

"Second, the Freedom Center march—that $250k pledge to community programs? We should be documenting all of that. Interviews, behind-the-scenes, make it educational. Show people the team cares about more than just winning games."

Now Joe was fully engaged. He'd been thinking about how to use his platform responsibly, how to support social justice initiatives without it feeling performative or superficial. Y/N was proposing exactly the kind of authentic approach he'd been hoping for—substance over spectacle, education over empty gestures.

"And third, we need to replace in-person interactions with virtual ones. Q&A sessions with players, live-streamed limited-access practices, interactive social media challenges. The fans need to feel part of the Bengals community even when they can't physically be here."

When she finished, Joe found himself mentally reviewing each suggestion. They weren't just creative solutions; they were thoughtful ones. Y/N had identified real problems and offered practical fixes that served multiple purposes—fan engagement, community support, meaningful content creation.

"These are solid, Y/N," the director said, echoing Joe's own assessment. "Particularly the social justice series. Let's form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement."

Joe made a quick decision. "I'd like to work directly with Y/N on the social justice initiative."

The words came out more decisively than he'd intended, but he didn't regret them. If they were going to do this right, he wanted someone who understood both the substance and the strategy. Y/N had just demonstrated she grasped what he was trying to accomplish.

After the meeting ended, Joe stared at his laptop screen for a moment, processing what had just happened. He'd requested to work with Y/N specifically, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Yes, her ideas were good. Yes, she seemed to understand the balance between meaningful action and effective communication.

But there was something else. She hadn't been trying to sell anyone on her ideas—she'd just presented them like they were the obvious thing to do. She wasn't performing passion for social justice; she seemed to actually care about creating something meaningful.

Joe thought about the march to the Freedom Center, about the conversations he'd been having with veteran players about using their platform responsibly. He'd been hoping to find people within the organization who understood that authentic impact required more than just photo opportunities and press releases.

Maybe he'd found one.

As he closed his laptop, Joe found himself looking forward to talking with her again. Y/N had surprised him twice now—first with how good she was at her job, and now with ideas that actually mattered.

It was professional interest, he told himself. The franchise quarterback needed good people around him, people who understood how to translate intention into action. Y/N seemed like exactly that kind of person.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium 

Joe had an hour to kill before his scheduled film study session. Most days he would have spent it in the quarterback room reviewing notes or grabbing a quick meal, but something had drawn him toward the main stadium bowl instead. Restlessness, maybe, or curiosity about how the space would feel without crowds for the first time in his football career.

Walking through the empty corridors, he heard movement coming from the main bowl. Curious, Joe pushed through the tunnel doors and stopped short.

The stands were filled with people. Thousands of them, sitting motionless in perfect rows, their faces turned toward the field in silent attention. For a disorienting moment, his brain couldn't process what he was seeing.

Then he understood. Cardboard cutouts. Y/N's idea, brought to life.

"This is surreal," a voice said from somewhere among the stands.

Joe turned to find Y/N moving between rows, camera in hand, documenting her creation. She was dressed casually—jeans, Bengals polo, hair pulled back in a ponytail—but there was something almost reverent in the way she moved through the artificial crowd.

"Quite the crowd you've assembled," Joe called out, making his way down toward the field.

She looked up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into that professional composure he was beginning to recognize. "Tough audience though. No matter how well I play, they never cheer."

The response surprised a laugh out of him. "But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase."

Joe found himself walking closer, drawn by the strangeness of the scene and by Y/N's presence in it. This had been her idea, and seeing it executed made him appreciate the emotional intelligence behind the concept. It was eerie, yes, but it was also oddly comforting. Better than empty stands. Much better.

"This was your idea, right?" he asked, gesturing to the cardboard crowd. "From that call back in August."

"One of them," Y/N confirmed, continuing to move between rows with her camera. "Part of our COVID adaptations."

Joe began walking slowly through the artificial audience, studying the faces. Each cutout represented a real person, a real connection to the team. Some wore current jerseys, others vintage gear that spoke to decades of loyalty. The attention to detail was remarkable—these weren't just generic crowd shots, but individual submissions from fans who cared enough to send their photos.

"Creative solution," he said, pausing at a cutout of an elderly man in what looked like 1980s Bengals gear. "Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands."

"The team means a lot to this city," Y/N replied, joining him near the older fan's image. "Even when the seasons are rough."

"Especially then," Joe found himself saying, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "Loyalty means more when it's tested."

The words hung between them. Joe wasn't sure why, but standing here with Y/N in this fake crowd felt like something. Maybe because her idea had actually worked. Maybe because they were alone in a place meant for thousands of people.

They stood in comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional faces of people who loved this team enough to want their presence felt even when they couldn't physically attend. Joe found himself studying Y/N as much as the cutouts, noting the satisfaction in her expression as she surveyed her work.

"We're setting up for a socially distanced filming session," Y/N explained, gesturing to equipment he hadn't noticed before. "Fan messages to play during the broadcast."

"Need help?" The offer came out before Joe had time to consider it.

Y/N stared at him with obvious surprise. "You're volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?"

Joe shrugged, not entirely sure himself why he'd made the offer. "I've got an hour before film study. Figured I'd see how the other side of this works. I'm usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up."

But that wasn't really it. Being here with Y/N, seeing how much she cared about getting this right—he wanted in on whatever she was building. He wanted to understand how she did what she did.

Before Y/N could respond to his offer, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen with the apologetic expression of someone about to take a work call.

"Go ahead," Joe said, already moving toward the lighting equipment she'd brought. "I'll start getting these positioned."

While Y/N was on her call, Joe looked around at all the equipment. He'd done a million photo shoots, but he'd never really noticed how much stuff went into making them work. Lights everywhere, cameras at weird angles—no wonder it took forever to get a good shot.

When Y/N finished her call, she found him adjusting a light stand with surprising competence.

"You've done this before," she observed.

"Enough times to know where the light should hit," Joe replied, testing the angle. "Though usually from the other side."

Working with Y/N was easier than Joe expected. Y/N would point at something and he'd already be moving to grab it. She'd start to ask for an adjustment and he was already doing it. It just... worked.

"My brothers would never believe this," Y/N muttered, almost to herself, as Joe helped position the main camera.

"What's that?"

"The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot," she said, looking slightly embarrassed that she'd spoken aloud. "They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything useful."

Joe smiled, enjoying the glimpse into her family dynamics. "Happy to help rewrite the narrative."

He kept thinking about her brothers. The way Y/N talked about them—like they were tight but also annoyed the hell out of each other.  It made him think about what her life was like when she wasn't here dealing with work stuff.

"Which ones?" Joe asked, genuinely interested.

"Which ones what?"

"Your brothers. Where are they in all this?" He gestured toward the cardboard crowd.

Y/N's expression shifted to something between amusement and resignation. "Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys."

Joe immediately headed for Row 23. Y/N trailed behind him, looking mortified.

When he spotted them, Joe had to grin. Three guys who were obviously brothers, all wearing the same old-school jerseys and looking ridiculously happy about it. They looked like Y/N—same eyes, same smile.

"The Y/L/N brothers," Joe observed, taking in their faces. "I can see the resemblance."

"God help me," Y/N sighed, but there was affection in her voice.

Joe looked from the cardboard brothers back to Y/N. You could definitely see the family resemblance—same bone structure, same smile—but her brothers looked like the kind of guys who'd be screaming at refs and buying rounds for strangers after wins. Y/N kept hers more contained. She had that same enthusiasm, Joe could tell, but she'd figured out how to channel it differently. Keep it professional.

"You're lucky," he said quietly, and immediately heard the wistfulness in his own voice.

Y/N looked at him with surprise. "Lucky?"

"To have family that supports what you do like that." Joe gestured toward the cardboard brothers, then toward the broader project around them. "To have people who are genuinely excited about your success."

The words came out more honest than Joe meant them to. His own family was supportive, sure, but everything got complicated by his career. These guys had sent in their photos because they loved the team and wanted to support their sister's idea. Not because she worked with Joe Burrow. That was... different.

The stadium doors opened and suddenly the media team was flooding in, killing whatever moment they'd been having. Joe automatically switched back to work mode, nodding at people as they set up equipment. Y/N did the same thing—went straight into boss mode, directing traffic like nothing had happened.

As everyone started setting up, Joe hung around longer than he needed to. Officially he was helping, but really he was just watching Y/N work. She made it look effortless—everyone knew what to do, nobody was stressed.

Joe was ready to head out—he was definitely in the way now. But something held him back.

"Thanks for the help," Y/N said as he gathered his things. "Unexpected but appreciated."

"Good luck with the shoot," Joe replied, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically maintained around staff.

Joe couldn't get the image out of his head as he walked away—Y/N weaving through those cardboard fans, talking about her brothers like they drove her crazy but she'd do anything for them. The whole thing had felt... different. More real than the usual work stuff.

Standing there helping with lights and talking about family—it was like getting a peek at what normal felt like. Where people weren't constantly managing his image or trying to get something from him.

Walking back through the tunnel, Joe kept thinking about the way Y/N had looked at her brothers' cutouts. Embarrassed but fond. And how she just figured shit out—saw a problem and solved it without making it complicated.

And that moment when he'd said "You're lucky." He'd sounded more wistful than he meant to.

That was the thing about Y/N, Joe realized as he headed to his next meeting. She made him notice what was missing. Made him want the kind of easy, real connections that seemed to come naturally to everyone else.

Which was probably not smart. There were reasons to keep work and personal separate, and Joe had always been good at that.

But sitting down in the film room to watch tape, Joe couldn't stop thinking about standing in that fake crowd with someone who just saw him as a guy who could hold a light steady.

* * *

November 22, 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

The play looked perfect. Clean pocket, receivers where they should be, Washington showing exactly what Joe expected from film. He stepped up, feeling that groove when everything clicks.

Then Ryan Kerrigan destroyed his leg.

Joe knew right away it was bad. Not from pain—that hadn't hit yet—but from the way his knee went sideways. The sound it made. Like something snapping that wasn't supposed to snap.

Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. He was on the turf, players crowding around him with those faces. The ones that meant you were fucked. Really fucked.

Medical staff everywhere, teammates looking sick, and of course the cameras were rolling. Because why wouldn't they be? His knee exploding was going to be on every highlight reel for the next month.

But through all the chaos, Joe spotted Y/N on the sideline. She wasn't filming—just watching with her camera down, looking genuinely worried. Not like someone getting content, but like someone who actually gave a shit about him as a person.

Their eyes met for a second as they got ready to cart him off. Joe managed a tiny nod. Y/N gave him that look she did—not dramatic, just there. Just present.

As they wheeled him toward the tunnel, Joe's brain was already spinning ahead. Surgery, rehab, months of grinding to get back. And it would all be documented, turned into some comeback story.

***

Hours of doctors later, Joe finally had a minute to himself. The diagnosis sucked as much as he'd thought: torn ACL, damaged MCL, other shit that meant complex surgery and a long road back.

His phone had been going off nonstop. Everyone checking in, offering support, asking how he was doing. But the call he wanted to make was to the one person who hadn't reached out.

Y/N was smart enough not to contact him directly after something like this. She understood the lines between professional and personal, knew when to stay back. But Joe found himself wanting her to call anyway. Wanting to hear someone who wouldn't bullshit him with false hope or PR-friendly encouragement.

Instead, he called his agent. His parents. His girlfriend. Teammates. Handled all the business of being hurt—surgery dates, recovery plans, logistics. But the whole time he kept thinking about who was going to document this comeback. Who would understand the difference between filming his recovery and creating content.

He already knew who he wanted to do it.

***

When Kayla called about his rehab media strategy, Joe didn't let her get through her whole pitch.

"Y/N's doing it," he said.

"Y/N specifically?" Kayla asked, though she didn't sound surprised.

"She gets it," Joe said simply. "She won't turn it into some inspiration porn."

After hanging up, Joe lay there in his room, leg propped up and hurting like hell even with the pain meds. Thinking about what came next. Months of grinding through rehab, celebrating being able to bend his knee five more degrees, rebuilding everything from scratch.

Joe pulled out his phone and scrolled to Y/N's number. He stared at it for a second—texting her directly instead of going through official channels felt like crossing some line. But fuck it.

Heard you're documenting the comeback tour.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. She texted back fast.

If you're sure that's what you want. We can assign someone else if you'd prefer.

Classic Y/N. Never pushed, always gave him space to change his mind.

I want someone who won't make this into a pity story. Someone who gets it.

Then I'm in. We'll document the comeback on your terms.

Reading that, Joe felt some of the weight lift off his chest.

Surgery's next week, December second. We'll get going after that.

Got it. Focus on healing. I'll handle the content strategy.

Joe stared at his phone for a second before typing again.

Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

He meant the work stuff, obviously. But also the way she'd looked at him on the sideline. How she'd put her camera down when it mattered more to just be a person than get the shot.

Always. That's what I'm here for.

Joe was finally getting sleepy, but he wasn't thinking about the surgery or months of rehab. He was thinking about having Y/N there for all of it. Someone who saw him as Joe, not just injured quarterback content waiting to be packaged.

His knee was fucked. Getting back was going to suck. But at least he wouldn't be doing it alone.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 - Rehabilitation Center 

Two weeks post-surgery, and Joe was learning to hate the sound of his own breathing. Every exercise was a negotiation with pain, every movement a reminder of how much he'd lost in a single play. The physical therapist kept saying encouraging shit that all sounded the same, and Joe had started counting ceiling tiles just to keep from losing it.

"Just a few more clips today," Y/N said, adjusting her camera as the PT got ready for the next round of torture. "We'll keep it short."

Joe nodded, grateful she was there for reasons that had nothing to do with filming. Over the past two weeks, Y/N had become part of his routine—showing up, documenting his progress without making a big deal about it. These sessions felt different than their usual work stuff.

Maybe it was because the rehab center stripped away all the bullshit. No media training, no carefully managed anything. Just Joe trying to get his leg to work again while Y/N quietly filmed what a comeback actually looked like when nobody was pretending it was inspiring.

"Ready when you are," she told the therapist, who nodded and turned to Joe.

"Let's work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each."

Joe gritted his teeth and started the exercise, feeling Y/N's camera following along. She'd figured out when to film and when to back off, never making him feel like a specimen under observation.

Thirty minutes that felt like three hours later, the therapist finally called it quits. As he left to get Joe's chart, Y/N started packing up her stuff with those efficient movements Joe had gotten used to.

"How's it look?" Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

He wasn't really asking about the footage. After two weeks of this, they'd developed their own language.

Y/N looked up, getting what he actually meant. "It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback."

"Pretty boring content so far," Joe said, trying for his usual dry humor even though his knee was throbbing.

"The best comebacks start slow," Y/N replied, zipping her bag. "Makes it better when you actually get somewhere."

Joe shifted on the table, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn't suck. "This part doesn't make the highlight reel, huh?"

"Only the parts where you look superhuman," she said with a small smile. "Not the ones where you call the PT a sadist."

That got a real laugh out of him, though it turned into a grimace when the movement hit his knee wrong. But something about Y/N's honesty—the way she didn't treat him like he might break—felt like the first normal conversation he'd had since getting hurt.

"You don't bullshit me," Joe said. "I appreciate that."

In a world of medical consultations and carefully optimistic progress reports, Y/N's straightforward take felt like he could actually breathe. She didn't sugarcoat anything or feed him fake encouragement. She just saw what was happening and told him the truth.

Something shifted between them with that comment. Like they were both acknowledging these sessions had become more than just work. Y/N showing up had become something Joe looked forward to, not just for the filming but for the few minutes of actual human connection.

"The team wants an update for social tomorrow," she said, steering back to safer territory. "Any preferences for what we say?"

Joe rubbed his thigh above the brace, thinking about how to talk about progress when every victory was too small for social media.

"Keep it simple," he decided. "No dramatic promises. Just... I'm working. Things are happening. Grateful for support."

"Got it," Y/N nodded, making a note. "I'll send you a draft."

"I trust you," Joe said, and realized how true that was. "You haven't overplayed any of this."

The trust felt bigger than their usual work relationship. Y/N had access to his worst moments and never made him feel exploited or managed.

"That's why you requested me, right?" Y/N asked, keeping the tone light though Joe sensed a real question underneath.

"Yes," Joe said, meeting her eyes directly. "You see the person, not just the story."

The honesty in his voice surprised him. But it was true—Y/N had never made him feel like content to be packaged. Even when he was frustrated and hurting, she treated him like a person working through something hard, not a damaged athlete providing footage for his own documentary.

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with what looked like work.

"I should get this back to the facility," she said, holding up her phone. "Kayla needs the footage by three."

Joe nodded, already missing the conversation even though it hadn't quite ended. "Same time Thursday?"

"I'll be here," she confirmed, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, something made Joe call after her. "Hey, Y/N?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

The question came out more personal than he'd meant it to. But sitting in this place day after day, Joe had started thinking about the people who showed up, who saw him struggling and didn't try to fix it with bullshit platitudes.

Y/N shrugged like it was no big deal. "Staying in Cincinnati. My brother's wife is pregnant, so we're playing it safe with COVID."

"That's tough," Joe said, and meant it. He could hear in her voice that this was harder than she was letting on, the first Christmas away from family made more isolating by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile. "First Christmas away from family, but honestly, not the worst thing happening this year."

She glanced at his busted leg, and Joe appreciated her trying to put things in perspective. But something about her just accepting it bothered him. Y/N spent all her time making sure other people felt supported. She deserved that too.

"Right," Joe said, though his brain was already working on something. "See you Thursday."

After Y/N left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, supposedly stretching but really thinking about their conversation. He couldn't stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone.

But this wasn't just work anymore, was it? These rehab sessions had created something different—more personal, built on trust and actually giving a shit about each other rather than just media obligations.

Joe thought about how Y/N protected his privacy, never made his struggle into content, made these awful sessions feel less isolating. She'd become someone he genuinely wanted to see, not just for work but for who she was.

And she was going to spend Christmas alone.

Joe pulled out his phone and started looking up custom gift places in Cincinnati. He couldn't drive yet, couldn't run around the way he normally would. But he could make calls, get something meaningful made and delivered.

Something that would let Y/N know someone had been thinking about her during the holidays. That her kindness hadn't gone unnoticed.

As he scrolled through shops and artisans, Joe told himself this was just gratitude—thanking someone for exceptional work during a shitty time. The fact that he wanted Y/N to have something personal from him, something that would make her think of him when she looked at it, was just professional appreciation.

Even thinking it, Joe knew he was full of shit. But some lies were necessary, especially when the truth could mess up everything he was trying to rebuild.

* * *

December 20, 2020 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat in his living room, leg propped up, scrolling through search results on his laptop. "Custom snow globe Cincinnati artisan" wasn't giving him much, but one shop kept popping up—some small place downtown that did commissioned pieces.

Olivia was upstairs wrapping gifts, humming Christmas songs while she got ready for tomorrow's celebration with his family. Everything exactly like it had been for the past three years. Comfortable. Predictable.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone?

It had been bugging him for days, ever since their conversation at rehab. The way she'd brushed off her first Christmas away from family, that smile that didn't quite work. Like she was trying to convince herself it was fine.

Joe found the shop's phone number and stared at it. This was crossing a line. You didn't commission personal gifts for colleagues. You didn't spend days obsessing over their holiday plans.

But he dialed anyway.

"Artisan Glass Works," came a voice on the other end.

"Hi, I'm looking for someone who can create a custom snow globe," Joe said, settling back as he explained what he wanted.

The guy—David—listened as Joe described the cardboard cutout project. Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of fake fans, Y/N's solution to an impossible problem, the way she'd moved through those crowds with her camera, documenting her own creation.

"So you want a miniature stadium with tiny cardboard people instead of snow?" David asked, already sounding interested.

"Exactly," Joe confirmed. "And it needs to be perfect. Every detail."

As he talked through the specs—orange and black colors, stadium layout, how the cardboard figures should look—Joe found himself explaining more than just the visual stuff. Y/N's first big project with the team, how she'd turned COVID restrictions into something meaningful for fans.

"This sounds like a very meaningful piece," David said. "The recipient must appreciate thoughtful gestures."

"She does," Joe said, then caught himself. "I mean, she's professional. Details matter to her."

"I see. And you mentioned Christmas delivery?"

Joe confirmed the timeline, arranging for Christmas Eve delivery to Y/N's apartment. As David went through the process, something made Joe hesitate.

"Actually," he said, interrupting the cost breakdown, "can you make two? Identical pieces?"

Brief pause. "Two identical snow globes?"

"Yes," Joe confirmed, not sure why he'd said it but unable to take it back. "Exactly the same."

After finalizing everything, Joe hung up and stared at his laptop, processing what he'd just done. Two custom snow globes. One for Y/N, one for himself. Matching pieces that would sit in their homes, reminders of something nobody else would understand.

The second globe was the most honest part. Joe wanted that connection. When Y/N shook her snow globe and watched the orange and black stuff swirl around the tiny cardboard fans, he'd be able to do the same thing. Like they were sharing a moment even when they weren't together.

It was romantic as hell, and that made Joe uncomfortable. This wasn't gratitude for good work—this was what you did when you had feelings for someone you couldn't pursue.

"Who were you talking to?" Olivia's voice came from the stairs as she came down with wrapped presents.

"Just handling some Christmas stuff," Joe replied, closing his laptop too fast.

"For your family?" Olivia asked, starting to arrange gifts under their tree with that methodical way she did everything.

"Work thing," Joe said, which wasn't technically a lie. Y/N was work, and the snow globe was about their project. The fact that his reasons had nothing to do with work didn't matter.

Olivia nodded, focused on making the gift arrangement look perfect. Joe watched her work, noting the careful spacing, how everything would photograph well for their Christmas morning social media. Everything in their relationship had that quality—thoughtful, appropriate, designed to look right from the outside.

But sitting there with his secret commission happening, Joe realized he'd never felt the need to surprise Olivia with something completely unique. Their gifts were nice, expensive, tasteful—but they could have been picked by someone who just knew their basic preferences.

The snow globe was different. It required understanding Y/N specifically, knowing what would mean something to her personally, wanting to create something that captured a moment only they shared.

***

Over dinner, Olivia picked at her salad while Joe worked through his PT-approved meal. The silence was comfortable in that familiar way, but Joe's mind kept drifting to tomorrow's rehab session, wondering what Y/N would film.

"How's the recovery content going?" Olivia asked, like she'd read his mind. "You've been spending a lot of time with that media coordinator. Y/N?"

Joe's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "It's going well. She's professional. Knows how to get the right story without making it dramatic."

"She seems nice," Olivia said, casual but with something underneath Joe couldn't place. "You mention her a lot."

"Do I?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. He hadn't realized Y/N's name kept coming up.

"During your updates. 'Y/N thinks this will work better,' or 'Y/N suggested we focus on the mental stuff.' Like that." Olivia smiled, but it looked forced. "She seems very... involved."

Heat crept up Joe's neck. "She's good at her job. Gets what I need."

"I'm sure she does," Olivia said, going back to her salad. "It's nice that you have someone who understands. The football stuff, I mean."

The comment sat there between them, heavy with shit Joe didn't know how to handle. Olivia had always been his biggest supporter, been there since college, understood the pressure better than anyone. But Y/N got the day-to-day stuff, the technical side, in a way that was just... different.

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "It helps having someone who speaks the language."

Olivia nodded, but something in her face had changed. Not jealousy exactly, but like she was seeing distance that hadn't been there before.

Hours later, as they settled in for the evening, Joe's phone buzzed with a text from David: Preliminary sketches ready for approval. Can send photos if you'd like to review before proceeding.

Yes, send them, Joe replied quickly.

The sketches came minutes later—detailed drawings of the mini stadium, tiny cardboard figures positioned just right, how the confetti would move when shaken. David had nailed not just how it looked but the spirit of the whole project.

Perfect. Go ahead with it.

Excellent. Delivery confirmed for December 24th. She'll love it.

Joe stared at David's assumption about Y/N's reaction, wondering what he'd said during their call that made the guy so sure. Had Joe's voice given him away? Had his detailed explanations revealed feelings he was trying to keep professional?

"Everything okay?" Olivia asked, settling next to him on the couch. "You seem off lately."

"Just thinking about the comeback," Joe said, which was partly true. His rehab took up most of his headspace, the slow grind of rebuilding everything. But lately those thoughts were tangled up with looking forward to his next session with Y/N, the easy conversation that made the work suck less.

"You're doing great," Olivia said, curling against his side like she always did. "The doctors are happy with your progress."

Joe nodded, accepting her comfort while his mind went to the snow globe being made downtown. In four days, Y/N would get something he'd had made just for her, something that would sit in her apartment reminding her of their connection.

And Joe would have the matching one, letting him share that moment whenever he wanted, think about Y/N thinking about him whenever she looked at her gift.

It was the most emotionally intimate thing Joe had ever done, dressed up as professional appreciation. And as Olivia dozed against his shoulder, trusting and comfortable in what they had, Joe couldn't make himself regret it.

Some feelings, once you admitted them, couldn't be shoved back down. And Joe was starting to realize what he felt for Y/N went way beyond professional respect or friendly concern.

The snow globe proved it—a beautiful, fucked-up declaration he was sending without the balls to attach his name to what he actually felt.

* * *

January 2021 - Rehabilitation Center 

The PT's notes looked good. Ahead of schedule. Range of motion improving. Strength building. All the numbers pointed to a successful recovery, but Joe couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed in ways no chart could measure.

"That's good for today," the PT said, scribbling final notes. "You're pushing hard, but remember what we talked about. Don't overdo it."

Joe nodded, though every instinct wanted to tell the guy to fuck off with the cautious approach. Six weeks post-surgery, and he was sick of measuring progress in degrees and pounds. He wanted to know when he'd feel like himself again, when his body would move without him having to think about every step.

"I'll send these notes to the medical team," the therapist continued. "Same time on Thursday?"

"I'll be here," Joe confirmed, his voice controlled despite the frustration building beneath the surface.

As the PT left, Joe stayed on the table, staring at ceiling tiles he'd memorized over the past month. Y/N moved around the room quietly, packing her stuff with that efficient way she had that had become one of the few normal things in his completely fucked routine.

"That looked rough today," she said, keeping it neutral as she put away memory cards.

Joe appreciated that she never tried to spin his bad days into something inspiring. She just saw what was happening and said it without trying to make him feel better about it.

"PT says that's good," Joe replied, hearing the edge in his own voice. "Means we're pushing boundaries."

Y/N nodded, recognizing the bullshit answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of this, she'd gotten good at telling the difference between his various responses—the media ones, the team ones, and the real ones that sometimes slipped out.

"We got good content," she said, shifting to safer ground. "The determination shots will work well. And that resistance band moment shows clear progress from last week."

Joe made some noise of agreement, his mind elsewhere. The content, the narrative, the public story of his comeback—none of it captured what this actually felt like. The doubt that crept in when things got quiet. The fear that he might never move the same way again.

Y/N kept organizing her equipment, giving him space to process. Joe watched her work, noting how she paid attention to details others missed. She got that recovery wasn't a straight line, that some days felt like shit even when the medical data said you were improving.

"What if I can't come back from this the same?"

The question slipped out before Joe could stop it, spoken so quietly he wasn't sure Y/N had heard. He'd been carrying that fear for weeks, letting it build in the space between everyone's encouragement and how his body actually felt.

Y/N stopped packing and turned toward him, her expression shifting from work mode to something more personal. For a second, Joe regretted showing that crack in his armor.

Then Y/N reached for her camera and deliberately turned it off, showing him the dark screen.

"Off the record," she said simply.

Something in Joe's chest loosened. This wasn't going to become content, wasn't going to be turned into some inspiring soundbite about overcoming adversity. Just a conversation between two people, one of whom happened to understand what rebuilding an athletic career actually meant.

"Everyone keeps saying I'll come back stronger," Joe continued, gaining confidence as he realized Y/N was actually listening, not documenting. "The team, the media, fans. 'Joe Burrow's comeback will be legendary.' But what if it's not? What if this changes things permanently?"

Y/N leaned against the table, giving him her full attention in a way that felt different from their usual work stuff. "What does your PT actually say? Not the public version."

"That I'm ahead of schedule but have a long way to go," Joe answered honestly. "That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again." He paused, voicing the fear that kept him up at night. "If normal even exists after this."

Y/N nodded, thoughtful rather than sympathetic. Joe appreciated that she wasn't rushing to reassure him or offer some bullshit about positive thinking.

"I tore my ACL my senior year," she said, completely blindsiding him.

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine shock breaking through his self-pity. In all their sessions, through all the conversations about recovery and rehab, Y/N had never mentioned going through this exact thing herself.

"You tore your ACL?"

"Playing soccer at UK," Y/N confirmed. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn't see."

The image of Y/N—composed, professional Y/N—crying in a bathroom over her own injury hit different. She understood this specific hell not as someone watching from the outside, but as someone who'd lived it.

"What changed?" Joe asked, fully engaged now. "How did you get from bathroom tears to playing again?"

"I stopped fighting the process," Y/N said simply. "Started respecting the injury instead of hating it. And I learned that 'same as before' is the wrong goal. You don't get the same body back. You get a new one that moves differently."

Joe absorbed this, recognizing truth in her words. Every session, every exercise, every small step forward was building something new rather than fixing something broken.

"But here's what no one tells you," Y/N continued, "the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can't rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before."

As she talked, Joe found himself studying her face, noting details he'd never paid attention to before. The way her eyes focused when she was being completely honest. The slight animation in her voice when she talked about something that was important. This wasn't professional Y/N documenting his sessions—this was someone sharing hard-won wisdom from her own experience.

"I didn't know," Joe said, something shifting in how he saw her. "About your injury."

The admission hung between them, more personal than anything he'd said to her before. It was true—Y/N never offered fake encouragement or tried to spin his struggle into something easier to swallow. She met him where he was, acknowledged the difficulty, and gave perspective without making his experience seem smaller.

Y/N held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then she moved back toward her equipment, gently breaking the spell.

"The comeback narrative isn't bullshit," she said, returning to safer ground while keeping the honesty that had defined their exchange. "It's just incomplete without the struggle." She picked up her camera bag and added, "And Joe? No one who's watched you work these past weeks doubts you'll be back. The question is just who you'll be when you get there."

Joe nodded slowly, processing both her words and the unexpected depth of understanding she'd revealed. Y/N wasn't just documenting his recovery—she was someone who had walked this exact path and come out different but stronger.

"Thanks," he said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond the conversation. "For the honesty. And for turning off the camera."

"Some moments aren't for documentation," Y/N replied, already moving toward the door. "Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would help people. Athletes don't discuss that enough."

"Maybe," Joe said, his mind still processing everything she'd shared. "I'll think about it."

As Y/N got ready to leave, Joe found himself not wanting the conversation to end. For the first time since his injury, he'd talked to someone who understood both the physical and emotional shit he was dealing with. Not just the public challenges, but the private fears he couldn't voice to coaches, teammates, or even Olivia.

"Hey, Y/N?" he called as she reached the door.

She turned back. "Yeah?"

"Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?"

Y/N smiled at the question, getting his real concern underneath. "I wasn't exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better."

After she left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, replaying their conversation. The vulnerability Y/N had shown in sharing her own struggle. The way she'd made his fears feel normal rather than catastrophic. The insight she'd offered from actual experience rather than textbook knowledge.

But what stuck with him most was realizing he'd never had this kind of conversation with Olivia. Not about fear. Not about fundamental change. Not about the possibility that recovery might mean becoming someone different rather than going back to who he'd been before.

Y/N understood him in ways that went beyond work. She saw his struggle clearly, met it with honesty rather than false comfort, and offered perspective that actually helped instead of just sounding supportive.

The realization felt dangerous—acknowledging that someone other than his girlfriend provided the emotional understanding he most needed during the hardest challenge of his career.

* * *

April 2021 - Joe's Home 

The living room buzzed with the nervous energy that always came with draft night. Olivia had set everything up perfectly—good food, comfortable seating, TV positioned so everyone could see the picks. Joe's parents sat on the couch, his phone propped between them so extended family could join virtually, creating the kind of supportive atmosphere that should have made him feel centered.

Instead, Joe felt restless.

Maybe it was his knee, still reminding him of everything he'd lost. Maybe it was the pressure of knowing this draft would shape the team he'd come back to. Or maybe it was feeling like the center of attention while somehow being totally disconnected from everything happening around him.

His phone had been going off all evening—teammates, coaches, agents, reporters. Everyone wanted his reaction to potential picks, his thoughts on team needs, his input on players he'd hopefully be throwing to in a few months. The attention felt overwhelming and empty at the same time.

"They're really leaning toward Chase," his dad said, scrolling through draft speculation on his tablet. "Makes sense with your LSU connection."

"Could go either way," Joe replied, though privately he hoped the speculation was true. Ja'Marr Chase was more than just offensive firepower—he was a connection to the version of himself that had felt invincible, before the injury had fucked with his head.

Olivia squeezed his hand. "Either pick will be great. The team knows what they're doing."

Joe nodded, appreciating her confidence even as he recognized the superficial nature of her reassurance. Olivia understood that this mattered to him, but she couldn't grasp the nuanced implications of offensive line versus receiver, the strategic considerations that would affect every aspect of his return to football.

As the Bengals' pick got closer, Joe found himself thinking about Y/N. She would understand this moment, the way draft decisions affected everything about team building. Their conversations during rehab had shown him how well she got football strategy, how she could see past the surface narratives to what personnel decisions actually meant.

Without really deciding to, Joe picked up his phone and found Y/N's contact.

You watching?

The message felt like reaching for something normal in all this manufactured drama. Y/N meant honest conversation, perspective without obligation to react the "right" way.

Of course. Annual Y/L/N family tradition, now over Zoom.

Her response made Joe smile for real. He could picture her brothers debating prospects with the same intensity they'd probably brought to backyard games growing up. The image felt more real than the carefully orchestrated support around him.

Predictions?

My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I'm staying neutral.

Joe appreciated her diplomatic approach, even though he could tell she was deflecting. Y/N was too smart not to have strong opinions about the team's needs, but she was careful not to influence him.

Smart. But off the record?

The question pushed at their work boundaries, asking for her actual thoughts rather than the careful neutrality she kept in their official stuff.

Off the record, I think your LSU connection might win out over conventional wisdom.

Reading her response, Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's insight. She understood the intangible stuff that influenced decisions beyond pure analytics—the chemistry between players, the psychological impact of reuniting successful partnerships.

We'll see in about 4 picks. My phone's been blowing up all night. Needed a normal conversation.

The admission came out more honest than Joe had meant it to. Among all the calls and texts from people with various agendas, reaching out to Y/N felt like refuge rather than adding to the chaos.

Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How's the knee today?

Her question shifted focus from the draft spectacle to his actual experience, treating him like someone recovering from injury rather than a franchise quarterback managing public expectations. The difference mattered more than Joe had realized.

Good session this morning. Getting stronger. Doctor says I'm where I should be at 20 weeks.

"Joe, who are you texting? You're missing the debate!" his mom called from across the room, where she'd apparently gotten pulled into his brothers' argument about team needs.

"Just work stuff," Joe replied, the casual lie coming easily despite how personal his conversation with Y/N actually was.

Olivia says hi. She's been impressed with the rehab content series.

Joe typed the message before thinking it through, then immediately regretted casually mentioning his girlfriend. It created an awkward reminder of boundaries that felt increasingly artificial, especially during a conversation that was giving him exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving all evening.

Tell her thanks and hey back.

Y/N's response was characteristically professional, acknowledging Olivia without making it weird. But Joe could sense the slight shift in tone, the way personal conversation had moved back toward safer work ground.

When Commissioner Goodell announced Ja'Marr Chase's selection, Joe's living room erupted. His parents cheered, Olivia squeezed his hand triumphantly, and extended family voices came through the phone speakers with excitement and congratulations.

Joe smiled and accepted the congratulations, playing his part while his mind stayed partially focused on his ongoing text conversation with Y/N.

Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Lucas says you're welcome. Apparently he's taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

The image of Y/N's brother claiming responsibility for the pick made Joe laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. Her family's enthusiastic investment in the team, filtered through her amused perspective, felt more real than the manufactured excitement around him.

Tell him I'll let Chase know he's got fans in Louisville. Heading into calls. Appreciate the breather.

Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

As Joe set his phone aside and prepared to handle the inevitable round of post-pick interviews, he realized that his brief exchange with Y/N had been the most genuine interaction of the entire evening. While everyone around him had been performing their roles in the draft night production, Y/N had simply been herself—honest, insightful, normal.

As Joe set his phone aside and prepared to handle the inevitable round of post-pick interviews, he realized that his brief exchange with Y/N had been the most genuine interaction of the entire evening. While everyone around him had been performing their roles in the draft night production, Y/N had simply been herself—honest, insightful, normal.

"That was perfect," Olivia said, settling back beside him as the draft coverage continued. "Chase is exactly what you needed."

Joe nodded, agreeing while recognizing that what he needed went beyond football personnel. He needed people who understood him completely, who could give perspective without agenda, who made him feel like himself rather than like a franchise quarterback managing expectations.

Y/N provided that kind of connection. And the fact that he'd instinctively reached out to her during one of the most important moments of his professional calendar felt like an admission he wasn't ready to examine.

But as the evening continued and Joe handled the required conversations with media and team personnel, part of his mind stayed with that brief text exchange—the easy honesty, the shared understanding, the way Y/N had made him feel grounded when everything else felt like performance.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp 

The energy at training camp was electric in a way Joe had almost forgotten. Real practices, full contact, the rhythm of football returning after months of careful rehab. His knee felt strong—not perfect, but functional in the ways that mattered. For the first time since the injury, Joe let himself believe in the comeback story that had gotten him through the dark months.

Y/N moved along the sidelines with that efficient way she had, coordinating her media team while capturing the moments that would become the story of his return. Joe found himself tracking her movement between plays, noting the focused intensity she brought to documenting this milestone.

Their working relationship had changed during his rehab into something more collaborative. More personal. The vulnerability they'd shared during recovery had created trust that went beyond typical player-media stuff. Joe relied on Y/N's perspective not just for content strategy, but for honest assessment of his progress and how he was coming across publicly.

"Looking good out there," Y/N called during a water break, her camera lowered in a way that meant personal conversation, not work documentation.

"Feeling good," Joe replied, meaning it for the first time in months. "Might actually survive a full season."

"Don't jinx it," Y/N warned with a smile that felt familiar and comfortable.

Joe grinned back, and for a moment the interaction felt like the easy friendship they'd developed during rehabilitation—personal connection disguised as professional collaboration.

But something had shifted since those private rehab sessions. The return to normal team operations had brought back barriers and complications that hadn't existed in the controlled environment of recovery. Other players, coaches, media, family members created a context that made Joe more aware of boundaries he'd let blur during his injury.

Including Olivia, who had been mostly absent from his rehab but was now here for the triumphant return phase.

Joe spotted her near the family area, dressed in team colors and chatting easily with other players' family members. She looked beautiful and confident, playing her role as supportive girlfriend with the grace that had always characterized their public appearances.

After practice, Joe was reviewing film with coaches when he noticed Y/N approaching the family area. From his position in the meeting room, he had a clear view of what happened next, though he couldn't hear the conversation.

Y/N had been organizing equipment when Olivia walked up to her directly. Joe watched as they talked, Olivia's body language open and welcoming, Y/N's professional but still warm.

The interaction lasted several minutes, longer than the casual pleasantries typically exchanged between players' family and staff. Joe found himself studying both women's expressions, trying to read the subtext from a distance.

Olivia seemed genuinely interested in talking to Y/N, gesturing occasionally toward the field and nodding at Y/N's responses. Y/N kept her professional composure, but Joe could detect the slight formality that meant she was being careful about boundaries.

When Joe finally escaped his meetings and approached the family area, both women turned toward him with smiles that felt slightly forced.

"Joe," Olivia said warmly, stepping close enough to claim his attention. "I was just thanking Y/N for all her work during your recovery."

"She mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation," Y/N added, her tone carefully neutral. "Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic story."

Joe felt uncomfortable tension in the space between them, like both women were performing for his benefit while navigating something more complex underneath.

"Y/N understood what I needed from those sessions," Joe said, immediately regretting how the comment might sound to Olivia. "Made the whole process easier to handle."

Something flickered across Olivia's expression—not jealousy exactly, but recognition that Joe was giving Y/N credit for understanding him in ways that Olivia maybe hadn't during his recovery.

"I'm sure it wasn't easy," Olivia replied, her voice maintaining perfect supportiveness while carrying something Joe couldn't quite identify. "Having to document someone going through such a difficult time."

"Joe made it easy," Y/N said diplomatically. "He was committed from day one. Very clear about his goals and boundaries."

The professional language felt strangely distant after months of increasingly personal conversations. Y/N was retreating into formal mode, recognizing the complexity of the situation and responding by emphasizing the professional nature of their relationship.

"Well, the content series has been excellent," Olivia continued. "Really showed his determination without being exploitative."

Joe appreciated Olivia's attempt to acknowledge Y/N's work, but something about the conversation felt wrong. The easy rapport he'd developed with Y/N was being filtered through social expectations and relationship dynamics that made their connection feel fake rather than genuine.

"I should get this footage back for editing," Y/N said, gesturing to her equipment with the kind of professional efficiency that meant the conversation was over.

"Of course," Olivia replied graciously. "It was really nice meeting you properly."

"You too," Y/N said, already stepping back toward her professional role. "Good to see you out there today, Joe. The comeback looks real."

As Y/N walked away, Joe felt a strange sense of loss. The comfortable intimacy they'd developed during his rehab had been replaced by careful professional distance—probably appropriate given the circumstances but disappointing nonetheless.

"She seems lovely," Olivia said, settling beside Joe as they watched Y/N coordinate with her media team. "Very dedicated to her work."

"She's good at what she does," Joe replied neutrally, though his eyes stayed on Y/N as she efficiently managed post-practice documentation.

"You two seem to work well together," Olivia observed, her tone light but with something underneath that Joe couldn't ignore.

Joe turned to look at his girlfriend directly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing dramatic," Olivia said quickly. "Just that you're comfortable with her. During your recovery, I mean. She clearly understood how to handle that situation appropriately."

The word "appropriately" carried weight Joe wasn't sure how to interpret. Was Olivia acknowledging Y/N's professionalism, or subtly questioning whether their relationship had crossed lines it shouldn't have?

"The rehab was isolating," Joe said carefully. "It helped having someone document it who didn't make it feel like performance."

Olivia nodded, seeming to accept his explanation while maintaining that watchful quality he'd noticed since training camp began.

That evening, as Joe and Olivia settled into their house, the conversation returned to Y/N in ways that felt both casual and loaded.

"I'm glad you had good support during the recovery," Olivia said as they got ready for bed. "I know I wasn't around as much as I should have been."

The admission surprised Joe. Olivia rarely acknowledged gaps in their relationship, preferring to maintain the narrative that they were perfectly supportive of each other's careers and obligations.

"You were dealing with your own work," Joe replied, which was true but not the whole story. The reality was that Olivia's absence during his rehab had highlighted how much he'd come to value Y/N's consistent presence and understanding.

"Still," Olivia continued, "it's nice that Y/N was there for the professional side of things. She seems to really understand the football world in ways that..." she trailed off.

"In ways that what?" Joe prompted.

"In ways that I probably don't," Olivia finished honestly. "I support your career, but I don't always understand the specifics of what you're going through."

The admission created an opening for honesty that Joe wasn't sure he was ready to walk through. It would have been easy to reassure Olivia that her support was enough, that understanding football wasn't necessary for understanding him.

But sitting there in their bed room, thinking about the months of rehab sessions where Y/N had provided exactly the kind of insight and perspective he'd needed most, Joe couldn't bring himself to offer that reassurance.

"Different kinds of support matter at different times," he said finally, trying to navigate between honesty and kindness.

Olivia studied his face for a moment, then nodded with what looked like resignation rather than satisfaction.

"I love you," she said, settling beside him in bed. "I just want to make sure I'm giving you what you need."

"I love you too," Joe replied automatically, the words feeling both true and not enough.

As Olivia fell asleep beside him, Joe stared at the ceiling and thought about the afternoon. Watching Y/N retreat into professional distance when Olivia appeared. Feeling the careful tension of their three-way conversation. Recognizing that his relationship with Y/N had become something that required management rather than simple acknowledgment.

The easy connection he'd developed with Y/N during rehab couldn't coexist simply with his relationship with Olivia. The intimacy he'd found with someone who understood his professional world completely was highlighting gaps in his primary relationship that he'd been able to ignore before.

Joe had always been good at compartmentalization, keeping different aspects of his life properly organized and separated. But lying there beside Olivia while thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and the loss of their easy rapport, he realized that some connections were too big to be contained within their designated boundaries.

The recognition felt dangerous. And increasingly unavoidable.

* * *

January 2022 - Post-AFC Championship Game

The locker room celebration felt surreal. Back-to-back AFC Championship games. A second straight trip to the Super Bowl. The comeback from his injury was complete in ways that exceeded even his most optimistic projections during those dark rehab months.

Joe moved through the chaos of interviews and celebrations with practiced composure, but part of his mind kept drifting to the sideline moments he'd caught during the game. Y/N coordinating with her media team, capturing the reactions that would become the story of this run. She'd been there for every step of his recovery, and now she was documenting how it all paid off.

As the immediate media stuff wound down, Joe found himself looking for her among the crowd of staff, players, and family filling the locker room. He spotted her near the edge of the celebration, camera lowered, watching the scene with the kind of professional satisfaction that came from knowing she'd captured something special.

"Y/N!" Chase called out, waving her over to a group of receivers. "Get this for the official account."

Joe watched as Y/N smoothly shifted back into work mode, directing the players through a shot that would probably become iconic. Her promotion to Social Media Coordinator earlier in the season had been well-deserved, expanding her responsibilities beyond individual player content to the whole team narrative.

The promotion had also created a weird possessiveness in Joe that he didn't want to think about too hard. Y/N wasn't just "his" media person anymore—she belonged to the entire organization now. But Joe still found ways to keep their professional relationship central to her responsibilities.

"Good game to capture," Joe said, approaching as she finished with the receivers.

Y/N turned, her smile genuine and warm. "Congratulations. Back-to-back championship games is no small feat."

"The content team has been killing it this season," Joe replied, nodding toward her coordinator badge. "That promotion was well-deserved."

He meant it, but there was something else underneath. Pride, yes, but also personal investment in Y/N's success that felt more intimate than typical workplace stuff.

"Thanks," Y/N said, looking slightly surprised that he'd noticed the promotion specifically. "Everyone makes it easy to create good content."

Joe gave a small shrug. "Still. You're the one shaping how it's remembered."

The comment carried more weight than he'd intended, acknowledging not just her professional skill but her role in crafting the narrative of his comeback. Y/N had been there for his lowest moments and was now documenting his highest ones.

"Well, my job's bigger now," Y/N said with a slight smile. "I'm not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore."

The reference to their early dynamic made Joe smile, remembering the photoshoot that had started everything. So much had changed since then—his understanding of her capabilities, their working relationship, the trust between them.

But something about her comment bugged him. The idea that she was moving beyond quarterback-specific content, that their professional relationship might become less central to her role, created an uncomfortable reaction he didn't want to analyze.

"Olivia's organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl," Joe found himself saying, the words coming out before he'd fully decided to extend the invitation. "You should come. The whole media team is invited, but..." he paused, searching for the right words, "it would be good to have you there. After everything."

The invitation was supposedly professional—acknowledging Y/N's role in documenting the team's journey. But Joe knew it was more personal than that. He wanted Y/N at his celebration, wanted her to be part of how this all ended.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, her expression suggesting she understood the significance. "That would be nice."

Joe seemed about to say something else when Chase called his name from across the locker room. "Quarterback meeting in five."

"Duty calls," Joe said with a quick smile. "See you around, Y/N."

As he walked away, Joe tried to process what had just happened. Inviting Y/N to Olivia's gathering felt like crossing a line he'd been carefully maintaining. It was one thing to work closely with Y/N; it was another to specifically want her at his personal celebrations.

But the truth was, celebrating the Super Bowl without Y/N there felt wrong. She'd been part of his journey in ways that went beyond typical media documentation. The vulnerability they'd shared during rehab, the trust between them, the way she understood his world—all of it had created a connection Joe couldn't just categorize as work.

Later that evening, as Joe and Olivia discussed plans for the potential Super Bowl gathering, he found himself being careful about how he framed Y/N's invitation.

"I mentioned to Y/N that the media team would be invited," he said casually, not mentioning that he'd given her a specific, personal invitation that went beyond the general team inclusion.

"Of course," Olivia replied, focused on her planning notes. "She's been such a big part of the comeback story. It makes sense to include the key media people."

Olivia's easy acceptance made Joe feel both relieved and slightly guilty. She was treating Y/N's potential attendance as professional courtesy, unaware that Joe's motivations were more personal.

"She's been good to work with," Joe said, which was true but didn't describe the actual nature of their relationship.

"I'm sure she has," Olivia agreed absently, already moving on to other planning details.

But Joe's mind stayed fixed on the moment when he'd invited Y/N, on the way her expression had shifted when he'd made it personal rather than just professional. The anticipation he felt about celebrating with her was dangerous in its intensity.

For the first time, Joe admitted to himself that he was looking forward to sharing his success with Y/N in ways that went beyond professional obligation. He wanted her there not just as the media coordinator who had documented his journey, but as someone who had become important to him personally.

* * *

Early 2022 Season - Bengals Facility 

Joe was reviewing film when Kayla knocked on the quarterback meeting room door.

"Got a minute?" she asked. "Wanted to talk about Y/N's new role and how it affects assignments."

Joe paused the video and turned around. He'd already heard about Y/N's promotion—she'd mentioned it in passing after practice yesterday, trying to downplay how big a deal it was even though Joe could tell she was excited.

"Yeah, of course," Joe said. "Congratulations are in order for her, right? Social Media Coordinator?"

"Exactly," Kayla said, settling into a chair. "Well-deserved for all the work she's done. But with her expanded responsibilities—overseeing all platforms, coordinating with other departments—we need to figure out how to redistribute some of her current workload."

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Redistribute?"

"Well, Y/N's been handling most of your media content personally," Kayla explained. "But with her bigger role, we might need other team members to take on some of those responsibilities. Free her up for the coordinator stuff."

The suggestion hit Joe wrong. The idea of working with someone else, of losing the collaboration he'd built with Y/N, felt unacceptable.

"Has this been discussed with Y/N?" Joe asked.

"Not in detail yet. We wanted your input first. If you're comfortable with other team members handling some of your content, it would help with the transition."

Joe felt something protective rise in his chest. Y/N had become essential to how he handled media obligations. More than that, she'd become someone he looked forward to working with, whose understanding of his approach had become irreplaceable.

"I'd prefer to keep working with Y/N," Joe said, his tone firm. "She understands my communication style, my privacy needs. Starting over with someone new would mess up what we've built."

Kayla studied his expression, clearly noting how strongly he felt about this. "That's something we can work with. Y/N's partnership with you has been really successful."

"It works," Joe confirmed. "I don't want to mess with something that's effective just because her title changed."

"Of course," Kayla agreed. "We'll structure her new role to maintain your existing collaboration."

After Kayla left, Joe sat back in his chair, processing his reaction. The intensity of his response to potentially losing Y/N as his primary media contact had been immediate and strong.

He pulled out his phone.

Heard Kayla might try to reassign some of your workload. Told her I want to keep working with you.

The response came quickly: Thanks. Was hoping our partnership wouldn't change with the new role.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Appreciate that. See you at practice.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling better about securing their working relationship. Y/N's promotion was great for her, and he wanted her to succeed. But he also wasn't willing to give up the collaboration that had become essential to how he handled his professional life.

* * *

November 2023 - Baltimore Ravens Game 

The hit came from his blind side as Joe released the pass, a clean pocket suddenly collapsing into chaos. He felt his wrist bend in the wrong direction, hyperextending as he tried to brace his fall against the Ravens' defensive lineman. The pain was immediate and sharp, different from the deep, structural agony of his knee injury but alarming in its intensity.

Joe stayed down for a moment, testing his hand and fingers while medical staff rushed onto the field. His wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, and something in the joint felt loose in ways that meant significant damage.

Not again.

As trainers helped him up, Joe's mind was already racing past the immediate injury to what came next: surgery, rehab, months of careful rebuilding. The familiar dread of watching a season slip away, of facing another long recovery that would test everything.

But underneath the frustration and fear was another thought, immediate and certain: he wanted Y/N handling whatever media coverage came next.

The pattern was repeating itself—injury leading to vulnerability, vulnerability leading to his instinct to reach for the person who best understood how to protect his privacy while managing the public story. Y/N had proven during his knee recovery that she could document struggle without exploiting it, could tell a comeback story with honesty rather than bullshit.

More than that, Y/N's presence during rehab had provided something Joe had come to depend on: emotional stability during chaos. Working with her wasn't just about media strategy—it was about having someone in his corner who saw him as a person working through challenges rather than content to be packaged.

Hours later, after X-rays and MRI scans confirmed ligament damage requiring surgery, Joe found himself in the familiar position of planning his comeback before he'd even processed the setback.

"We'll need to coordinate media strategy for the recovery," Kayla said during a meeting with team medical staff and front office executives. "Similar approach to 2020, controlled narrative, focus on the work rather than the setback."

"I want Y/N handling it," Joe said immediately, before anyone could suggest alternatives.

The speed and certainty of his request drew glances around the room. Joe's preference for Y/N wasn't surprising—their previous collaboration had been successful—but the immediate, non-negotiable way he'd said it revealed how much he relied on her specifically.

"Of course," Kayla agreed quickly. "Y/N's experience with your previous recovery makes her the obvious choice."

But Joe caught something in Kayla's expression, a flicker of recognition that his attachment to Y/N went beyond typical professional preferences. The way he'd insisted on her involvement, without considering her other responsibilities or alternative options, had been telling.

Later that evening, Joe was at home with his wrist in a temporary brace when his phone rang. Olivia's name on the screen.

"Hey," he answered, settling back into his chair with the careful movements of someone protecting an injury.

"I just heard," Olivia's voice carried genuine concern. "How bad is it?"

"Surgery next week," Joe replied, the reality still sinking in. "Six to eight weeks recovery, probably longer to feel completely normal throwing."

"I'm so sorry, baby," Olivia said. "I know how frustrating this must be, especially after everything you went through with your knee."

Joe appreciated her support, but found himself mentally comparing her response to how Y/N would handle the news. Olivia offered comfort and sympathy, which was valuable. But Y/N would offer understanding that came from experience, perspective that acknowledged both the physical and emotional challenge of major injury recovery.

"The team's setting up media coverage for the rehab," Joe said, already anticipating her reaction.

"Same approach as last time?" Olivia asked. "Y/N documenting everything?"

Olivia mentioning Y/N so casually made Joe think. After nearly three years together, Olivia had internalized that Y/N was Joe's go-to person for media challenges. The assumption that Y/N would handle his recovery documentation wasn't questioned—it was expected.

"Yeah," Joe confirmed. "She understands how to balance the story without making it dramatic."

"She's good at her job," Olivia agreed, though something in her tone suggested more underneath.

After the call ended, Joe sat in the quiet of his living room, processing both the injury and the conversations around it. His immediate instinct to request Y/N specifically, Olivia's unsurprised acceptance of that choice, the way everyone seemed to understand that Y/N was his preferred media partner—all of it pointed to a relationship that mattered beyond just work.

Joe thought about the months of wrist rehab ahead, all those sessions where he'd have to be vulnerable and patient. Going through that with anyone other than Y/N felt wrong.

His phone buzzed with a text, Y/N's name appearing on the screen.

Heard about the wrist. I'm sorry. How are you feeling?

Joe found himself smiling despite the shitty circumstances. That was Y/N—direct but caring.

Been better. But at least I know the drill this time.

Silver lining: you're an expert at comeback stories now. We'll document this one just as well.

Looking forward to working together again. Even under these circumstances.

Joe sent the message and immediately recognized the honesty in it. He was looking forward to working with Y/N again, to the regular sessions and collaborative planning and shared goals that would define his recovery.

But more than that, he was looking forward to having Y/N back as a consistent presence in his life. The injury was devastating, but it would restore the regular interaction with Y/N that his successful season had reduced to occasional meetings and structured professional encounters.

Me too. Same approach as before—your story, your terms.

Perfect. See you next week.

* * *

February 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat at the kitchen island, mechanically working through his PT-approved dinner while Olivia moved around their kitchen with familiar efficiency. The domestic scene should have felt comfortable—they'd shared thousands of similar evenings over the years together—but Joe found his attention drifting to his phone, which sat face-down beside his plate.

Y/N had texted an hour ago about tomorrow's rehab session, something about adjusting camera angles to better capture his improved wrist mobility. Nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until morning, but Joe found himself wanting to respond immediately.

"How's the wrist feeling today?" Olivia asked, settling across from him with her own dinner.

"Good," Joe replied automatically. "PT says I'm ahead of schedule."

It was the same update he'd given her for the past two weeks. Olivia would ask about his recovery, Joe would give her the medical rundown, and they'd move on to something else.

"That's great," Olivia said, cutting into her salad. "How much longer until you're cleared for full throwing?"

"Maybe two weeks," Joe answered, his attention divided between the conversation and the urge to check his phone.

Olivia nodded, focusing on her salad. They fell quiet, but it wasn't awkward. Just the comfortable silence of people who'd been together long enough not to need constant conversation.

But Joe found himself comparing it to the easy dialogue he'd developed with Y/N during rehab sessions. Those conversations flowed naturally, covering everything from recovery logistics to broader observations about football, media, life. With Y/N, silence felt companionable rather than empty.

His phone buzzed against the counter. Joe glanced at it reflexively, noting Y/N's name on the preview.

Also wanted to run an idea by you for the final recovery video. Think we could capture something more personal than just physical progress?

Joe's pulse quickened slightly. Y/N's suggestion of "something more personal" felt loaded with possibility.

"Work?" Olivia asked, noticing his attention had shifted.

"Just planning for tomorrow's session," Joe replied, picking up his phone despite telling himself he should wait.

What did you have in mind?

He typed quickly, then set the phone back down, trying to refocus on Olivia and their meal. But part of his mind remained engaged with Y/N's message.

You've been spending a lot of time on recovery content lately," Olivia said.

"Y/N's trying to make sure we capture the full story," Joe explained, then immediately regretted mentioning Y/N's name specifically. "The team wants comprehensive documentation."

"Right," Olivia said, returning her attention to her dinner. 

Joe's phone buzzed again, and despite his best intentions, he glanced at the preview.

Maybe something about what recovery means beyond just getting back to playing. The mental side, the perspective gained. You mentioned during your knee rehab that athletes don't talk about that enough.

The message referenced conversations from years ago, Y/N remembering details from their most vulnerable exchanges and suggesting they explore those themes more deeply. The recognition that she'd retained those personal insights felt significant.

"Sorry," Joe said.

But Olivia's expression had shifted, something watchful entering her gaze as she studied his face. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Joe replied, setting his phone face-down with deliberate finality. "How was your day?"

The question was intended to redirect attention, but Joe realized as he asked it that he genuinely didn't know how Olivia's day had been. They'd been in the same house for three hours, had eaten dinner together, but he hadn't asked about her work, her concerns, her life beyond their shared routine.

"Fine," Olivia said simply, her tone suggesting she'd noticed his delayed interest. "The usual client meetings and project reviews."

Joe knew the general outline of her responsibilities, but realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd asked for specific details about her projects, her challenges, her career aspirations.

When had he stopped being curious about Olivia's inner life? When had their conversations become purely functional?

His phone buzzed again, and Joe forced himself not to look, though every instinct urged him to check Y/N's latest message. The effort required to ignore it felt disproportionate to its actual importance.

"Joe," Olivia said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that made him look up from his deliberately ignored phone. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Joe replied, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Are you happy?" The question was simple, direct, and completely unexpected.

Joe stared at her, processing the question and his own internal reaction to it. "What do you mean?"

"With us," Olivia clarified, her expression serious but not accusatory. "With this. With how things are between us."

The question hung in the air, demanding honesty Joe wasn't sure he was prepared to give. He thought about their comfortable routine, their shared history, the stable foundation they'd built together. But he also thought about the emotional engagement he brought to his conversations with Y/N, the anticipation he felt about their collaborations.

"Why are you asking?" Joe said, deflecting rather than answering.

"Because you seem distant lately. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like you're here but not really here."

Joe felt a flush of guilt, recognizing the accuracy of her observation. He had been distant, divided in his attention, more invested in relationships outside their home than the one they shared within it.

"The recovery's been consuming," Joe offered, which was true but not the whole story.

"It's not just the recovery," Olivia said gently. "It's been building for a while. Since before the wrist injury. Sometimes I feel like I'm competing for your attention, and I don't know what I'm competing against."

That stung. Olivia had noticed him pulling away even when he thought he was hiding it.

His phone buzzed again, and this time Joe felt Olivia's eyes on him as he fought the urge to check it.

"You want to look at that," Olivia observed, her voice neutral but knowing.

"It can wait," Joe said, though the effort to ignore it felt physically uncomfortable.

"Joe," Olivia said, her voice carrying a sadness that made his chest tighten. "When's the last time you looked at me the way you just looked at your phone?"

The question was devastating in its simplicity, forcing Joe to confront where his emotional investment had been directed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt eager anticipation about spending time with Olivia, the way he felt about his upcoming session with Y/N.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped, unsure what he could say that would be both honest and kind.

"It's okay," she said quietly, though her expression suggested it wasn't really okay at all. "I just think we need to talk about what's actually happening here. And whether either of us is getting what we need from this relationship anymore."

Joe nodded slowly, recognizing that Olivia was right, that they'd been avoiding a conversation that had become necessary. But sitting there in their kitchen, with Y/N's unread messages waiting on his phone and Olivia's sad, knowing gaze across from him, Joe realized that some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.

He wasn't happy. Not with their relationship, not with the emotional distance he'd created, not with the way he'd been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

But acknowledging that would require admitting where his emotional focus had actually been directed. And Joe wasn't ready for that conversation.

* * *

Early March 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe knew the conversation was coming before Olivia even asked him to sit down. There had been signs building for weeks—the careful way she'd been watching him, the deliberate quality to her questions about his recovery, the spaces she'd started leaving in conversations that felt like invitations for honesty he wasn't ready to give.

"We need to talk," Olivia said, settling onto the couch across from him rather than beside him.

Joe set his phone face-down on the coffee table, though part of him remained aware that Y/N had texted about tomorrow's final rehab session. Their last official meeting before he was cleared for full activity, and probably their last regular collaboration until the next crisis brought them together.

The thought of losing that consistent contact with Y/N felt worse than whatever conversation he was about to have with his girlfriend of four years.

"Okay," Joe said, settling back and trying to prepare for whatever was coming.

"I've been thinking about what I asked you the other night," Olivia began, her voice steady but sad. "About whether you're happy. Whether either of us is getting what we need."

Joe nodded, having known since that dinner they'd come back to this.

"And I think I already know the answer," Olivia continued. "For both of us."

Joe waited, recognizing Olivia's calm certainty meant she'd already worked through whatever she was about to say.

"The truth is, Joe, I don't think you've been present in this relationship for a long time," Olivia said, gentle but unwavering. "Not just physically, but emotionally. And I don't think it's intentional. I think you've just... moved on. Without realizing it."

Joe felt guilt mixed with recognition. She was right—he had been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

"I know you care about me," Olivia continued. "And I care about you. But caring about someone and being in love with them aren't the same thing. And I don't think either of us has been in love with the other for a while now."

The observation was accurate and devastating. Joe did care about Olivia—she was kind, intelligent, supportive. But the passion, the excitement, the investment that characterized real love had faded so gradually he'd hardly noticed.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm not angry. I'm just tired of pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn't."

Joe nodded, recognizing the exhaustion in her voice. They'd both been maintaining a relationship that had become more habit than choice.

"I think we've been staying together because it's easy," Olivia said. "Because we work well on paper, because there's no drama, because neither of us wants to be the one to say it's not working."

"But it's not working," Joe said quietly.

"No," Olivia agreed. "It's not."

They sat in silence, both processing the admission that had been building for months.

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia said.

Joe nodded, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Is there someone else?"

The question made his stomach drop, not because it was unexpected but because it forced him to confront what he'd been avoiding. There wasn't someone else in the traditional sense—he hadn't cheated, hadn't crossed obvious lines.

But his emotional energy, his real investment, his genuine excitement—all of it had been directed toward Y/N for longer than he was comfortable acknowledging.

"Not in the way you mean," Joe said carefully.

Olivia studied his face, clearly noting what he wasn't saying.

"But there is someone," she said.

Joe felt heat rise in his neck.

"It's Y/N, isn't it?" Olivia asked, calm but knowing.

The directness left Joe with no room to deflect. Olivia had been watching, putting pieces together, recognizing patterns he'd thought he was hiding.

"Nothing has happened," Joe said immediately.

"I didn't ask if anything had happened," Olivia replied. "I asked if there was someone else. And I think we both know the answer."

Joe stared at her, recognizing that Olivia understood his emotional landscape better than he'd given her credit for.

"How long have you known?" Joe asked.

"Suspected for a while," Olivia admitted. "But really knew? Since your second injury, when your first instinct was to call for her specifically. The way you talk about her, the way you light up when you mention working together, the way you check your phone constantly when she's texting you."

The list was damning in its accuracy. Joe had thought he was being subtle, but Olivia had been watching, recognizing signs of emotional investment he hadn't even fully acknowledged to himself.

"She's been good for your career," Olivia said, no bitterness in her voice. "But somewhere along the way, it became more than professional for you."

Joe couldn't deny it. His relationship with Y/N had evolved far beyond typical player-media dynamics, had become something he looked forward to, depended on, valued in ways that went beyond work.

"And I think," Olivia continued, "that you've been so focused on maintaining appropriate boundaries professionally that you haven't acknowledged what's happening emotionally."

Painfully accurate. Joe had been so careful about not crossing obvious lines that he'd ignored the deeper truth about where his feelings had been developing.

"I'm not angry about it," Olivia said, surprising him. "You can't control who you connect with. But you can control what you do about it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that staying in this relationship while your heart is somewhere else isn't fair to either of us," Olivia said simply. "You deserve to be with someone who makes you feel the way you feel when you're working with her. And I deserve to be with someone who looks at me the way you look at her."

The truth was devastating in its clarity. Joe did feel different when he was with Y/N—more engaged, more himself, more excited. And Olivia deserved someone who could give her that kind of investment.

"I think we should break up," Olivia said.

Joe felt relief flood through him, followed immediately by guilt about feeling relieved. But Olivia was right—they'd been maintaining something that had become more obligation than choice.

"I think you're right," Joe said quietly.

"I think I am too," Olivia replied, sad but certain.

They spent the next hour working through logistics—the lease, belongings, the public announcement that would inevitably follow. The conversation was practical, civil, tinged with sadness but free from anger or blame.

As Olivia gathered some things to stay at her sister's place, Joe found himself thinking about what came next. About the conversation he would need to have with Y/N, about feelings he'd been suppressing, about the possibility that his emotional investment had been one-sided all along.

"Joe," Olivia said as she prepared to leave, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, I hope it works out with her. You deserve to be happy. And she seems like someone who could make you happy in ways I couldn't."

The generosity made Joe's chest tighten with guilt and gratitude.

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it.

After Olivia left, Joe sat alone in his living room, processing what had just happened. Four years had ended with mutual recognition that they'd both been going through the motions.

But more than that, Olivia had forced him to confront feelings he'd been avoiding, to acknowledge that his emotional investment had been directed elsewhere for longer than he wanted to admit.

Now he was free to pursue whatever connection existed with Y/N. But he was also terrified that years of careful professional boundaries had concealed his feelings so successfully that Y/N had no idea how he really felt.

The possibility that his feelings had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

* * *

March 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe's phone had been buzzing constantly for three days straight. Teammates offering support, coaches checking in, reporters trying to get quotes, agents discussing damage control. Everyone wanted something—a statement, a reaction, an explanation for why his four-year relationship had ended so quietly.

But the call he wanted to make, the voice he actually wanted to hear, he'd been avoiding.

Y/N would have seen the news by now. Hell, she was probably fielding media requests about it, coordinating the team's response, crafting the careful messaging that would protect his privacy while acknowledging public interest. She was probably handling the crisis he'd created without him even asking, the way she always did.

The thought of Y/N managing his personal mess with her characteristic professionalism made something in Joe's chest tighten. She'd be careful, respectful, protective of boundaries she just understood instinctively.

Joe stared at his phone, Y/N's contact pulled up but the call button untapped. What was his excuse for reaching out? What professional reason could he manufacture for needing to hear her voice when what he really wanted was to tell her that he was free now, that the barrier between them had been removed?

But that conversation felt impossible. Too direct, too presumptuous, too revealing of feelings he'd spent years hiding behind work.

The NBC interview. Joe remembered Kayla mentioning a major network piece scheduled for next week, the kind of high-profile appearance that would require careful preparation. The kind of thing Y/N excelled at managing.

It was a legitimate reason to call. Professional necessity rather than personal want. Even if the real motivation was simpler: he missed talking to her.

Joe hit the call button before he could overthink it.

"Y/N Y/L/N," her voice came through, crisp and professional despite the late hour.

Just hearing her say her own name made something in Joe relax. After three days of managing sympathy, curiosity, and barely concealed gossip, Y/N's voice felt like solid ground.

"It's Joe."

A brief pause, then her tone shifted into something warmer. "Hey. How are you doing?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, settling back in his chair. "But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, and Joe could hear the understanding in her tone. She knew exactly what kind of pressure he was under.

"We've drafted a content approach that should help," she continued, already working to solve problems he hadn't even asked her to address.

Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's instinctive understanding of his needs. While everyone else was asking invasive questions or offering unwanted advice, she was quietly building protective barriers around his privacy.

"Kayla mentioned your strategy," Joe said. "No acknowledgment. Keep it focused on football."

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, and Joe caught something uncertain in her voice. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, probably with more emphasis than necessary. Hearing Y/N articulate his needs so perfectly felt like being understood at a level he'd forgotten was possible.

"That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview," Joe continued, seizing on the professional excuse. "I need you there."

"I can assign our best team—" Y/N began.

"I want you there," Joe said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more direct. The truth beneath the professional request.

He needed Y/N specifically. Not just her skills, but her presence, her understanding, her ability to make him feel grounded during what would inevitably be a challenging interview.

"I'll be there," Y/N said, and Joe felt relief flood through him. "We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond interview logistics. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

The gratitude was real. Y/N's careful avoidance of invasive questions felt like a kindness everyone else seemed incapable of offering.

After hanging up, Joe sat in the quiet of his house—his house now, not theirs—processing the conversation. Talking to Y/N had felt like the first normal interaction he'd had since news broke. No judgment, no probing questions, no carefully masked concern. Just professional competence mixed with genuine care.

But more than that, the conversation had revealed something Joe was still afraid to examine fully. Y/N's immediate protective instincts, her intuitive understanding of what he needed, her willingness to prioritize his comfort over public curiosity—all of it pointed to someone who cared about him beyond typical professional relationships.

The way she'd said "I'll be there" sounded like a promise, like someone choosing to show up for him personally rather than just fulfilling professional obligations.

Joe thought about the NBC interview, about having Y/N there to navigate the inevitable personal questions. But he also thought about what came after the interview, about whether this crisis might create opportunities for conversations that went beyond their carefully maintained professional boundaries.

He was free now. The six-year relationship that had provided comfortable stability while preventing him from pursuing deeper connections was over. The barrier between him and Y/N had been removed.

But sitting alone in his house, thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and respectful distance, Joe realized that freedom to pursue something didn't guarantee that something existed to pursue.

Y/N had been nothing but appropriate throughout their entire professional relationship. She'd never crossed lines, never made their collaboration about anything other than work, never given him reason to believe her feelings extended beyond professional respect.

The possibility that his emotional investment had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

But for the first time in years, Joe had the freedom to find out. And despite the fear of potential rejection, the thought of finally being honest about his feelings felt like a risk worth taking.

* * *

April 2024 - Local Cafe

"This isn't for work," Joe clarified as Y/N settled into the seat across from him at their usual corner table. "I mean, we can talk about work if you want, but that's not why I asked you here."

Y/N paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, something shifting in her expression. "Oh. Okay. That's... nice."

The slight flush that crept up her neck didn't escape Joe's notice. It was subtle—Y/N was too professional to let much show—but it was there.

"How are you doing?" Y/N asked, settling back in her chair. "Really, I mean. The honest version."

Everyone had been asking about the breakup for weeks, but their questions felt like they were fishing for drama rather than genuine concern.

"Better than I expected," Joe said honestly. "The relief surprised me. I thought I'd feel more... I don't know, sad about it ending."

"Relief can be its own kind of answer," Y/N observed, then seemed to catch herself being too insightful. "I mean, that's what I've heard."

Joe studied her face, noting the way she'd pulled back from offering personal wisdom. "You've been through breakups before."

"Haven't we all," Y/N replied with a slight smile, deflecting without being dismissive.

The conversation flowed differently than their usual professional exchanges. Without the structure of injury updates or content strategy, they found themselves talking about broader things—books, music, family dynamics, observations about Cincinnati as a city. Joe discovered that Y/N had opinions about everything from local restaurants to the psychology of social media engagement, insights that were sharp and funny and completely separate from her professional expertise.

"Your brothers still giving you grief about working with me?" Joe asked, remembering her mentions of their teasing from years past.

"Constantly," Y/N laughed. "Though now it's evolved from 'don't embarrass us' to 'we can't believe you get paid to hang out with Joe Burrow.'"

"Is that what this is?" Joe asked, gesturing between them. "Hanging out?"

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—hesitation, maybe, or recognition that they were defining something that had been carefully undefined for years.

"I guess it is," she said, not looking away. "That okay?"

 "More than okay," Joe said, then caught himself. 

"Sorry, that sounded weird. Yeah, it's good."

As their lunches became regular over the following weeks, Joe found himself looking forward to them in ways that had nothing to do with work. Y/N was easy to talk to, made him laugh, challenged his perspectives without making it feel like confrontation.

But more than that, Joe started noticing things that suggested Y/N's interest went beyond friendship.

The way she remembered details from previous conversations—his mention of preferring morning workouts, his offhand comment about missing certain Louisiana restaurants, his observation about the difference between Cincinnati and LSU fans.

The way she'd automatically order for both of them when he was running late, knowing exactly what he wanted.

The way she'd lean forward when he was talking, giving him her complete attention in a way that felt different from polite interest.

The way she'd laugh at his jokes—not polite chuckles, but genuine amusement that reached her eyes.

Most telling was what happened when other people interrupted their conversations. If someone approached for photos or autographs, Y/N would politely step back, creating space. But Joe caught the way she'd watch, making sure he was comfortable, ready to intervene if needed. Not jealous or possessive, but protective in a way that felt personal.

During one lunch in late April, Joe was telling Y/N about his off-season training when a young fan approached nervously.

"Mr. Burrow? Could I get a picture?"

"Of course," Joe said, standing to accommodate the request. The interaction was brief and friendly, routine.

When Joe returned to the table, Y/N was smiling in a way that looked almost proud.

"What?" Joe asked, settling back down.

"Nothing," Y/N said, still smiling. "You're just good at that. Making people feel special without making it feel like an obligation."

The observation was specific, personal, the kind of thing someone noticed when they'd been watching closely enough to understand the difference between genuine engagement and professional performance.

"You've been studying my fan interaction techniques?" Joe asked, keeping his tone light but feeling something significant in her attention to details most people wouldn't notice.

"I notice things," Y/N said simply, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "Professional habit."

But that didn't really explain it. She'd been watching him, noticing things that had nothing to do with work.

That evening, Joe found himself replaying the lunch conversation, particularly Y/N's careful deflection when she'd revealed too much awareness of his personal habits. The pattern was becoming clear: Y/N knew him well beyond their professional interactions, had been paying attention in ways that suggested feelings she was trying to keep contained.

Y/N had feelings for him. Probably had for a while.

Her professional boundaries weren't just about maintaining appropriate workplace relationships—they were about protecting herself from wanting something she thought she couldn't have.

The careful way she'd always maintained distance, the professional language she used even during personal conversations, the way she'd never presumed anything beyond their official collaboration—all of it made sense if she'd been managing feelings while he was in a relationship.

Joe thought about their years of working together, the trust between them, the way Y/N had consistently prioritized his comfort and privacy even when it might have been easier to push for more access.

She'd been protecting not just his boundaries, but her own. Creating safe distance from feelings that couldn't be appropriately expressed.

But now things were different. He was free to pursue connections he'd been suppressing, and Y/N was free to acknowledge feelings she'd been carefully hiding.

The question was whether either of them was brave enough to cross the line they'd been maintaining for years, to risk the professional relationship by trying to turn it into something more.

Sitting in his house that night, thinking about Y/N's smile when she'd watched him interact with a fan, about the way she'd pulled back from offering personal insight, about the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him, Joe realized he was finally ready to find out.

But he also realized that Y/N's years of practiced professional distance might make it difficult for her to believe that crossing those boundaries was safe, even with his relationship status changed.

If he wanted to explore what existed between them, Joe would need to make the first move. And he'd need to make it clear that he was interested in her as more than just a friend or colleague.

The thought was terrifying and exciting in equal measure. After years of careful boundaries and professional collaboration, the possibility of something real and personal with Y/N felt like stepping into completely uncharted territory.

* * *

May 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat in his living room at 2 AM, staring at his phone and the draft text he'd written and deleted seventeen times. Each version felt either too casual or too intense, too presumptuous or too vague. How did you ask someone to dinner when the implications could fundamentally change everything?

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

He'd written it, deleted it, rewritten it with different phrasing, deleted it again. The simple message felt loaded with significance that terrified him.

Because this wasn't just about dinner. This was about crossing a line he and Y/N had been carefully maintaining for years. This was about risking the most important professional relationship of his career for the possibility of something personal that might not even exist.

What if he was wrong? What if Y/N's careful attention was just exceptional professionalism rather than hidden feelings? What if her knowledge of his preferences came from years of working together rather than personal investment?

Joe set his phone down and ran his hands through his hair.

The professional complications alone were staggering. Y/N was a key member of the Bengals organization, someone whose career could be affected by her relationship with players. If things went badly, would she feel pressured to transfer to another team? Would the organization question her judgment?

And what about the media attention? Joe's relationships had always been scrutinized, analyzed, turned into public entertainment. Y/N had spent years carefully maintaining her privacy, staying behind the camera. Dating him would thrust her into a spotlight she'd never sought, subject her to the kind of invasive attention that had contributed to the end of his relationship with Olivia.

Joe thought about Y/N at team events, how she moved efficiently through crowds without drawing attention to herself, how she'd perfected the art of being essential while remaining invisible. Being with him would end that anonymity forever.

But the professional and media complications weren't what kept him awake at night. The real terror was more personal.

Y/N saw him completely. Not just the public persona or the carefully managed image, but the person underneath—his vulnerabilities, his fears, his recovery struggles, his need for authentic connection in a world full of surface-level interactions. She'd witnessed him at his lowest points and never made him feel weak for having them.

That level of being known was intoxicating. It was also terrifying.

With Olivia, Joe had been able to maintain certain emotional boundaries, to keep parts of himself protected behind professional obligations and public responsibilities. Their relationship had been comfortable partly because it didn't require complete vulnerability.

Y/N already knew too much for him to hide behind those defenses. She'd seen him cry in frustration during rehabilitation, had witnessed his fears about never being the same player, had been present for moments of doubt he'd never shared with anyone else.

Being in a romantic relationship with Y/N would mean emotional nakedness in ways Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for. No professional boundaries to retreat behind, no public obligations to use as shields. Just him, completely exposed, with someone who already knew exactly where all his weak spots were.

The thought made his chest tighten with something between anticipation and panic.

And what if it didn't work? What if they tried to transition from professional collaboration to personal relationship and it ruined everything they'd built? Joe couldn't imagine navigating his career without Y/N's understanding and support. She'd become essential to how he managed his public image, his media obligations, his connection with fans and teammates.

Losing her as a romantic partner would be devastating. Losing her as a professional collaborator would be catastrophic.

Joe picked up his phone again, the draft message still waiting.

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

Such a simple question. Such enormous implications.

He thought about Y/N's smile during their recent lunches, the way she'd leaned forward when he was talking, the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him. The signs that suggested she might be interested in something beyond friendship.

But he also thought about her years of practiced professional distance, her careful maintenance of appropriate boundaries, her skill at protecting both his privacy and her own. Y/N was someone who thought strategically, who understood consequences, who wouldn't risk important relationships for uncertain outcomes.

Maybe she'd been maintaining professional boundaries not just because it was appropriate, but because she'd recognized all the same complications he was spiraling through now. Maybe she'd calculated the risks and decided their professional relationship was too valuable to jeopardize.

Maybe Y/N had been protecting both of them from exactly the kind of emotional chaos Joe was experiencing right now.

Joe deleted the message draft and set his phone aside, admitting defeat for the night. The rational part of his mind understood that every relationship involved risk, that meaningful connections required vulnerability, that staying safe often meant staying isolated.

But rational was being overpowered by fear. Fear of rejection, fear of complication, fear of losing something essential by trying to turn it into something more.

And underneath all the practical concerns was a deeper terror: Y/N mattered to him in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or even romantic attraction. She'd become someone he couldn't imagine his life without, someone whose understanding and support had become fundamental to how he navigated challenges.

The stakes felt impossibly high. Not just the risk of romantic rejection, but the possibility of losing the person who knew him best, who'd been there for his worst moments and never made him feel inadequate for having them.

Joe had always prided himself on calculated risk-taking, on making strategic decisions under pressure. But when it came to Y/N, every option felt dangerous. Pursuing her risked everything they'd built together. Not pursuing her meant potentially missing the most meaningful connection of his life.

As he finally headed to bed, Joe realized he was trapped in analysis paralysis, cycling through the same fears and possibilities without reaching any conclusions.

Maybe the smart thing was to do nothing. To appreciate what they had without risking it for something that might not even be possible.

Maybe the safe choice was the right choice, even if it felt like cowardice.

But lying in bed, thinking about Y/N's laugh and her protective instincts and the way she'd made him feel seen and understood for years, Joe knew that safety wasn't the same as happiness.

The question was whether he was brave enough to choose happiness over security, vulnerability over protection, the possibility of everything over the guarantee of nothing changing.

* * *

July 2024 - Alo Sponsorship Event, Los Angeles 

The Alo event in Los Angeles was exactly the kind of obligation Joe typically endured rather than enjoyed—beautiful people in athletic wear pretending to care about mindfulness while networking and taking photos for social media. But it was part of his endorsement deal, so he smiled and posed for content and made conversation with influencers and executives who mattered to his business interests.

The West Coast fitness scene felt like a different world from Cincinnati, full of people who understood personal branding as naturally as breathing. Joe moved through the outdoor event space with practiced ease, fulfilling his obligations while mentally counting down until he could escape back to his hotel.

"Excuse me, are you Joe Burrow?"

Joe turned to find a young woman approaching with the kind of confident smile that suggested she was used to getting positive responses when she introduced herself to strangers.

"That's me," Joe replied, automatically shifting into public interaction mode.

"I'm Ellie James," she said, extending her hand. "I just wanted to say I've been following your comeback story. Really inspiring stuff."

Joe nodded politely, recognizing the slight positioning that suggested Ellie had her own social media presence. She had that polished look of someone who spent considerable time crafting her image—perfect makeup, strategically casual athletic wear that was expensive but designed to look effortless.

"Thanks," Joe said. "Are you from LA?"

"New York originally, but I'm based here now," Ellie said. "I do content creation—fashion, lifestyle stuff, some modeling."

Joe nodded. She definitely had that polished LA influencer look down.

"LA seems like the place for that," Joe said.

"It really is," Ellie replied. "The energy here is incredible. So much more chill than New York."

There was something refreshing about Ellie's directness, her lack of complicated history or predetermined expectations. She was beautiful in an obvious way—young, blonde, with the kind of curated perfection that photographed well and drew attention without effort. But more than that, she seemed genuinely interested in the conversation they were having.

"How long have you been out here?" Joe asked, noting how other guests kept glancing their way as they talked.

"About two years now," Ellie said, tucking a strand of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. "It took a while to build my following here, but the collaborations are incredible. Everyone's so focused on wellness and authenticity—well, their version of it anyway."

As the evening progressed, Joe found himself returning to conversations with Ellie between his required interactions with sponsors and executives. She was easy to talk to in a way that required no emotional investment, no careful navigation of professional boundaries, no awareness of complicated history.

With Ellie, Joe could just be charming and interested without the weight of years of suppressed attraction and professional collaboration. There was no risk of devastating consequences if the interaction went badly, no possibility of losing something essential if he misread signals.

"I should probably mingle a bit more," Ellie said during one of their conversations, glancing around the room at other networking opportunities. "But this has been really nice. I don't get to meet many people outside the influencer bubble."

The comment felt like an opening, and Joe found himself responding before fully considering the implications.

"Maybe we could grab dinner sometime when I'm back in LA," he offered. "If you're interested."

"I'd really like that," Ellie smiled, and Joe could tell she meant it. The interest was clear but not presumptuous, straightforward in a way that felt refreshing after months of analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning.

They exchanged numbers with the kind of casual efficiency that felt entirely different from the careful professional boundaries that defined his relationship with Y/N.

As Joe flew back to Cincinnati the next day, he found himself thinking about the contrast between his easy interaction with Ellie and his complicated feelings about Y/N. With Ellie, everything felt simple, clear. She was beautiful, interesting, available, and interested—everything should be straightforward.

But simple felt like settling.

Joe thought about Y/N's protective instincts, her intimate knowledge of his needs, the way she'd been present for his most vulnerable moments without making him feel weak for having them. The depth of understanding that had developed between them over years of collaboration and careful trust-building.

Ellie represented safety. No risk of professional complications, no possibility of losing something essential, no requirement for emotional vulnerability that Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for.

Y/N represented everything Joe actually wanted but was terrified to pursue.

When Ellie texted the next morning—a casual message about the Alo event and a funny observation about LA wellness culture—Joe responded quickly, committing to a relationship that felt manageable rather than meaningful.

It was cowardice disguised as pragmatism. But it was also self-preservation in the face of feelings that felt too big and too risky to pursue.

For the first time in his career, Joe Burrow was choosing the safe play over the one that might actually win the game. And he knew, even as he made the choice, that he would probably regret it.

* * *

July 2024 - Training Camp 

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with familiar chaos—players returning, rookies getting hazed, schedules compressed into brutal efficiency. But this year felt different, weighted with complications Joe had created for himself during a weekend in LA that now felt like a mistake disguised as a solution.

Three weeks into whatever was happening with Ellie, and Joe was discovering that choosing the "safe" option didn't eliminate emotional complexity—it just redirected it.

On the field, everything clicked. His wrist held up under pressure, throws had their old precision, timing with receivers falling into place like muscle memory. This was the part of his life that still made sense.

Y/N moved through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency, camera over her shoulder, coordinating her team while tracking the key moments that would become the story of another season. Joe found himself hyperaware of her presence in ways that felt both familiar and newly complicated.

"Wrists looking a lot better," she called as he passed during a water break.

"Good," Joe said, rolling his shoulder.

"Wrist's holding up better than expected."

"Keep it that way," Y/N said.

He grinned despite himself, and for a moment it felt like spring again—when they'd been texting about random things, meeting for lunch, when everything between them had felt easy and full of possibility. Before he'd panicked and chosen emotional safety over authentic connection.

But Joe caught himself, the smile fading as he remembered the distance he'd been carefully maintaining since returning from California. It wasn't fair to Y/N, this withdrawal without explanation, but he didn't know how else to handle the guilt of being with someone else while still wanting to be around her.

The truth was, he'd been pulling back deliberately. Their lunches had stopped. His texts had become less frequent, more focused on work. He still sought her out during media obligations—old habits were hard to break—but the familiar rhythm between them had changed.

Y/N had noticed, of course. She was too observant not to pick up on his withdrawal, too professional to call him out directly, but he caught the questions in her glances, the careful way she'd started approaching their interactions.

Joe told himself it was necessary. Camp was intense, demanding tunnel vision. But even he didn't believe his own rationalization. The distance was about Ellie, about the guilt of developing something with someone else while still thinking about Y/N constantly.

Days blurred together in the familiar grind—practice, meetings, film study, recovery. Joe threw himself into preparation with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, using football as refuge from thoughts he didn't want to examine. His phone buzzed throughout each day with messages from Ellie—photos from LA, updates about her work, casual observations that felt designed for social media as much as personal connection.

Most evenings, Joe stayed late in the facility, reviewing film until his brain finally quieted enough to sleep. It was during one of these sessions that Y/N found him, alone in the film room with game footage frozen on the screen.

"Don't you ever take a break?" she asked from the doorway.

Joe looked over, offering a tired half-smile. "Not this time of year."

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him with the easy familiarity that had defined their relationship for years. "Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off."

"Says the woman who's been here since dawn," Joe replied, nodding toward her camera bag.

"Touché."

They sat in comfortable silence, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen. For a moment, Joe allowed himself to simply enjoy her presence without the weight of guilt. This was what he'd been missing—not just Y/N's company, but the ease of being around someone who understood his world completely.

"You've been kind of MIA lately," Y/N said lightly. "Everything good?"

The question was carefully neutral, but Joe heard the real concern underneath. Y/N had noticed his withdrawal and was giving him space to explain without demanding answers he couldn't give.

Joe didn't answer right away, his eyes staying on the paused film. "Yeah. Just... camp mode. Lot to lock in."

Y/N nodded, accepting his non-answer. "If you need a break from all this, I'm around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football."

The offer hit Joe like a physical blow. Y/N was extending exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving, the easy companionship that had made their spring lunches the highlight of his weeks. But accepting would mean spending time with her while secretly involved with someone else.

"I'd like that," Joe heard himself saying, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. "Maybe next week? When it slows down."

"Deal," Y/N said, standing and grabbing her bag. "Don't stay too late."

As she walked away, Joe remained in the film room, staring at the frozen screen. Y/N had noticed his distance, had reached out anyway, had offered exactly what he wanted but felt guilty accepting.

The mess was entirely of his own making. He'd chosen Ellie to avoid the complications of pursuing Y/N, but instead of simplifying his life, he'd created a situation where he was being dishonest with everyone—Ellie about the depth of his feelings, Y/N about why he'd pulled away, himself about what he actually wanted.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from Ellie, something light from her day in LA. He read it without responding, then set the phone aside and returned his attention to the film, using football analysis as distraction from the recognition that he'd made the wrong choice and was too much of a coward to admit it.

Y/N was giving him space to figure out whatever was happening with him, even though his withdrawal was probably hurting her in ways she'd never express directly.

* * *

November 2024 - Team Flight Back from Dallas 

Joe was trying to sleep on the team flight when his phone started buzzing incessantly. First one call, then another, then texts flooding in faster than he could read them. The victory over Dallas should have felt satisfying—another step toward the playoffs—but the sudden barrage of notifications sent ice through his veins.

The first missed call was from his security company. The second from his neighbor. The third from Ellie, timestamped twenty minutes ago.

Security breach at residence. Police dispatched. Contact immediately.

Joe's heart stopped. Ellie was supposed to be at his house—she'd flown in to see him and was waiting for his return from Dallas. But something had gone terribly wrong.

His phone rang again. Ellie's name on the screen.

"What happened?" Joe answered, keeping his voice low to avoid waking teammates nearby.

"I'm so sorry," Ellie's voice was shaky, clearly rattled. "I got to your house and found the window broken, things missing. Someone broke in before I got there. I called the police immediately."

Joe felt relief that Ellie was safe and anger that someone had violated his home. But that was immediately replaced by a different kind of panic as the implications hit him.

"Are you hurt? Did you see anyone?"

"I'm fine, just scared. I got here after it happened. The police are taking statements, trying to figure out what was taken. But Joe..." Ellie hesitated. "There are photographers outside now. Someone must have heard the police scanner. They're asking questions about why I was here, what my relationship to you is."

The blood drained from Joe's face. "What did you tell them?"

"I tried to say I was just a friend, but they're not buying it. They can see I have a key, that I was expected here. The police needed to know my relationship to you for their report."

Joe closed his eyes, already imagining the headlines, the speculation, the invasive analysis that would follow. Worse than that, he thought about Y/N finding out this way—not from him, but from police reports and social media investigation.

"I didn't know what else to tell them," Ellie continued. "I had to be honest with the police about why I was here, that we're... together. But now it's going to be everywhere, isn't it?"

It wouldn't matter how vague she'd been. The internet was relentless when it came to connecting dots, especially when it involved celebrities and attractive women. Within hours, someone would identify Ellie, trace their connection, piece together a timeline that would make their relationship public knowledge.

"I should have called you first," Ellie said, her voice small. "But I was scared, and the police were asking questions, and I didn't know what else to do."

"Don't go back to your place tonight," Joe said, his mind already working through logistics. "I'll get you a hotel room. Somewhere nice, away from all this. Text me when the police are done and I'll send you the details."

"Are you sure? I could just fly back to LA—"

"No," Joe said firmly. "I want to see you, make sure you're okay. We'll figure this out together when I land."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone, watching notifications multiply as the story spread across social media platforms. Someone had already posted photos of police cars outside his house, of Ellie talking to officers, of the broken window that had started this entire mess.

His relationship with Ellie, which he'd kept carefully private for months, was about to become public in the worst possible way. Not through a planned announcement or gradual revelation, but through crisis and speculation and invasive coverage of what should have been a simple break-in.

But worse than the media attention was the thought of Y/N learning about Ellie this way. After months of working closely together, of sharing professional intimacy and careful friendship, of the growing distance he'd created without explanation—Y/N was going to discover the reason for his withdrawal through tabloid coverage and social media detective work.

Joe thought about their conversation in the film room just months ago, when Y/N had offered dinner and he'd deflected with promises of "maybe next week." He thought about all the times she'd noticed his distraction, his emotional distance, his reluctance to maintain the easy connection they'd developed. She'd been too professional to push for explanations.

Now she'd get those answers whether he was ready or not.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, then his publicist, then team management. Everyone wanted to know what was happening, how to handle the situation. But Joe found himself thinking about one person who probably wouldn't reach out directly, who would handle this news with the same professional composure she brought to every crisis.

Y/N would see the headlines, piece together the timeline, understand why he'd pulled away from their friendship. She'd realize that while she'd been wondering what had changed between them, he'd been building a secret relationship with someone else.

The team plane began its descent into Cincinnati, and Joe's phone continued buzzing with calls he didn't want to answer. Outside the small aircraft window, the city lights looked the same as always, but Joe knew that by morning, everything would be different.

His carefully maintained privacy was about to be shattered. His relationship with Ellie would become public knowledge through the worst possible circumstances. And Y/N—the person whose opinion mattered most, whose friendship he'd been too cowardly to protect and too scared to pursue—was going to learn about his emotional betrayal through internet speculation and crisis management.

As the plane touched down, Joe realized that in trying to avoid complicated conversations and difficult choices, he'd created a situation far worse than any of the scenarios he'd been trying to prevent.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility 

Joe hadn't slept. After meeting Ellie at the hotel, after holding her while she cried about the break-in, after dealing with police reports and security companies and insurance claims, he'd spent the remaining hours staring at the ceiling and dreading this moment.

Walking into the Bengals facility at 9:30 AM felt like entering a war zone. Staff members looked up as he passed, their expressions carefully neutral but eyes full of questions. Everyone knew. The story had exploded overnight exactly as he'd feared.

But worse than the general scrutiny was the thought of facing Y/N. She would have seen the headlines, pieced together the timeline, understood why he'd pulled away from their friendship without explanation.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from his agent, his publicist, his family. Everyone wanted to know how to handle this. But the only conversation he was dreading was the one with Y/N.

He knocked on the press prep room door at exactly 10:15, steeling himself for whatever he might see in her expression. When Y/N looked up from her notes, her face was perfectly professional, but Joe caught the brief flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before she smoothed it away.

"Hey," he said, the inadequacy of the greeting obvious even to him.

"Hey," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "You okay?"

The simple question hit harder than it should have. Y/N was still looking out for him, still prioritizing his wellbeing even after discovering his betrayal of their friendship.

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking the seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed, and Joe noted how she didn't acknowledge the personal impact, didn't ask the questions she had every right to ask. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her face for any sign of what she was really thinking. But Y/N had perfected the art of professional distance.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, genuinely wanting her perspective but also hoping to gauge her emotional state.

Y/N took a deep breath, and Joe watched her deliberately push aside whatever personal feelings she might have.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

The immediate protective response was pure Y/N—even hurt and blindsided, her first instinct was to shield him from further violation. Joe felt his chest tighten with gratitude and guilt.

"That's what I figured you'd say," he said, meaning it as recognition of how well she understood him.

Y/N continued outlining strategy with the same competence she brought to every crisis, giving him tools to maintain his boundaries while managing public pressure. But Joe found himself studying her face, looking for cracks in the professional facade.

"Thank you," Joe said when she finished. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Something flickered across Y/N's expression at that—a flash of pain quickly suppressed. Joe realized too late that his gratitude for her professional distance might sound like relief that she wasn't demanding explanations he didn't want to give.

"That's my job," Y/N said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

The response was perfectly professional and completely devastating. Y/N was retreating behind job descriptions, creating distance that felt like punishment even though Joe knew he deserved it.

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing strategy, but Joe felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Y/N was helping him protect his privacy while probably wondering why he'd never trusted her with the truth.

As they finished, Joe found himself desperate to bridge the growing gap between them.

"You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

It was true, but as soon as he said it, Joe realized how it might sound to someone who had just discovered he'd been hiding a relationship from her for months.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed, her voice carefully controlled. "Even you."

Something in her tone—resignation, maybe, or hurt acknowledgment—made Joe want to explain everything. But before he could find the words, it was time for the press conference.

* * *

The Press Conference

Standing at the podium, looking out at the room full of reporters waiting to dissect his personal life, Joe felt a familiar calm settle over him. This was the part he could control—his response, his boundaries, his narrative.

He caught sight of Y/N in the back of the room, her expression focused and professional as she monitored his performance. Knowing she was there gave him the confidence to speak from the heart rather than from their prepared talking points.

"I know there's been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours," Joe began, his voice steady and clear. "Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I'm going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"I'm here to talk about football. That's what I'll be answering questions about today."

The boundary was clear and non-negotiable. Joe held firm as reporters tried various angles to return to the personal story, calmly redirecting every question back to football. When it was over, he looked toward the back of the room, catching Y/N's eye for just a moment—a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

* * *

Later That Day - Y/N's Office

Joe stood outside Y/N's office for several minutes before knocking, trying to find the right words for a conversation he should have had months ago. When he finally entered, Y/N looked up with that same professional composure, but Joe caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Y/N replied, though something in her tone suggested this was the last conversation she wanted to have.

Joe closed the door and sat across from her desk, studying her face and finding nothing but polite professional attention. The easy warmth that had characterized their friendship was gone, replaced by careful distance.

"I went off script," he said, testing the waters.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she approved, followed immediately by sadness that they were discussing his press conference performance rather than the personal earthquake that had brought them to this point.

"I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning," he continued. "Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N just shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

The silence that followed felt loaded with everything they weren't saying. Joe could sense Y/N's hurt beneath her professional composure, could feel her pulling away even as she maintained perfect courtesy.

"The coverage should die down soon," Y/N said, gesturing to her monitor with the kind of efficient subject change that indicated the personal portion of their conversation was over. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

But Joe wasn't ready to retreat to safe professional ground. Not when he could feel Y/N slipping away.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, and Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing that suggested his attempt at honesty was causing her pain. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe struggled to find words. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. Joe watched Y/N's face as he said the word, noting the slight flinch she couldn't quite hide. It wasn't the right word for what they'd been to each other, but it was the only safe word he had.

"It's really okay, Joe," Y/N said, her voice carefully modulated. "I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face, looking for any opening to explain that his relationship with Ellie wasn't what the media was making it seem, that it had been a mistake born of fear rather than genuine connection.

"It's complicated," he said finally. "More complicated than what people are assuming."

Something flickered in Y/N's expression—curiosity, maybe, or hope—before she deliberately suppressed it.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

The response was perfectly appropriate and completely devastating. Y/N was giving him space to explain while making it clear she didn't expect his explanations. She was protecting herself while still protecting him.

Joe felt desperate to bridge the gap between them, to return to the easy connection they'd shared before he'd ruined everything.

"I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon," he said, the invitation spilling out before he could stop it. "Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The offer hung between them, and Joe watched Y/N's face carefully, looking for any sign that she might accept.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," Y/N replied, her tone neutral but her message clear. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

It was a gentle rejection, professionally worded but final nonetheless. Y/N was drawing boundaries, protecting herself from the kind of emotional confusion Joe had created.

"Sure," Joe said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Just let me know."

As he stood to leave, Joe realized he'd lost more than just Y/N's friendship. He'd lost her trust, her easy companionship, the person who understood him better than anyone else in his professional life. His attempt to avoid complications by choosing Ellie had created far worse complications.

Walking back through the facility, Joe's phone buzzed with messages from teammates, family, media contacts. Everyone wanted to know about Ellie, about the relationship that had been exposed.

But the only person whose understanding he actually wanted was the one he'd already lost through his own emotional cowardice. And the text he most wanted to send—explaining everything, apologizing for the secrecy, asking for another chance—felt impossible to write.

* * *

Game Day Scene

Joe spotted Y/N on the sidelines during warm-ups, camera in hand, moving with that focused efficiency he'd watched for four years. But something was off about her positioning—she was deliberately staying in areas where their paths wouldn't cross, keeping her lens trained on everyone except him.

She was avoiding him. Not just the awkward small talk or professional distance—she was actively managing her movements to minimize contact.

He jogged over during a break in drills, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Avoiding me?" The words came out more direct than he'd intended.

Y/N turned, and for just a split second he saw something raw cross her face before the professional mask slid back into place. "Of course not. Just focusing on the content plan."

Bullshit. Joe had been reading Y/N's expressions for four years. He knew the difference between her being busy and her being careful.

"You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Her composure never wavered, but he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

The diplomatic response rankled more than anger would have. This was what she did with difficult players, with media members she didn't trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around a steel wall.

"Right," he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game." She cut him off, her tone gentle but firm. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

The dismissal stung, but she was right about the timing. His head needed to be in the game, not on whatever this distance was about. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.

"We're talking about this later."

He started to turn away, then heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He looked back, hoping for something—an opening, a crack in that professional armor.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite his frustration. Even when she was pulling away, she couldn't help caring about his performance. It was so fundamentally Y/N that it made his chest tight.

"Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

As he jogged back to the quarterback group, Joe tried to shake off the conversation and focus on the game plan. But part of his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's careful positioning, the way she'd deflected every attempt at real connection.

During the game, he found himself glancing toward the sideline more than usual, tracking her movement between plays. She was doing her job with the same excellence she always brought—capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating content that would bring fans closer to the action.

But there was something different in her body language. More contained. Like she was holding herself apart from the energy of the game in a way she never had before.

When he threw the touchdown pass in the third quarter, his automatic reaction was to look for her reaction. But Y/N was already turning away, camera focused on the celebration around him instead of him directly.

The post-game interview felt hollow without her usual follow-up questions or the brief eye contact that had become their private ritual. She was there, professional as always, but the easy connection they'd built over four years felt severed.

Back in the locker room, Joe's frustration finally boiled over. He pulled out his phone and typed without overthinking it.

We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

He watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before her response came.

I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

The deflection was so obviously a delay tactic that it would have been insulting if it wasn't so unlike her. Y/N didn't run from difficult conversations. She met them head-on with the same directness she brought to everything else.

Which meant this wasn't about professional boundaries or busy schedules. This was about him.

If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

The response took longer this time.

We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Joe stared at the message, recognizing the careful balance between acknowledgment and distance. She was giving him credit for his performance while firmly maintaining the boundary she'd established.

As he drove home that night, Joe replayed every interaction they'd had since the break-in. The way she'd handled the crisis meeting with perfect professionalism. The careful preparation for the press conference. Her composed reaction when he'd tried to explain things in her office.

He'd been so focused on managing the situation, on containing the damage to his public image, that he'd missed what was happening right in front of him. Y/N hadn't just been doing her job during those conversations. She'd been protecting herself.

From him.

[nyxs2]

Ma Meilleure Ennemie (pt 11/?)

Some reasons are closer than you realize.

Silco x fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+, MDNI)

Word Count: 7,4K

Warnings: smut, a little bit of female domination, vaginal sex, making love, unprotected sex, creampie, oral sex (f!receiving), orgasm edging, resolved sexual tension, possessive behavior, Silco being a tease, Silco being bad with feelings, thoughts of wanting to kill someone, Silco POV

Set before the events of Act 2 of the first season of Arcane.

Part 10

Silco's Pov ━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━ Silco was between her legs.

He hadn't planned for this when he entered the room the night before. Of course, he had noticed that peculiar glint in her eyes, something carrying that characteristic provocation, as if she were always testing his limits. He knew exactly what that restless, wicked mind of hers was scheming, but unlike what she had likely expected, he didn't take the bait. He simply shared the bed with her to actually sleep. He was far too exhausted to keep playing that game, and the last thing he wanted was to drag it out further. The confrontation in his office had already drained what little patience and energy he had left.

Still, the night hadn't been a loss. He had discovered something valuable: her feelings toward him were more... open, almost vulnerable. That was an advantage. He could work with that apparent softness, shape it to his interests. All in due time.

But not that night. At that moment, all he wanted was to sleep.

Sleep, however, had never been an easy visitor for Silco. He knew what it meant to lay his head on a pillow: opening the door to the specters of his mind. Nightmares, distorted memories, and the relentless sensation that he always needed to be alert haunted him. Most of the time, sleep only came through sheer exhaustion, when his body simply shut down, or through the medications Singed occasionally provided.

But that night was different. He was tired, yes, but not enough to pass out. However, her presence beside him—the steady, measured rhythm of her breathing, the warmth radiating from her proximity—had an unexpected effect. It was as if his own mind was willing to yield, to allow itself a rare moment of rest.

He lay beside her, not too close, but close enough to feel her pleasant warmth. He pretended to be asleep, something that surprised him in how well it worked. She seemed to settle, as if her usual restlessness faded the moment she believed he had already drifted off. It was almost curious how this woman, so full of life and provocation, seemed so small and serene while she slept.

Silco waited patiently. He watched as she slowly surrendered to exhaustion, until finally, her body relaxed and her breathing became steady. Only then, when he was certain she had completely fallen asleep, did he allow his gaze to rest on her.

She looked just as she had for the past seven nights—peaceful, her features softened in a way he rarely saw when she was awake. But this time, something was different. He knew that, unlike the previous nights, she would wake soon, and that certainty brought a peculiar sense of relief, though he would never admit it.

Silco didn't touch her. He didn't wrap an arm around her, didn't pull her closer. Instead, he turned to the other side, his eyes fixed on the darkness of the room, allowing the silence to consume him.

And then, finally, he slept. Still dressed in the same clothes, still burdened with the same worries, but for once, without the demons that usually haunted him. Only the sound of her breathing filled the room, a constant reminder that she was there. Against all odds, she was alive, beside him, in his bed—just as he had wanted. And for now, that was enough.

Silco wasn't sure how many hours he had slept, but the light seeping through the window—left uncovered the night before—betrayed the arrival of morning. However, it wasn't the brightness that pulled him from sleep. It was something else. Something more... tangible. Something he felt before he even opened his eyes.

When he finally did, the sight before him left him momentarily speechless.

She was there, straddling his lap. A vision that would sear itself into his mind like an unrelenting blaze.

She looked like a profane goddess, devoid of any trace of celestial purity, yet still divinely dangerous. Her tousled hair gave her a wild charm; the white shirt she wore slipped off one shoulder, revealing a glimpse of bare skin and the beginning of her breasts—more teasing than revealing. Her firm, bare thighs bracketed his hips, pinning him against the mattress as if she held complete control of the situation. The soft morning light kissed her skin, rendering her almost ethereal—a perfect blend of the profane and the sublime.

And her eyes... Those eyes burned with a fire Silco recognized all too well—intentions far from innocent.

He could get used to this, he thought. He could get very used to this.

Still, he made no move to touch her—not immediately. Silco was not a man who surrendered control easily, even in situations like this. Instead, he settled more comfortably into the bed, his eyes half-lidded in careful assessment as he arched a brow, an expression laced with curiosity and controlled disdain.

"Care to explain this?" His voice came out rough, a mix of lingering sleep and the situation at hand.

She smiled, a smile that promised nothing good.

"You looked like you needed help."

For a moment, Silco frowned, clearly confused by the meaning of her words. But then she moved—slowly—her hips tracing an almost imperceptible circle. It was enough for the meaning behind her words to crash over him like a ton of bricks. He had forgotten he could wake up like this.

Silco reacted immediately. His hands, firm and quick, reached for her hips, gripping them with a hold that conveyed both restraint and authority.

"Don't you dare."

She tilted her head, the mischievous gleam in her eyes growing as she bit her lip, as if testing his limits on purpose.

"I thought you liked a little... initiative."

Silco's grip on her hips tightened just slightly, holding her firmly in place.

"Be careful with your next move, dove."

When she tried to move her hips again, Silco reacted instinctively, attempting to push her off him, but the effort was useless. As if she had anticipated his attempt, she locked her legs against the mattress, keeping herself firmly in place. He felt the weight of her settle even more as she met his gaze with that stubborn, half-lidded look he was starting to know all too well. A look that clearly said: I'm not backing down.

"Get off." His voice was firm, a serious command, laced with the authority he always exuded. But to his growing frustration, she simply ignored him.

Instead, she leaned over him, her arms braced on either side of his head, moving close enough that her hair fell around his face, framing him. Suddenly, all he could see was her—her intense eyes, the teasing glint, and that suffocating proximity.

"You're pulling away." Her voice came as a murmur, laced with something between frustration and challenge. Her eyes met his with a seriousness that felt oddly out of place, considering the position they were in. "You haven't touched me since we got in here. I didn't think you were that stingy."

"What?" Silco blinked, thrown off by the sudden accusation. He tried to focus on responding, but it was difficult, considering the strategically placed weight pressing down on him, scattering his thoughts. "Is that why you're being so stubborn this early in the morning?" Silco let out an exasperated sigh, dropping his head back against the pillow. "Do you think I've lost interest in you?"

This time, it was her turn to roll her eyes, the condescension almost irritating.

"Oh, please, I'm not that naïve." A teasing smile curled her lips. "I know you want me. You want this..." And as if to prove her point, she moved her hips again, defying the firm grip he had on her to keep her still.

He felt his control falter for a moment, but his fingers dug into her hips, his expression hardening.

"Stop that." His voice was low, but there was a weight to it that he hoped would be enough to restrain her.

She, however, only leaned in further, bringing their faces impossibly close.

"But something is holding you back."

"You just woke up from a seven-day coma, and I am not a pervert." Silco's voice was rough, almost a growl, as he kept his gaze locked onto hers. It was as if he were explaining something obvious, something unquestionable, yet to her, it sounded like the most absurd thing in the world. "Of course I stayed away. Sex isn't appropriate in your condition."

He tried to maintain his composure, his usual coldness, but the way she arched a defiant brow and the provocative look she shot him were testing the limits of his patience.

"Oh, believe me, Silco, my condition couldn't be better." she replied, her lips curling into that mischievous smile that always unsettled him. That smile that seemed to promise chaos and absolute control over him. "Better than yours, I'd say... old man."

"Careful, dove."

"Or what?" Her response was swift. "Are you going to punish me? I doubt you have it in you."

The implicit challenge in her words was enough to shatter the last remnants of Silco's restraint. He surged forward, his movements precise and almost violent, flipping their positions in an instant. Now, he was the one above her, his hands firmly pinning her wrists against the mattress. The weight of his body held her down, and he stared down at her with an intensity that felt almost predatory.

Silco could have said he had won this battle. He could have declared victory with her trapped beneath his control. But her smile—that damned smile—only widened. It was the kind of expression that made Silco feel that instead of conquering her, he had walked straight into the perfect trap she had set for him.

The sight of her there, lying beneath him on his bed, hair fanned out against the pillow, lips still curved in provocation, tested the very limits of his self-control. She knew exactly what she was doing, and every inch of her seemed designed to challenge his restraint.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" Silco murmured, his voice low and tense, his mismatched eyes locked onto hers, analyzing every detail of her expression.

"Maybe." she tilted her chin up slightly, her posture relaxed despite her disadvantage. "But it looks like you wanted it too."

Silco felt the weight of her words like a knife slicing through his control. The tone, the intensity of her gaze, the vulnerability disguised as provocation — everything about her disarmed him in ways he couldn't explain, and it infuriated him. When she shifted her wrists, he let them go. Her hands rose immediately, traitorous and soft, brushing against his face with a gentleness that almost felt like an insult to the position he had just claimed. She wasn't resisting, wasn't fighting back, yet the way she looked at him... it was as if she were the predator, and he the prey.

"I'm alive, you know?" her voice was a whisper, but there was something deeper beneath it, something Silco caught onto instantly. Before he could react, she pulled his face down, pressing him against her chest. Her strong heartbeat echoed against his ear, a pulsing reminder of the life still running through that stubborn, untamed body. "So make me feel it."

Silco lifted his face to look at her again. The glint in her eyes held him captive, making it impossible to look away. She wasn't just asking—she was pleading in a way that blended desperation and desire in equal measure.

"Give me a reason to stay alive."

Her words echoed in his mind as he remained still for a moment. He wasn't a man who responded to pleas, especially not ones so openly emotional. But something about her... something about this moment made her request sound more like a command he couldn't refuse.

Then, Silco moved — slowly, as if each action were calculated to carve this moment into her memory. He rose above her, his silhouette outlined by the soft light filtering through the window, casting shadows and illuminating the sharp contours of his scarred face and lean frame. His fingers found the waistband of her shorts, slipping beneath with a precision only he possessed. The fabric yielded easily to his touch, discarded along with her panties, as if nothing else mattered in that moment.

If she wanted a reason, he would give her one.

Silco gazed down at her half naked form sprawled out beneath him on the bed, her creamy skin flushed. He ran his calloused hands slowly up her calves, relishing the smoothness of her flesh, so different from the rough, scarred skin of his own body.

Silco's eyes flared with lust as he pushed her thighs further apart, exposing her most intimate area to his hungry gaze. He leaned in close, his breath hot against her slick folds as he inhaled deeply, savoring her intoxicating aroma. Silco's thumb found her sensitive clit and he rubbed it in slow circles, feeling it swell and throb beneath his touch.

He trailed provocative kisses along the inside of her thigh, his lips and tongue leaving a damp, tingling path in their wake. Silco paused as he reached the apex of her thighs, his breath mingling with the heat radiating from her core. He looked up at she, his mismatched eyes burning into hers, before he leaned in and ran his tongue along her slit in one long, slow lick.

Silco took his time, his tongue dragging slowly along her slit, savoring every inch of her most intimate flesh. He seemed determined to map out every contour, every secret hollow and ridge, committing it to memory. His hands gripped her thighs, holding her open, keeping her exposed to his hungry gaze and questing mouth.

Silco avoided her clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves that begged for his touch. He knew how much she craved it, how desperate she was for that push over the edge. But he denied her, teasing her mercilessly, his tongue flicking and fluttering along her lower lips, circling her entrance, dipping inside only to retreat before she could hope for more.

He could feel her trembling beneath him, could hear the needy little whimpers and moans that spilled from her lips. Silco hummed, a low, appreciative sound that vibrated through her core. Every now and then, he'd pull back, his lips brushing against her clit, close enough to feel the heat radiating from it, before moving away to continue his torturous path. He could feel her hips rocking, could sense her growing desperation as she chased his touch, his mouth, his tongue.

He could have been rough, maybe that was what she expected from him, could have devoured her with a hunger born of pent-up frustration and anger. But he held back, his gentle touch belying the dark promise in his eyes. He was being careful, so very careful, with his delicate dove. After all, she deserved some relief after everything she had been through.

Silco felt her fingers threading through his hair, but her touch was gentle, almost tentative. Not the desperate, frantic grip he might have expected from her. He glanced up at her, his gaze colliding with hers as he remained nestled between her thighs, his breath hot against her slick flesh.

He could see the frustration etched into every line of her face, the way her brows were furrowed and her lips were pressed into a thin, tight line. Her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she took. She looked like a woman teetering on the edge, a hair's breadth away from shattering completely.

And yet, despite her obvious need, her pleading eyes and quivering body, Silco held back. He couldn't bring himself to give her what she wanted, not yet. Not until he'd pushed her to the very brink, until she was begging him for mercy, for release.

He nuzzled into her mound, his lips brushing against her sensitive flesh as he spoke, his voice a low, husky murmur. "What is it, dove?" he asked, a wicked gleam in his eye. "What do you need?" he punctuated the words with a slow, deliberate lick along her clit.

"You know exactly what I want." her voice trailed off as she broke eye contact by throwing her head back with a long sigh. The gentle tug on his hair became a demand as she whispered, her voice strained and ragged with need. "Stop teasing me."

Her words trailed off into a desperate whimper as Silco's tongue flicked out to tease her once more, circling her clit again before retreating. The maddening rhythm of his licks and nips was driving her to the brink of insanity, the pleasure bordering on pain.

"Damn you, Silco." she growled, her voice a mix of anger and desperation. "Stop playing with me and just... just fuck me already."

"Shh, dove." he murmured, his words vibrating against her sensitive flesh. "Patience is a virtue. Surely a clever girl like you knows that sometimes, the anticipation is half the pleasure?"

Silco could see the desperation reaching a fever pitch in her eyes, the way her body squirmed and writhed beneath him, seeking more of his touch, more of the pleasure he was so cruelly withholding from her. With a wicked, knowing smirk, he decided it was time to turn his attention to her aching, throbbing clit.

He leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along the sensitive bundle of nerves, feeling it pulse and quiver against his lips. He lapped at her slowly, his tongue swirling and circling, teasing her mercilessly. He could feel her thighs begin to tremble, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her closer and closer to the edge.

He suckled her clit gently, his lips sealing around the sensitive flesh as he flicked his tongue back and forth, back and forth, driving her to new heights of ecstasy. He could feel her hips rocking against his face, her body arching as she chased her release.

Just as he felt her start to stiffen, her muscles tensing and her back arching off the bed, Silco pulled away. He wrenched his mouth from her sex, his hands leaving her thighs to grip her hips and hold her down as she bucked and writhed beneath him. He could feel the frustration radiating off her in waves, could see the betrayal and anger flashing in her eyes as she glared down at him.

Panting, Silco looked up at her, his lips glistening with her arousal, a wicked smirk playing on his mouth. "Ah ah ah, not yet." he chided, his voice a low, teasing murmur. "You don't get to come that easily. Not until I say you can." he punctuated the words with a sharp nip to her inner thigh, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh just hard enough to make her yelp.

Silco sat back on the bed, his eyes roaming hungrily over her body, taking in every dip and curve, every inch of soft, inviting skin. He let her legs fall open around his waist, keeping her exposed and open to his gaze, his touch, his every whim. His hands slid up her thighs, his fingers splaying over the smooth expanse of skin, feeling the heat radiating from within.

Slowly, almost lazily, Silco began to remove his vest. He shrugged it off, letting it fall to the floor beside the bed. Next, he loosened his tie, the black silk slipping through his fingers like liquid. He tugged it free, tossing it carelessly onto the growing pile of clothing. As he worked on the buttons of his shirt, Silco glanced up to find she staring at him, her gaze almost tangible in its intensity. He paused, his fingers stilling on the button he'd just started to undo, suddenly self-conscious in a way he rarely was. It wasn't often that Silco felt apprehensive about anything, let alone the way he looked. He knew he wasn't that hideous to look at, his younger self attracted attention and certainly the current self did the same thing, but in a somewhat rugged and dangerous way. But there was something about the way she was looking at him now that made him wonder, made him question whether she would find the sight of his half-naked form pleasing to the eye.

"You're staring, dove."

Silco watched intently as she sat up, his eyes never leaving her face, gauging her every reaction. He remained still as she reached out, her delicate fingers starting to unbutton his shirt with a patience that surprised him. He couldn't remember the last time someone had taken such care, such reverence in undressing him.

He braced himself for her reaction, for the revulsion or pity he knew would surely follow when he saw the scars he had acquired over the years. But as the last button slipped free, he saw no disgust in her eyes. Only a fierce, almost hungry intensity that made his blood run hot. He felt her hands on his bare torso, her fingers tracing the lines of his scars, the ridges of muscle and bone. She explored him with a touch that was almost reverent, as if she were committing every inch of him to memory.

He said nothing, watching her through hooded eyes as she helped him shrug out of his shirt, the fabric slipping down his arms to pool on the bed behind him. Somehow, that action felt more intimate than what they were about to do. A kind of intimacy that surpassed even sex.

Silco pulled her towards him, his hands gripping her waist as he tugged her against his bare chest. He captured her lips in a searing kiss, his mouth slanting over hers with a hunger that stole her breath. He kissed her like a man starved, like he wanted to devour her whole, to consume every last inch of her until there was nothing left.

At the same time, he pushed her back down onto the bed, his body covering hers, pinning her beneath him. He could feel her softening, yielding to him, her curves molding to the hard planes of his body. His hand slid down her side, over the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip, until it reached the waistband of his trousers.

With a deft, almost lazy movement, Silco undid his pants, the zipper parting with a soft hiss in the charged silence of the room. He didn't break the kiss, his mouth still moving over her, his tongue still stroking and teasing and tasting her. But he could feel her anticipation, could sense the way her body tensed and tightened waiting for him.

Slowly, almost torturously so, Silco slid his hand inside his pants, his fingers wrapping around his hard, aching length. He could feel the heat of it, the way it throbbed and pulsed in his grip, the way it leaked and wept with the need to be inside her. With a low, guttural groan, he slowly, inch by inch, entered her.

He could feel her tightness, her wetness, the way her walls clenched and fluttered around him as he pushed deeper and deeper inside her. It was a slow, sensual slide, a deliberate, purposeful claiming of her body, but it felt different from the other times. It felt more meaningful, more... visceral.

Silco could feel every inch of her, could savor every second of their joining, could revel in the way she took him in, welcomed him, needed him.

He swallowed her gasp with his mouth, his tongue muffling the sound, his lips curling into a smirk of pure male satisfaction. He could feel her trembling beneath him, could sense the way her body strained towards his, seeking more, needing more. And he gave it to her, his hips rolling forward, his length driving deep, claiming her, possessing her, making her his in every way that mattered.

Silco broke the kiss, his lips trailing along her jaw, her neck, until he reached the sensitive skin of her shoulder. He nuzzled into the crook of her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her flesh as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. His hips continued their slow rhythm, his length sliding in and out of her slick heat, each thrust pushing him deeper, each retreat leaving him teetering on the brink of withdrawal before he plunged back in.

He could feel her nails raking down his back, her fingers curling into his skin, her grip tightening with each thrust. The sharp sting of her nails scoring his flesh only spurred him on, made him drive into her harder, faster, with a fervor that bordered on punishing. He could hear her moans, feel them vibrating through her chest, could sense the way her body strained and arched beneath him, demanding more.

Silco's hand slid up her side, his fingers skimming over the curve of her breast, the swell of her hip. He gripped her chin, turning her face towards him, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. He could see the pleasure etched into every line of her face, the way her eyes were glazed and unfocused, the way her lips were parted and trembling with each ragged breath she took.

Silco held her gaze, those eyes so alive, so human, so hers. A big difference from that soulless white during the incident in Singed's lab.

His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair, gripping it, holding her in place. He wanted to drink in the sight of her, to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed her face, every gasp and moan that fell from her lips. He wanted to burn this moment into his mind, to keep it with him forever, a reminder of the power he held over her, the way he could make her feel, the way he could bring her to life with his touch.

Silco felt her body stiffen beneath him, her back arching off the bed, her nails digging into his shoulders, her eyes squeezing shut as a silent scream tore from her throat. He could feel her coming undone, her walls clenching and fluttering around his length, her body shaking and trembling with the force of her climax. It was a beautiful, breathtaking sight, one that made his heart pound and his blood sing with primal satisfaction.

Silco let himself go, his hips slamming forward one last time, burying himself to the hilt inside her spasming heat. His release crashed over him like a tidal wave, his seed erupting from him in thick, hot ropes, painting her walls white with his essence. He crushed his mouth to hers, swallowing her cries, drinking in her ecstasy as if it were a fine wine. His hand gripped her hair tighter, his other arm wrapping around her waist, holding her flush against him, keeping her pinned and trapped and utterly his as he rode out the aftershocks of his climax.

Finally, with a shuddering breath, Silco rolled to the side, staring at the ceiling as he caught his breath. However, a sound caught his attention. He turned to face her, one brow arched as he took in her amused expression as she laughed, the way her eyes danced with mischief and satisfaction.

"And you didn't want my help." her voice came out teasing, breathless from both the sex and the laughter.

"How curious you should say that." he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "Because I remember you begging me to fuck you."

She turned her face to him, strands of sweat-dampened hair clinging stubbornly to her flushed cheeks, framing her expression in a way that struck Silco as unintentionally disarming. Her gaze was soft, a vulnerability peeking through the defiance that usually colored her every word and action. It was the kind of look that unsettled him—not because it posed a threat, but because it invited a reaction he wasn't accustomed to navigating.

That softness in her eyes... Silco wasn't sure how to interpret it. It felt like standing on the edge of a precipice, unsure if the drop would shatter him or leave him standing on solid ground.

"Touché." she murmured, her voice low, yet filled with an unspoken acceptance of her defeat.

Somehow, he felt like he had also lost some internal battle. One he hadn't realized he had started. And he hated it.

"Touché indeed, dove."

━━━━━━━༺༻━━━━━━━

[...]

That laboratory exuded the same dark essence as the Institute, though it carried an even dirtier, more decayed air. The peeling walls seemed to whisper forgotten secrets, while the acrid smell of chemicals mingled with something deeper and more visceral: the pungent aroma of death and despair. It was a suffocating atmosphere that made your skin crawl and your stomach churn. There was something there that went beyond simple physical discomfort; it was as if every molecule of that place was infused with suffering and fear, leaving behind an almost primal urgency to destroy everything around you.

Your senses screamed at you to act, to eliminate the evil that permeated that room. A malevolence that was now embodied in the figure of the scientist in front of you, hunched over you, meticulous in his task. He pierced the needle into your skin with the precision of someone who had repeated the same procedure countless times, without emotion, without hesitation. The dark red liquid filled the collection tubes as you felt an unpleasant tingling creep up your arm.

You knew he had done something. You might not know what, but your instincts told you as much. Something was wrong, and he was the culprit.

Your gaze fixed on him like a blade ready to pierce. You watched him like a predator locking onto its prey, feeling a silent rage grow in your chest, radiating to your limbs. It was irrational, yet it made perfect sense: you wanted to kill him. Not for what he was doing now, but for what he had already done, for what he represented. It was as if he personified everything wrong with that place, as if his death would be one step closer to purification.

The scientist, however, seemed immune to the weight of your gaze. He didn't avert his eyes from his work, focused on filling the tubes with your blood as if it were just another routine task. Perhaps he was used to hateful looks. Perhaps he simply didn't care.

"For analysis." he murmured finally, labeling the tubes with cold efficiency. His voice was monotone, as if he spoke only because it was necessary, with no intention of engaging beyond the bare minimum. It was almost as if you were an object, a tool for experimentation, not a person.

Sevika was there, of course, a solid and inevitable presence in the corner of the room. She was a shadow, but not the kind that went unnoticed; her imposing figure and disinterested, almost bored expression conveyed an unshakable vigilance. Even when she seemed not to be paying attention, you knew she was registering everything around her.

Outside, there were more men, but they weren't there to protect you — after all, if there was any danger in that room, that danger was you. They were there to ensure you didn't escape again, that there wouldn't be another kidnapping attempt or any other incident.

The increase in security measures was undeniable. The night shifts had more men now, and the furtive, monitoring glances had been replaced with blatant surveillance. No one pretended not to be watching your every step, taking note of every move. Your privileges had been revoked by Silco for an indefinite period. In short, your freedom was suspended. No more open doors or unescorted movements.

But what stood out to you the most, what truly made the changes scream at your senses, was the way Silco's men now looked at you. They tried to disguise it, of course. Tried to act like everything was normal, but you saw the apprehension in their eyes, the way their hands stayed closer to their weapons when you walked by. It was subtle, but for someone like you, it was impossible not to notice.

They were afraid of you.

It wasn't the same fear they felt for Silco — his was deeper, rooted in respect and terror for his authority. The fear they had of you was different. It was more immediate, more instinctive. They looked at you as if they expected you to lose control at any moment, as if it was inevitable that you would explode. A caged animal about to strike.

You didn't need to be reminded of the reason. The warehouse. You knew that. No one would ever speak of that night again — Silco made sure of it — but that didn't mean it would be forgotten so easily. It was strange, feeling that fear so tangibly. It was something you used to associate with Silco, with the way he entered a room and made everyone freeze. Now, you were doing the same. And you couldn't decide if it bothered you... or satisfied you.

That is, everyone was afraid — except Sevika.

Sevika looked more irritated than usual, and the reason was obvious: being assigned as your personal guard couldn't have been the most stimulating task for Silco's right hand. She made no effort to hide her displeasure, which only made the dynamic between you even more uncomfortable. The weight of her gaze—half judgmental, half exasperated—was almost tangible, as if you were an unwanted burden, something she had to tolerate simply because it was a direct order from Silco.

You knew what she thought: that this was a waste of time, that Silco could have assigned anyone else to "watch over his whore." It was an expression you had overheard once, spoken in a moment of fury, though never directed at you. Despite the harshness, you understood, even if you hated to admit it.

When Singed finally finished extracting your blood, he applied a bandage to your arm with the same lack of delicacy as always. The gesture was mechanical, as if you were just another piece in his endless experiments. Without another word, he turned away, his hand gesturing toward the door with a clarity that needed no explanation.

You didn't need to think twice. Every part of you longed to get out of that place. Sevika was already waiting outside, casually leaning against the wall as if she were part of the surroundings. Before you could say anything, she stepped forward and, with a brusque motion, threw a coat over your shoulders. The sudden touch made you startle, more out of instinct than anything else.

"What was that?" you asked, lifting the fabric as if you didn't understand the need for it.

Sevika, without even looking at you, shrugged and turned to walk down the narrow hallway.

"It's cold outside." that was all she said, her tone dry, sharp, leaving no room for argument.

You rolled your eyes, sighing as you followed her. Her strides were long, forcing you to pick up your pace just to keep up. It was irritating how even that seemed intentional, as if she wanted to constantly remind you that she was in control of the situation. Then again, you never really seemed to be in control of anything ever since you had come back under Silco's wing.

"Is this really necessary?" you asked, motioning to the bandage on your arm as you quickened your steps. "It's been three weeks, and I'm perfectly fine. I don't see why I still have to come back to this damn place."

"Silco's orders."

Her voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. There was something undeniably final in her tone, something that made it clear she wasn't willing to discuss the matter any further. Her face, as hardened as the steel that made up her mechanical arm, only reinforced that impression.

"Take it up with him, not me."

You took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to roll your eyes.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you actually like playing bodyguard." you shot back, crossing your arms. Your voice carried a hint of provocation, but there was also genuine exhaustion in it. "I know you hate this job just as much as I do."

Sevika didn't respond. Her silence was almost as irritating as the idea of being escorted by her. You bit the inside of your cheek, searching for a new angle.

"Well... not that I mind the company." a mischievous smile danced on your lips as you spoke. "I remember you used to enjoy mine quite a bit."

That did it. Sevika halted in the middle of the street, her body coiled like a spring about to snap. When she turned to face you, her eyes burned with an intensity that made the air around her feel heavier. She stepped toward you, her firm footsteps echoing against the pavement, closing the distance until you had to tilt your head back to meet her gaze.

Oh. She looked like she was about to strangle you.

"Don't ever bring that up again."

You tilted your head slightly to the side, feigning innocence.

"Why not? Don't tell me you never told Silco about us."

For a split second, something flickered across her expression—something almost imperceptible in her eyes. Maybe irritation, maybe discomfort. Whatever it was, it bothered her, and that only fueled your desire to keep pushing.

"There is no 'us'!"

You let out a dramatic sigh, forcing your voice to sound wounded. "Ouch. That hurts, Sevika... I thought I meant something to you."

She scoffed, the sound almost as rough as the laughter you remembered hearing from her months ago in a very different context. And yet, you caught it—a fleeting glimmer in her eyes, a trace of amusement she was clearly trying to suppress.

"You're still the same damn brat, it seems."

You smiled. Not just any smile, but the one you knew she'd understand—the one that told her you knew exactly how to get a reaction out of her. "Just the way you liked..."

Sevika shook her head, lips pressing into a thin line, but you could've sworn you saw the corner of her mouth twitch upward, just for a second.

"Oh, what a coincidence."

The male voice cut through your thoughts, making you turn your head toward the speaker. It was easy to recognize the figure in front of you: the faded yellow coat, the metallic prosthetic gleaming under the flickering streetlights. And, of course, that cynical smile—just as much a part of him as his tattoos. Finn.

He wasn't alone. Just like you, he was surrounded. His men were strategically placed around the area, each one gripping a weapon, their presence carrying a silent threat that hung in the air like the metallic scent of blood.

"I didn't expect Silco to let you out so soon, considering... what happened." his voice carried a tone of feigned surprise, but there was something in his eyes that betrayed him—he already knew.

Of course he knew. It was naïve to think the barons wouldn't have heard about your kidnapping. Information traveled fast in Zaun, especially when it involved someone like you, someone directly tied to Silco.

Finn took a few more steps toward you, moving with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he stood. You felt Sevika right behind you, a wall of protection, her presence as solid as a shadow. Though she hadn't moved or spoken, you could feel the tension radiating from her, like she was just waiting for the slightest excuse to draw her weapon.

"But I'm glad to see you safe and sound." Finn continued, his grin stretching into something almost cruel. "Silco would've been unbearable if anything happened to his little pet."

The condescending tone in his voice made your stomach churn. The way Finn uttered that word—pet—made something inside you recoil. His tone was meticulously chosen to humiliate, to reduce you to something insignificant, a plaything under Silco's rule. Your fingers twitched instinctively, but you held back the urge to respond in kind.

Finn noticed your reaction, of course, and seemed to revel in it. He tilted his head slightly, as if he wanted to appear helpful, though the malicious glint in his eyes said otherwise.

"Anyway, our people need to look out for their own." He shrugged, a casual gesture that felt rehearsed. "So, if you ever need someone to... disappear, if you catch my meaning, or maybe just a friendly shoulder to lean on—" He paused, letting the offer hang in the air for a moment. "Stop by Slickjaws. I'd be honored to have you."

"I'll consider it." you replied, keeping your voice smooth, almost polite, even as bile rose in your throat.

Finn lifted a hand in a gesture you recognized immediately, though it still made your skin crawl. Out of politeness—or mere formality—you offered your own, already regretting it the moment your fingers met his. The press of his lips, or more precisely, the cold metal of his prosthetic, against the back of your hand was light, yet it lasted a beat too long. His eyes never left yours throughout the gesture.

There was something calculated about it, a kind of manufactured intimacy that felt entirely unnecessary. As if every movement of his was designed to feign gentleness, a deliberate attempt to invade a space you had no intention of surrendering.

"You remain quite the vision, my dear." he murmured, his voice as syrupy as poisoned honey. When Finn finally released your hand, it took all of your willpower not to wipe it immediately against your clothes—something he would undoubtedly notice. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

You watched as he walked away, your gaze locked onto his back, assessing, calculating. Beside you, Sevika had already pulled a pack of cigarettes from her pocket, but her eyes were also fixed on Finn, her expression as severe as yours.

"How much longer is that guy gonna keep breathing?"

"As long as Silco thinks he's useful." Sevika replied, her voice as dry as the undercity air around you. Without even looking at you, she started moving again, signaling that it was time to move on.

But something in you wasn't ready to let the subject die there.

"Didn't that seem a little too suspicious to you?"

Sevika let out a low grunt from her throat, a sound that could've been impatience just as easily as indifference. Without breaking her stride, she shoved her pack of cigarettes in your direction—a gesture so automatic it seemed like she hadn't even realized she'd done it.

"He just barks. He doesn't bite."

You reached out without hesitation, pulling two cigarettes from the pack. In one smooth motion, you retrieved your own lighter from your pocket, the cold weight of the metal between your fingers stirring an odd sense of nostalgia for the situation. You lit Sevika's cigarette first, holding it between your fingers with the same casual ease as always. When the tip glowed red, you passed it back to her before lighting your own.

"Maybe." you murmured, exhaling the first puff and letting the smoke curl lazily between you. "But his barking might attract bigger dogs."

Sevika exhaled through her nose, the smoke spilling out like a deliberately restrained dragon. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she turned to look at you, weighing your words as if trying to decide whether this was a valid warning or just another one of your attempts to get under her skin.

"I'll inform Silco."

[...]

You were on your way to Silco's office, begrudgingly following Sevika's orders. She had shoved you toward the stairs, and the glance she threw over her shoulder before turning back to deal with some unlucky bastard made it clear—she would rather be anywhere else than dealing with more problems.

That brief pause, however, gave you something rare: a few seconds of "freedom." Too bad it didn't last long.

Because something came flying straight at you.

Your peripheral vision caught it too late, and before you could react, it hit your head—hard. The impact was unexpected, knocking you back as a throbbing pain pulsed at the point of contact. It wasn't enough to send you to the ground, but it did throw you off balance.

You braced yourself against the nearby wall, fingers pressing against your forehead as the pain radiated outward. When you finally looked down, you saw the culprit—a small metallic monkey, twitching like an out-of-control puppet. Its cymbals clashed together in a frantic rhythm.

"Don't be so dramatic! I barely threw it."

The voice rang out, high-pitched and mischievous, like it was laughing directly at you. The sound echoed down the corridor, and for a moment, you looked around, trying to pinpoint the source. It was a feminine voice, familiar, brimming with an almost contagious energy.

Your attention, however, didn't stay on the voice for long—because the monkey quickly pulled it back. Its movements grew even more erratic, until a puff of blue smoke escaped from the tiny automaton. And then, almost comically, its head popped off, ricocheting off the walls like a pinball before disappearing into a dark corner of the hallway.

"What the f—"

"By the way, you should see the face you're making right now!" the voice continued between giggles. "Priceless!"

The sound of footsteps behind you broke the corridor's silence. Light, almost imperceptible steps—but you heard them. The owner of the voice. The owner of the damned flying monkey.

As you turned, the air left your lungs, as if someone had just knocked the wind out of you.

Standing before you was a little girl with bright blue braids.

Part 12

AUTHOR'S NOTES: I think a lot of people might have expected something rougher from Silco, considering the slightly dominant touch I gave him. But I’m an idiot for symbolism: see, if you pay attention, every time they had a more intimate moment, Silco was always dressed. And this is the first time he undresses—both in the literal and... not-so-literal sense. Sooooo, you get what I’m saying, right? Also, special appearances by Sevika, Finn, and Singed! And who could that person at the end be?? I have no idea…. 🤭

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[marysdonuts]

Tom and Jerry

school clown!Hoshi x top student!reader

Synopsis: After transferring schools the attention seeker Soonyoung keeps getting on your nerves. Fortunately it is way too easy to make fun of his somewhat lacking intellect. One day you take your snarky comments too far and Hoshi is all fun and games, until he wasn't

Warnings: smut, enemies to lovers, high IQ (f.) x low IQ (m.), slight angst, school setting, classmates, public sex, revenge sex, dirty talk, crack, spanking, fingering, penetration, inferiority complex, questionable fashion choices

WC: 1.4K

Status: part 1 (ongoing), part 2

a/n: join my taglist to get notified about new chapters

Changing schools was easier than you thought it would be. You were halfway through your senior year of high school at the crisp age of 17. The family had to move to different city for work. Making new friends was effortless - you were intelligent, good looking and fun to be around. Of course, big part of your popularity was thanks to the charm of the next new thing which always attracted many admirers. You were getting straight A's, enjoyed busy social life, everything seemed perfect.

Well, almost perfect.

If it wasn't for Hoshi Kwon. The school's appointed clown, now pushing 19 years old, he failed his senior year twice. Pathetic, how could somebody be so stupid? You hated him the moment he showed up on the first day of school - in purple suit, tiger print on the collar with matching hat. Cane in hand. Kicking the door open while singing Sherlock from Shinee he danced can-can. His legs flying up to the rhythm of - I'm so curious yeah! Everybody loved the performance. Everybody except you. The fuck? Where did he even get that ugly ass outfit and apparently his real name was not Hoshi but Soonyoung. Who the hell calls themselves Hoshi? Does he think he is a celebrity? Stupid ass name.

After the teacher assigned him as your desk-mate he made it his mission to annoy you. Teacher's reasoning being - he might calm down sitting next to the top student. Such a nonsense. Isn't it their job to know how to control the kids? You weren't getting paid enough for this. In fact, weren't getting paid at all!!

//

On Friday he arrived to class more excited than usual.

"Look at my fit!" kicking his foot proudly on the wooden desk in front of you. Before you had time to push him off he continued

"Do you like my new shoes?" expecting compliments

"I haven't seen uglier shoes in my entire life." you responded with no emotions what so ever

"What do you mean ugly" his already small eyes squinting into straight lines, eyebrows frowning comically

You couldn't help but laugh. He looked like cartoon character

"Now you laughing at me too?!" Stomping the foot that was still resting on your desk " They are Balenciaga!" still stomping

"They look like boats," lazily resting your chin on the top of you hand "if refugees used these," pointing at the monstrosity "instead of those tiny motor boats, their survival rate would be 100%"

You could hear an audible *gasp* leaving his mouth and muffled laughs from the classmates sitting behind you.

"You are the worst!" he cried out "Do you even know how expensive they were.." tear forming at the corner of his cartoony eyes

"Probably as expensive as the donations your parents must be sending to the school each year to keep you studying here" your voice full of disdain

"wow a kick under the belt now, huh?" you could see the wheels in his little hamster brain spinning at full speed

"You will regret this" was all he could come up with in the moment

"I don't think so" smirk on your face beamed with satisfaction but the sudden dark shadow crossing Soonyoung's usually friendly face put a knot in your stomach

//

Much later that day, after your extra-curricular classes finished, you are standing in the dimly lit locker room reorganising the mess compiled after busy week. School was already empty and you loved the silence. The long halls full of lockers did look a bit spooky now but it wasn't your first time being there alone.

Squeeky steps approaching from behind you. Sounded like one of those Crocs.

"Anybody there?" you were sure it was just your imagination, simply asking the ghosts a rhetorical question

"What if there is.." vibrations of low growl echoed thru your ear sending shivers down the spine

"The hell..?" catching a glimpse of Hoshi in your peripheral vision. Why is he here this late? You knew damn well he ain't taking any extra classes.

"I was waiting for you..." his voice even closer now, hot breath touching the exposed skin of your neck. He was so close to you. You could hear his heart beating. Du dum. Du dum. Du dum. Stable. Confident. In control. Yours on the other hand reaching high frequency of dudududududum.

"What do you think you are doing, Kwon?" forced annoyance in your tone trying to mask something that was hiding a bit deeper. Panic perhaps?

"You tell me," he laughed but it sounded more like a threat "aren't you the one who knows it all?" Pressing the weight of his athletic body on yours, something hard forcing itself against your bottom made you gasp

"h-hey what's your problem.." you tried to sound intimidating, voice betraying you suddenly, only producing shattered whine

"You" not waisting one more second Soonyoung licked the curve of your neck completely sandwiching you between his throbbing heat and your cold locker. Kissing your sensitive skin as if he was waiting for it for so long. Wet kisses quickly becoming possessive bites leaving marks as his signature.

"oh fu-" was all that managed to escape your quivering lips as his hand spanked your ass with such force, it took your breathe away. You didn't want to admit it, but this situation? It was making you so incredibly wet.

Yes, you did hate him. Yes, he was annoying and loud. Always wanting to be the centre of attention. Apart from that you couldn't deny how good looking he actually was. Only person in school who could pull off blond hair and those horrendous outfits.Oh and how the lean muscles played on his body during P.E. class..? Except for his personality, he was 10/10

"You don't have any smart comeback now, do you?" Slapping you once more. Making you loose your breath - again.

"You look much nicer like this" the hand on your bottom started to move lower. Pushing your legs apart with his knee, making a way for his long fingers. Lightly tracing the center of your soaked panties

"stupid uniform-" you cursed. Why the hell did boys wear trousers but they made girls wear skirts? The last line of defence has been crossed.

"Oh?" rubbing the wet fabric "you are dripping all over your pretty panties" the strokes becoming spirals, combining your folds and the textile into unified mess

"I-I'm not..!" knees weakening into his skilful movements

"Mmm, I thought top students are not allowed to lie" forcing two fingers inside of you without warning. Deliciously thrusting into your pool of need.

"shut up-" already moaning. What the fuck am I doing? Now pushing your ass to meet his motion.

"If you are going to fuck me, at least do it right" another push against him "or are you too stupid even for that?" you mocked him, taking at least a bit of your power back

All you could hear was Hoshi's sinful laugh and clinking of metal as his jeans came undone collapsing on the tiled floor. His throbbing member now on your clit soaking in the wetness you produced. Gliding teasingly over it

"What if I don't want to?" rubbing in painfully slow rhythm, making you see stars

Hoshi was very much enjoying this moment. Moment of having upper hand on somebody he couldn't challenge intellectually, on somebody who always knew what to say, somebody who was making him feel and look small. Crushing his ego on everyday basis. Fortunately you were just his type.

"P-please..?" heard yourself saying. Almost as surprised as he was. But fuck it, his dick felt so good on you pussy and it was long time since you had any intimacy. It made you uncharacteristically needy. What's wrong with little steamy sex in the locker room? Nothing. Yeah.

"Please Soonyoung, I want to feel you inside of me. I can't take it anymore. You win."

Grin from ear to ear Hoshi finally entered you with such an enthusiasm like a kid getting the toy he really wanted.

Holding you by the wrists you were hanging off in empty air. Slapping the balls against your needy pussy he was pounding you mercilessly. Waves of pleasure running thru every inch of your body. You didn't notice it before but now you could feel it clearly. His dick had a curve to it and it felt fucking good. On every thrust the tip hitting you exactly where you wanted. You were full of him.

Why is it always these good for nothing guys who fuck the best? Or maybe you were just too harsh on him? You pondered as the following thrust almost took you over the edge, making your head fall forward.

And down there between your trembling legs pair of hideous Balenciaga sneakers

[just-honey-dewd]

LINK CLICK S1 EPISODE 5.5 - The Silly Goose allegations

This is a post dedicated to collecting instances showcasing Lu Guang's uncharacteristic behaviour throughout the episode. Compared to other episodes that take place in S1, I find that he never actually takes things as seriously as he would elsewhere. Which genuinely raised alarm bells for me, so here's my attempt at providing evidence of my accusations!

1) THE COCKINESS OF THIS MAN

"I don't hit girls" is one of the earliest instances of Lu Guang betraying his mature and sensible image -- specifically displaying immaturity in admitting his incompetence at video games. BONUS IMAGE: Still blushing in the background even after the moment's passed.

2) NOT GIVING HIS FULL ATTENTION TO A MISSION'S DETAILS

Granted, there is precedence to Lu Guang doing tasks in the background while Qiao Ling relays information about the case and client (in s1 e2), but Lu Guang usually spares a glance into the photos before determining whether he'll need Cheng Xiaoshi's involvement.

3) THE SNACKING AND AFTERNOON NAP

This is the only time Lu Guang is seen literally sleeping on the job -- not including the Emma case, because sleeping while the client is inactive is valid practice. In this case, it communicates a carefree disposition that Lu Guang knows he can afford. Which reads differently to how he usually acts during dives that don't require his constant supervision for a long period of time. For example, his behaviour during the first third of the Chen Xiao case -- a mission which partially involved Cheng Xiaoshi remaining on the bench for 20 minutes. The actual goal was getting Chen Xiao's message to Lu Hongbin, the outcome of the game wasn't important -- but Lu Guang remained on high alert and in constant communication with Cheng Xiaoshi (until he went ominously quiet for unconvincing reasons, but that's sth else). Point is, Lu Guang usually remains awake to watch over Cheng Xiaoshi, and doesn't usually snack on the job -- the way he leaves a mess on the table also feels more callous than typical Lu Guang fashion.

4) TIMING RIGHT DOWN TO THE SECOND

"Don't move a muscle!" You don't need glasses to see how extra Lu Guang's being with his insistence on accuracy right down to the second. Does the moment Liu Siwen's foot touches the last step matter in the long run? I doubt it. But apparently it matters to Lu Guang -- who's literally looking at his watch to confirm the seconds -- which seems incompatible for the same guy who teaches Cheng Xiaoshi that the major nodes are what must remain unchanged. It feels like misplaced priorities. Since the mission is "learn Ouyang Bubai's secret move", and the automatic outcome will be losing to him -- the major node won't change if Liu Siwen was slightly tardy or too early. And another thing I find strange are that in similar instances where Lu Guang is timing events down to the second, he's not looking at his watch to do it -- rather he seems to have a sixth sense for counting in sync with time's rhythm: in s1e1 he only opts to close his book audibly in order to alert Cheng Xiaoshi to initiate the event (no need eyeing his watch), and in yingdu e3 he drums his fingers to the last seconds before a canon event occurs.

5) Backseat gaming

This manner of instruction is superfluous and doesn't align with other instances which display Lu Guang's rather hands-off approach to instructing Cheng Xiaoshi. The approach he adopts immediately afterwards is much more successful in aiding him (also note that it's Cheng Xiaoshi who instructs Lu Guang to adopt this approach): CXS: Just predict the attack's direction. I will handle everything else.

Knowing to only give Cheng Xiaoshi limited prompts necessary for him to intuit his next course of action is crucial Lu Guang 101 behaviour. From what previous episodes have established of Lu Guang's character -- he usually knows what to say, and what little needs to be said, in order to coordinate Cheng Xiaoshi to do what is required to meet the objective. This backwards behaviour suggests Lu Guang's inexperience in understanding how Cheng Xiaoshi's mind operates. Inconsistent since the Ouyang case takes place after the EMMA case, which shows Lu Guang utilising the hands-off approach.

6) The genuine shock

Between these scenes, there's a very visible shock marring Lu Guang's expressions that simply isn't present in other episodes, and isn't seemingly appropriate for the context of the revelation, nor with his time traveller status in mind. When Cheng Xiaoshi looks as though he's about to land a critical hit on Ouyang Bubai, Lu Guang sighs pre-emptively -- as though he expects that Cheng Xiaoshi has the upper hand against Ouyang Bubai (though that would also suggest it slipped his mind that the mission was to observe how Ouyang Bubai's secret technique works). Then after Ouyang Bubai's move is executed on Cheng Xiaoshi, Lu Guang's jaw drops. Something we only get the luxury of seeing in s2, when he's possessed by Cheng Xiaoshi. In the next scene, when Qiao Ling reveals the full context of Liu Siwen's determination -- Lu Guang full body flinches, which contrasts Cheng Xiaoshi's relatively conservative head tilt. This is not the body language of someone who's gone through this before.

7) The open hypocrisy

Cheng Xiaoshi points out Lu Guang's blatant disregard for his rules. Specifically "Past and future. Don't ask questions" -- directly involving themselves in Liu Siwen's life is interfering with his future which is technically a violation of that rule. But Lu Guang snubs him with a half-hearted "I came to watch over you."

What we see immediately after seems to be the key to understanding the driving force for Lu Guang joining to support Liu Siwen against his strict rules. If we were to believe this was Lu Guang's first experience with the Ouyang case, he came without the knowledge that Ouyang Bubai would finally surrender and allow Liu Siwen and Ouyang to be married. So he came to witness Liu Siwen's determination first-hand. If this wasn't the first experience, Lu Guang expects Ouyang Bubai to surrender, so he approaches the old man to understand the reasoning behind his stubbornness.

Let's say I'm of the opinion that it's the former... then the question becomes this:

Why does Lu Guang take a particular fascination in Liu Siwen?

To that, I think this scene in particular provides some suggestions.

The dramatic lighting and music accompanying this exchange emphasizes the weight of Lu Guang's conviction in Liu Siwen's resilience. And Cheng Xiaoshi voices the sentiment aloud. "What is it that gives him the strength to keep fighting?"

Following this train of thought, Lu Guang wasn't looking to ask Ouyang Bubai to understand why he finally lets go, but came to watch how Liu Siwen persists against all odds.

Thematically, that's why Liu Siwen has the last words in this episode. He embodies the theme of this episode: to cherish and fight for that which you hold dearly.

[cera-writes]

Omg, I love your blog! 👁️👁️✨ I really love how you write for X-MEN characters. Today, I’m requesting a song fic for either Remy or Kurt. I think they would both fit Too Sweet (By Hozier). I’ve been obsessed with this song ever since it came out. Thank you! ✨

A/N: THANK YOU <333 I too, am obsessed with this song lol Pairing: Gambit x F!Reader Tags: songfic, Hozier, fluff, mutual pining

Too Sweet - A Hozier Song-Fic

The insistent chirping of birds filtered through the blinds, a jarring intrusion into Remy LeBeau's slumber. Ten o'clock. Ten o'clock before Remy would ever say a word and none earlier. Unlike him, you were a symphony of pre-dawn energy. Your voice, a melodic counterpoint to the morning symphony, cut through his haze.

"Remy! Rise and shine, sleepyhead! I've already been out on my mile run this morning before the sun rose."

He peeked from beneath the covers, your silhouette bathed in the golden morning light. Even in your active wear, you possessed an ethereal quality. It couldn't be said I'm an early bird, Remy thought, a wry smile playing on his lips. You were the quintessential early riser, a stark contrast to his nocturnal rhythm.

"Don' you jus' wanna wake up, dark as a lake, cher? Smellin' like a bonfire, lost in a haze?" he mumbled, the words tumbling out unbidden. You paused mid-stretch, concern clouding your bright eyes.

"Did you sleep well?" Your worry was a balm to his soul, a secret he wouldn't readily admit. You cared about him, the man who thrived in the shadows, a stark contrast to your rose colored glasses. You were too sweet for him, a melody in his whiskey-soaked symphony of existence.

"Peachy, cher," he lied with a lazy drawl, forcing himself upright. You were right. The allure of being the thief in the night seemed to pale in comparison to experiencing a sunrise with you. He joined you on the cool floor, his movements stiff compared to your effortless grace.

"You know you don't gotta pretend," he propped up softly, voice laced with amusement. A heat crawled up your neck. He saw through you, your carefully constructed facade. Perhaps, it was this very quality that drew you to him like a moth to a flame.

As the day unfolded, the contrast between you became even more apparent. Your afternoon was spent enveloped in the warm aroma of chocolate and sugar, your hands weaving magic with the ingredients. Remy, however, sharpened his fighting skills with his staff, the rhythmic clang a stark counterpoint to your gentle symphony.

You offered him a hot cup of joe, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I remembered you liked your coffee black. Oh, and I just made cookies. Help yourself to a few."

He chuckled, taking a tentative bite. The sweetness exploded on his tongue, a stark contrast to the life he led. "You're too sweet for de likes of Gambit, cher," he teased, a pull in his chest that wasn't from the charged cards strapped to his thigh.

"What does that make you then?" you countered, a playful comeback escaping your lips. But beneath the surface, Remy saw a flicker – a spark of attraction mirrored in his own gaze.

Later that night, when the moon replaced the sun, casting familiar, cool shadows, he found you on the balcony, gazing at the starlit canvas above. This was his domain, the time he craved.

"Couldn't sleep, cher?" he drawled, leaning against the railing, whiskey in hand as he took a sip from the glass.

You shook your head, a smile playing on your lips. "Just thinking."

He joined you, a comfortable silence settling between them. "Maybe," he started, feeling uncharacteristically hesitant, "maybe we don' have to pretend or play dis lil' game anymore. Maybe we can share de sky for a while."

You turned to him, your eyes twinkling like distant stars. "Maybe we can, Remy."

He leaned closer, the scent of tobacco mingling with the cool night air. In that twilight space between light and dark, he found himself lost in the sweetness of your kiss, a perfect counterpoint to his world of shadows.

[daflangstlairde-art]

"Once More to See You"

Part 1 of whenever, wherever (we'll always be together)

Fanfic summary:

It's just... Sans was gone for a year, to him. And now here he was, a walkin’ tragedy named after postmortem monster remains, more powerful than anyone Red has met and yet chilling with him on the balcony.  Red was not fumbling this again. No way.

Chapter 1, 2,833 words

Credits, content warnings and further information on ao3.

—

The last fuckin’ thing Red expected on some random Tuesday was a phone call from Sans. 

He stared at the caller ID on the screen of his phone. The new, fancy type of phone that humans apparently had, all screen. Alphys had to invent a minor modification so people without the usual skin-covered fingers could use them too. Although they were costly, so not many monsters bothered with them. Quite useful though. 

The phone kept on vibrating in a consistent rhythm, where it sat on the table. And during Red’s lunch, too. 

Sans. Sans. 

Holy shit. 

Red hadn't heard from Sans in... well, almost a year — ever since the kid finally got them out of that hellhole. For good, this time. No more loops on the old Timeline Reader. 

They’ve been settling in. It's been a shitshow now and then, several cases of spread dust, but they have been. The anniversary was comin’ up, there were plans to celebrate and all.

Shit. Wow. He’d thought the universal bullshit had fucked comms completely. He– he thought he'd never hear from Sans again. Ever. 

That thought finally snapped him out of his stupor and Red grabbed the phone so quickly he almost dropped it, swiping to pick up. It made a dull clunk when he slapped it to the side of his head, 

“sans?” Red exhaled in disbelief. Shit, he'd gotten so out of the habit of the nickname game — everyone in his world called him ‘Sans’. 

There was quiet on the other side of the line. He strained to listen, eye sockets narrowing. The fuck? Why call just to say nothing? Was this a joke? Pretty shit one. 

...Ooor maybe cross-universal fuckery. Maybe Sans was tryna talk to him but it wasn't getting through. Maybe these new phones sucked ass actually. 

Red pulled the device away from his metaphorical ear, glancing at the screen as it lit up. Call was still going, counting out the seconds. He put it back to his head. 

“sans? y’there? who the fuck is this?” he demanded, fingertips tapping against the tabletop impatiently. If asked, he'd say it was from anger. 

(He hadn't heard from Sans in a year. Shit, he missed him so bad. So bad. It was a fuckin’ ache. That soft, nice smartass– and then it was, so suddenly, zero contact. All gone.)

“if–” 

“no need to get so heated,” shut Red up real quick, and holy fucking balls it was Sans. It really was. He sounded weird as shit, but it was him. Red could hear the lowercase lettering. 

It was... weird though. Sans was usually all jokey, a comedian through and through, save for a few blips at something more serious. It took a whole lot for the jester to put down his jingly hat. But now he sounded... hm. Like there was a weight to his voice. Like he was speaking in a musty, dark, echoing hallway but without the bouncing of the echo, or like the echo was all compressed into his words.

Red was momentarily speechless. 

“where are you?” he was suddenly on his feet, no longer having a lazy afternoon. 

“wanna join? pretty cool here,” Sans joked, though again, it felt... it felt weird. Ironically (or perhaps fittingly), it felt like a chill. Like a hollow tomb wafting a cold fog. Something heavy and slow and reverberating. 

It was ringing alarm bells in Red’s mind which he responsibly ignored, quickly connecting the dots. The machine was last in Snowdin, in their old basement, no reason for Sans to be anywhere but there. Red cussed, almost amused — imagine how jarring it would've been for Sansy to pop up in a barren Snowdin. Not even genocide-barren, more like some raid happened — people ain't leaving costly furniture behind! 

“stay there, i’ll be over in a minute,” Red stated, and you know what? Fuck it. Yeah, he was grinning, he was happy as fuck to hear from Sans. 

That round-faced dumbass was charming. Past his pompous morality, he held a quiet confidence, a stability. A calming presence that still didn't feel pathetic. He made Red of all monsters — a notorious bastard — soften. And he was funny. Fuck, Red had missed him. He couldn't wait to show Sans around their ‘Newest Home’. 

—

Snowdin was about as it always was, these days. Not a soul in sight. Mostly the snow, built up and undisturbed. Maybe an animal, once in a while, now that no one was shooing them away. 

Just as promised, it barely took Red a minute to arrive (he knew a shortcut). Sure, where his and Edge’s apartment was in Ebott City (the more urban part of things, not the surrounding rural) was pretty far away, so the jump was big. He just had to break it up and catch his breath. Ain't no way Red was leaving Sans to wait. He was a proper gentleman like that, hah. 

Sans wasn't in the basement or the shed, so next likely location: he welcomed himself inside whatever remained of Red and Edge’s house. Barren, ‘course, and kinda dilapidated, materials snatched up from here and there over time. The roof was basically just a concept.

“ey you in here?” Red called out as he opened the door, grinning. 

It's not that he froze. It's more that old instinct beaten into him kicked in faster than he could realize and he suddenly found himself braced. Like taking a battle stance, a subtle shift to his footing to be solid yet ready to move. 

The quiet now felt unsettling. The cold of Snowdin prominent. Red didn't open the door all the way. He stayed there, listening. To the sound of the light wind. Felt the icy air curling around his bones. 

He breathed slow and quiet. Feeling out with his magic. 

...Where the hell was this violent intent oozing from? There was nobody here. Nobody except for him and, supposedly, Sans. 

...Unless Sans dragged along a problem. Or a problem followed him here, but eh, same difference.

Shallow puffs of air. A simmering staleness. 

“...you aren't scared of your old pal, are ya?” came Sans’ voice from inside, and yep. It wasn't just a trick from the phone. His cadence had changed. 

Slower. Colder. A hollowness to it, but not an absence. 

Definitely not an absence, actually. It's like his presence had tripled. From a small, unassuming funnyman, it had gone to something more akin to a predator in the snow. 

Those alarm bells were pointing at Red and laughing. 

What the hell was going on...?

Spurred by the comment, he apprehensively nudged the door to open further. The heavy wood went slow, very slow. A rhythm of creaking from the abandoned hinges that felt too loud in the tension.

At last, there he was. Standing in the middle of what used to be Red’s living room, beside the shattered remains of their table. Red watched a gloves hand trailing the dust from its surface. 

...The dust.

Fuck, the dust. 

Sans was covered in it. It desaturated his clothes. It was so much, the texture of it was visible.

His back was turned to Red. His hood was up, a sight Red had basically never seen. His brother’s bright red scarf wrapped around his neck. Sans stood so still it didn't even sway. 

And the big thing. The worst thing. The thing that directly told Red this ain't just the ending of a normal Geno run that Sans decided to spend in his company. 

See, apparently there was this fun Sans-only characteristic. They were The Judge, while The Judge wasn't them. It allowed a few fun bonuses, such as karmic damage. It also made your sense of Justice skyrocket. Considering there would always be only one Judge at a time, there was little known about it, and it was pretty hard to research — like, did the Judge give you a shot of Justice or did Justice-inclined monsters become it? 

Red and The Judge could be best described as bitter exes that still lived in the same city. He didn't reap much benefits of the position anymore, but there was one that couldn't exactly be taken away, and that is the ability to read people. Pretty literally. Didn't even need an official Check for it. 

Sans’ head turned ever so slightly to the side. Red could only spot the edge of his grin really, face shadowed by the hood. It was more than enough. Instantly, Red knew. 

He saw it all written out. 

*Sans...?

*LV 20

*HP 40 AT 40 DF 20

*He's changed. 

LV 20. That number bounced around Red’s skull with the clanging of metal. Fuzzy non-memories of a hallway, of a fight, of dust and dust and dust. 

He didn't remember Resets in detail. Just knew of ‘em. Had nightmares frequently. That sort of thing. But it was enough.

See, the thing about the max cap of LV is that it was relative, contextual. It wasn't about the numbers, it was about the actions. And the more your LV grew, the more EXP it demanded to increase the next time. To get to LV 2, all you needed was a single soul, didn't matter who. Red had been doin’ this for a life and he had an LV of six.

If there were a million and you killed all but a single one, that's LV 19. Because deep inside, you yourself would know that your capacity to hurt just didn't reach the absolute, that there was a crumb it didn't destroy. 

LV 20 meant an indiscriminate, directed massacre of every single available soul. All of them. 

“giving me the cold shoulder, red?” Sans’ voice jarred Red out of his frozen terror. 

He was just standin’ there, several feet away, and yet, it felt like a knife was pressed to Red’s throat. He wasn't sure if it was even intentional. Just the aura. 

Fuck. Red had ideas of shortcutting him to the city and showing him around, there was shit Sans would love. Fuck, maybe hugging him while there were no witnesses here that’d need to lose their eyes if they saw that? Maybe make out sloppy style? 

Instead he couldn't relax, couldn't even think about it. Like he was in an Encounter, waiting for the other’s turn. 

“...nah,” Red replied, keeping his voice level. “i’d never, got too many warm feelings ‘bout you,” better stick to levity. Who knows what would snap the trap’s snare? 

Sans chuckled. Quiet, low, but unable to be ignored.

“so,” Sans shuffled, turning. All his movements so slow, in a measured way. Like that metaphor about needing to lift just a pinkie to kill you. Weight in every millimeter. “what happened here?” 

His face was shadowed, permanent grin present as ever, but the lights of his eyes blazed. One a red that even Red’s barely rivaled; the other an intertwining of red and blue, overlaying in a toxic, rancid glow that appeared purple-ish. 

Magic corrupted by violence. In nature, bright colors always scream of danger.

“nothin’ much,” Red shrugged, careful. He still hadn't dared to approach the other. But he didn’t even blink. “kid finally cracked the code. been livin’ with the fleshbags for nearly a year now,” he summarized, staying neutral. 

“huh.” Sans hummed, even quieter, looking off into nowhere in particular. “...i suppose it got bored of you too.” he spoke softly, almost so low that it was difficult to hear. 

Well, ‘soft’ was a bit of an odd descriptor here. It was soft the way being suffocated to death with a pillow is soft.

“...bored?” Red tried to prompt, not too pushy, not judgemental. Meanwhile his mind was spinning in rapid circles tryna figure out what the fuck happened. 

“yeah. bored.” Sans said simply, like that explained anything. “maybe it found something else to torture. heh.” he spoke airily. Right. 

(“...shit, you for real?” Red stared at the other. Both of them were matching, at the end of a Neutral run but before it was Reset yet. Rare coincidence. They were taking the opportunity to hang out and chat. 

Boss was dead, so, they were in Red’s bedroom. He in particular was soaking the air with the smell of alcohol.

Currently, he gaped at Sans. A bit disbelieving. A lot horrified. Kinda unable to even conceptualize what he was hearing.

Sans chuckled, all nihilism. “yep. at least you can't say my memory fails me.”

“in full detail?”

“more or less.”

“both the good ones and the shitty ones?” 

“unfortunately.” 

“...damn.” Red whispered. “i only remember bits and pieces. i...” he trailed off. Swirling the drink in his hand. Imagining the fucking horror of remembering the loops in crystal clarity. Fuck. ...Fuck. 

“eh,” Sans shrugged, “they’ve been mostly good ones so far,” he leaned back with a sigh, nursing his own beverage. “i think they’re just curious. sure, the sunset gets pretty boring and inconsequential after the... i dunno, tenth time? but... better seeing papyrus smile the same way twenty times than see his head lopped off the same way twenty times,” he chuckled, and Red choked on his drink. 

“...jeeezzz,” he coughed, “way to be morbid,”

“it’s true!” 

“yeah you're a real ray o’ sunshine,” 

“yep, i light up the whole room,” 

“make me feel all warm inside ‘n whatever,” 

They both collapsed into inebriated laughter.)

...Changed, huh? ...Fuck. 

Fuck. What the hell was Red supposed to do? Sans was clearly... in a... state, and Red ain't known for being delicate. Furthermore Sans could decimate him with a sneeze right now. 

“...right,” Red nodded, still doing his best to exude neutrality, fuckin’ tranquility, even as he was sweating. He dared to step forward. Slow. Careful. Aware of his surroundings and every minuscule movement from Sans. “...you hungry? food ain’t half bad at least,” was the first half-decent idea that came to mind. 

Sans remained quiet for a moment. Red watched him. He took another slow step forward. 

“nah, not really.” Sans shrugged. He spoke so damn quietly. “but if you're taking me out...” he trailed off, some humor in his voice at least. Airy, detached. 

“yeah,” Red nodded along, “call it a date, sweetheart. my treat,” he stepped closer. He could make out more of the dust now. 

“don't.” 

Red froze on the spot. He could feel the chill with every exhale. Sans stared at him with dark eyes, the lights snuffed. It was terrifying, and Red didn't admit shit like that easy. 

He stared back, counting the seconds for every inhale and exhale. Leveled. Patient. Slowly raised his palms in a placating manner. 

“i ain't gonna hurt you,” Red stated. He couldn't even imagine all the shit this poor guy has been through, jeez. 

Sans stared at him. He let out a shuddery exhale through his nasal cavity. For a second, Red thought he might've gotten emotional at the statement. Didn't help that the shaky breathing continued. But that assumption was bust as the exhale gained a low chuckle. If Red had fur, it would all be standing on end as the chuckling continued, slowly growing in intensity. 

It was unsettling him so much he wanted to snap, the fuck are you laughing at?! but he bit his tongue. 

Red’s soul did a small leap as Sans raised a hand, but no magic was fired off. The guy just held his face in his palm, head tipped back, starting to laugh fully. The sound bouncing around. Like Red told him the funniest joke in the fuckin’ world. 

Red just stood there, breathing harshly, coiled in tension. Listening to Sans’ laughter echo through the cavernous quiet down here, loud and cackling. Waiting for the snap. 

Seems he was one lucky bastard, and would live another day. ‘Cause abruptly, Sans’ laughter tapered off and he cracked his eyes open yet again to glean down at Red. Grinning something tinged with mean amusement.

“hurt me? that’s hilarious. i’m dying with laughter,” Sans crooned while Red was inwardly kissing the floor that the guy still had some sense of humor and wasn't just LV-crazy. 

“...anytime for you, san–”

“nope.” Sans cut him off, cold. “don't call me that.” his voice retreated back to him again, eye lights out.

Red’s own flickered over his expression. Trying to read him. Sans was never the open and vulnerable type, but now? He was more closed off than ever. He was a cold stone wall. 

“...what d’you want me to call you then, sweetheart?” Red prompted, carefully nonchalant. Not gentle, that wasn't really his style. 

For a moment they remained wordless. Both of them just quiet breathing. Illuminated from above ‘cause of the missing roof. The cold air sitting between them.

“...you’re right,” Sans said, so quietly. “but i–” he cut himself off, and Red frowned ever so slightly. What? He didn't have long to think about it however. “...yeah.” Sans hunched his shoulders, eye lights returning with a blink. Eyebags melding with the shadow over his face. He looked at Red. “call me dust.” 

[woundedsoul12]

A Word With Friends!!

Thanks @seaglassmelody for the tag and @hedwigoprah for the game! I love this game so much (this is also for all the people who have tagged me in stuff the last few days and I haven't played because I haven't written in a week)

Soft tagging @whispersleo @serensama @mythals-whore @davrinsleftpectoral @skullypettibone @brennacedria @trash-nerd

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends. Happy writing! 

Word: Sanguine

Definition (Adjective): optimistic or positive, especially in an apparently bad or difficult situation. OR Definition (noun): a blood-red color

A little Marina x Emmrich for yall. This was perfect for the Vampire AU. I wrote this in 15 minutes going to lunch so forgive me if its bleh

The first thing Emmrich noticed was a beating. A steady thrumming in his ears that wasn't in time with his heart. No, curiously his mind seemed to register that his own pulse was silent. Still in the darkness like the spirits who had vacated this hallowed ground.

This sound emanated from another. A call so sweet his very soul screamed for it. Until he felt it might rend itself in twain to answer the beckoning of him to be one with its haunting chorus. A second that lasted an eternity as he waited on the precipice of something new. Unaware of what would happen next, but knowing his only path was forward.

Until a rich taste burst forth on his tongue. A warm liquid that poured down his throat and soothed the ache tearing through his body. A luscious flavor reminiscent of chocolate, bitter and sweet as he greedily drank his fill.

The beating sound grew into a raging torrent of a crescendo that permeated every neuron beneath his skin. Until it was all he could feel. A scent of jasmine thick in the air as he shuddered and his lungs fought to remember how to work once more. Finally, his chest quivered as he drew in a deep breath. His paralyzed heart began to pound in time with the rhythm that had become his only lifeline in a sudden jolt that shocked his entire system.

Eyes fluttered open as he returned to this side of the mortal coil, his gaze immediately falling on the beauty kneeling beside him. The sanguine stain to her lips not nearly as shocking as the crystal blue irises that stared down at him with a warm affection.

“Mi hijo, I am pleased you survived the transformation. We have much work to do, and we will need all the help we can get.”

[shiukongisaprettyboy]

Around 600 Words.. How can i write longer fics?

Day 10 Cockwarming

_______________

It’s WAS going to be more of a.. lovey dovey cockwarming then a horny one. but turned out to be pretty horny and sweaty so..

WARNING INCLUDE: rough(kinda) sex in general, pet names(doll, and one “atta girl.”, cock warming(duh)

————————

Shiu rested his head on your shoulder as he scrolled through his phone. He swiped up on a 13th annoying text from Toji in the last 5 minutes. He needed to get a life, more than killing people for gambling money. That he would lose, nonetheless.

Shiu gave a gentle roll of his hips, causing your breath to catch. You clenched around him, hard. “Shiu..” You warned lightly, though there was no threat behind your words. “Sorry doll.”

He wasn't. He knew you weren’t actually annoyed with him, it was merely another step in their game of love and life. Shiu kissed along your shoulder, giving light bites every now and again. The television played some old show, one you two had already watched no doubt.

Shiu felt your hands run through his hair, and he sighed deeply, leaving a loving kiss on your shoulders. “So what’s for dinner tomorrow, do I need to pick anything up?” You hummed, “Some chives would be nice, actually.” You answered. Shiu made a mental note to grab chives from the store on his way home.

You bounced slightly, apparently feeling needy. “Come on.. just a few more minutes, then you can cum..” Shiu whispered, hands clasping your hips gently enough to not hurt, but enough to keep you still. He was the perfect balance in the bedroom. Of power and gentle kindness. He knew your boundaries and you knew his.

“Fine..” You whimpered, clasping around him. “Thanks doll, just finishing up some things.” Well. At least he didn’t have you on your knees again. Shius hand tapped a steady rhythm on your hips, as the other slipped between you.

A gentle finger came and started circling your clit. You jumped. His hands were colder than you expected. “Shiu..” you moaned, head moving to look at him. “Shh.. I’m not done, doll.” You squeezed him. Hard. The phone dropped to the floor.

“You wanna play that game?” Shiu asked, thrusting up into you. His hand had stopped flicking and circling your clit to come and grip your hips once more.

“How long you gonna last sweetheart? Not long at this rate.” Shiu murmured, the look in his eye was killer. You gripped onto him for dear life, crying out in ecstasy. “Not long at all.” Shiu answered for you, as you were too lost in the pleasure to find your voice.

“Such a pretty thing, aren’t you? And all for me, right?” You nodded the best you could, a gasp coming from your throat as he hit that spot inside you, making your mind falter. You were close, so close. “Faster, Shiu, please!!” He happily obliged, speeding up his thrusts. He marked your neck to hide his moans and groans.

“Come for me baby, come on. You can do it.” You were so close to the edge. So, so close. He reached down once again, to fondle and run your clit. It sent you over. That extra amount of pleasure. “Atta girl..” Shiu moaned, as he too reached his high from your tight squeezing. He groaned loudly, gasping for breath as you both rode out your highs.

Shiu slowed to a stop, letting you both catch your breath. “Coming to bed now?” Shiu pulled out, stretched, and nodded. “Yes ma’am”

_________

Better?? I think so!

—————

[melanieph321]

Kenan Yilidiz x Reader - Thick Part 5/8

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Kenan and Reader share the same high school friend group. As graduation is near, Reader sets out to pass her drivers license test but ultimately struggles to. Thankfully Readers friends agree to help her with driving lessons and take turns doing so. It is during one of Rader's lessons that it becomes clear that Kenan likes her. A chock to Reader, who has a crush on someone else in their friend group.

Enjoy!

"So, what's going on with you and Kenan?" Maria asked, on your weekly drive to school.

"Pardon?"

"Oh please, Y/N. Don't lie. We all know that the two of you are hooking up."

Your driving has improved. After two months of consistent driving lessons with your friends, you were finally getting a hang of the rhythm of traffic. Although, you had to admit that your progress all came down to one driver.

"What do you mean, who told you that?" You said, in a desperate attempt to maintain your honor.

"It's pretty obvious." Maria chuckled. "The two of you are always flirting across the table during lunch hour and the fact that Kenan drives you home everyday kind of gives it away, don't you think?"

"Okay, but what about you and Gio?" You blurred out, as immense heat burned your cheeks.

"What about us?" Maria laughed.

"Well, aren't you two hooking up?" 

"Yes, but the difference is that the two of us aren't trying to hide it from the world. Why would you? Kenan is a great guy and seems to like you a lot."

"I know." You sighed as if it were a bad thing. "It's just that I don't think we'd make a good couple. I need someone more intuned with life, someone intellectual and cool. Someone who thinks with his brain and not with his dick. Someone like...."

"Luca?"

You turned to Maria as the car pulled up to a stop sign. "How did you know?"

She grinned. "Again, you make it quite obvious."

"Oh. I guess I have to work on that."

"Yeah. Besides, isn't Luca dating that redhead from the record store downtown?"

"They're just hooking up." You said, having investigated the matter futher ever since you discovered their love dispute. It was therefore important for you not to get too attached to Kenan, that is, if Luca ever decided to come back to earth again and realize that the perfect girl for him was already right by his side.

"I dunno, they seem pretty serious. Luca even asked if she could come with us to Bari this summer."

"He what?"

"Crazy, I know. I said it was cool, but of course Rebecca had to go on about the seating in the car, how there wasn't room for more people in the one we have. It's funny really..."

"What is?"

"Well, it really depends on you if she comes with us or not. If you manage to pass your driver's test there'll be more seats." She laughed. However you didn't find it funny at all.

School that day went by in a flash. Apparently, Luca called in sick today so that he and his band could travel to Milano and meet with a record label. The thoughts of his "girlfriend" traveling with him angered you, completely ruining your day.

".....and then he shot the bear in the face which left his jaw hanging out from its head. It was the craziest shit I've ever seen."

Kenan drove you home again after school. He had Gio on speaker as the two of them wouldn't stop going on and on about a movie that they saw last night. 

"Thanks for the ride." You muttered, when his car pulled up to your house. 

"Y/N, wait!" You made it up the driveway when Kenan came running after you, carrying something in his hand. "I forgot to give you this." He handed you what looked to be a football jersey, a Juventus jersey to be exact.

"Erm....thank you?" You held up the shirt, regarding it skeptically. The number 15 was visible on the back of it. Along with Kenan's last name Yildiz.

"It's for the charity game tomorrow. I thought you'd want to wear it."

"Why would I want to do that?" You snorted but instantly regretted doing so, seeing how Kenan's expression faltered.

"I dunno?" He scratched the back of his head. "I guess it's a thing that players' girlfriends wear their jerseys. Who knows? it might bring me good luck."

"Kenan, it's a charity game." Which you now regretted going to. However, all of your friends were going, including Luca.

"I know." He chuckled. "But you should keep it, for future games."

You sighed. "I'm not your girlfriend Kenan, I thought we went over this?"

He looked like he wanted to protest. Poor thing. But just then the front door to your house came ajar, with your dad stepping out onto the porch. "Y/N, honey, is that you?"

You turned around, quite stunned to see him home this early in the day. "Dad? You're home."

"Yes, and so is your mother. We've been expecting your arrival. I was unaware that you were bringing along a friend." His eyes shot towards Kenan, who crumbled at the sight of your dad, a man three heads taller than himself. "Erm....Mr Y/L/N." He stuttered. At least he hadn't forgotten his manners.

"Yes, that's me." Your dad spoke in a voice intimidating for anyone who didn't know him.

"I was just dropping her off." Kenan turned to you, eyeing the jersey in your hands. "But I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you." 

You watched Kenan walk back to his car and drive off.

"Is he a friend of yours?" Your dad asked, shutting the door behind you.

"Yeah, something like that."

 *********************************

The next day, you waited until the last minute to decide whether you were going to the game or not. If you failed to show up, you'd be a shitty friend. But if you did show up, you were basically agreeing to be Kenan's girlfriend. Something that you weren't ready to do. At least not yet.

"I heard that Luca is bringing that girl who dresses like a homeless person." Rebecca said. She came over to your house, not minding if you chose to attend the game or not. She was good either way.

"I figured." You sighed. "They've been dating for a while."

Rebecca sat up in bed. She regarded you, lying on your back, eyes glued to the sealing. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, everyone knows that you like Luca."

"Not Kenan."

"Kenan?" She frowned.

You pushed up to rest on your elbows, nodding your head. "He asked me to be his girlfriend and that I'd go to the game wearing his jersey."

Rebecca covered her mouth with her hand, smothering her laughter.

"It's not funny."

"Y/N, what are you gonna do?"

"I don't know." You cried. "I really don't know."

"I say we go."

"Huh?"

Rebecca nodded her head. "Don't you see? Imagine if you turned up to the game wearing Kenan's Jersey. Who knows, Luca might get jealous?"

"You think so?"

"We won't know unless we go. Come on!"

It was stupid of Rebecca to let you practice your driving during a time like this. Your fingers drummed impatiently on the steering wheel. Apparently, the entire city had decided to hit the roads at the same time as you. You glanced at the watch on the dash, your anxiety growing with each passing minute. As you finally reached the stadium. The scoreboard read 2-0, and the crowd was already cheering. You missed the first half of the game.

"There's Gio and Maria!" Rebecca pointed out. And as you climbed up the stands to join them, their grins winded at the sight of you, wearing Kenan's jerseys.

"Whoever speaks loses their tongue." You said, to which Gio and Maria sealed their mouths with an ironic gesture. You then settled in to watch the second half, scanning the crowd, in search for.....

"Luca couldn't make it." Maria said. "His band was scheduled for a second meeting with the record label in Milano."

You turned to Rebecca.

"I swear I had no idea."

"For fucks sake." Why did you ever leave your house, you thought, on the verge of throwing a tantrum. But then a whistle blew and the players on the field started running across it again.

"There goes Kenan!" Gio said, cheering for his friend.

You scanned the field for Kenan's familiar number 15 jersey. You spotted him on the field, his face set in determination, eyeing his opponents. A fire lit within you, watching him. He looked so focused, so masculine. Like someone intellectual and cool. Someone intuned with life.

The game was over before you knew it, nevertheless, you hadn't paid attention to any of it. 

Kenan was seen jogging towards you, a mix of relief and excitement on his face. "You made it and you're wearing my jersey."

A flush of heat rose to your cheeks. "I....I guess I did, and I guess I am."

Kenan's expression softened, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you towards him. The last thing you heard before he kissed you was Gio and Maria's astonished gasps and Rebecca smothering her sounds of disgust. However, none of it mattered. The way he kissed you did. Kenan pressed his lips against you as if it was the first time. He was gentle yet eager, letting his tongue slip into your mouth. He kissed you to the sound of a crowd cheering him on. He kissed like you were the one, the only girl for him.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

[minyard-05]

drunken/drugged confessions, kevaaron 👀

this got out of hand oopsies

(written largely whilst watching the battle of helms deep in lord of the rings, if that means anything)

prompt game

-----

"Have you tried talking to anybody who isn't us about this?" Renee asked gently.

Kevin sighed.

"Matt and Aaron are friends, Neil and Aaron just pretend they're not friends, Nicky is Nicky and also in Germany, and Andrew would murder me on the spot."

"What about Dan?"

Kevin looked over to the blonde that was perched on the kitchen counter.

"Allison already tells Dan everything I tell you two."

Allison nodded without looking up from her phone. Renee sighed, endearingly, and reached over to squeeze Allison's hand.

"Got any advice?"

Allison looked up.

"Honestly, Kev? If you're seriously trying to get over this Aaron thing, which I am generously only teasing you about internally right now, then just let me take you to a gay bar and you'll forget his name in five minutes."

Kevin was skeptical. It definitely wasn't the first time Allison had pitched this idea, and it most certainly wouldn't be the last.

"Honestly, Alli?" Kevin replied, mimicking her tone as Allison raised an eyebrow.

"I will be dead before I let you take me to a gay bar."

-----

They were in a gay bar and Kevin Day was very much still alive.

"C'mon, you're going to have fun. Let go a little!" Allison had to shout to be heard over the music, and Kevin settled for flipping her off so she couldn't pretend to mishear.

"Look, we'll stay for twenty minutes, and if you still hate it, movie night, okay?"

Allison squeezed his shoulder with her hand as she said it– Kevin knew that meant she was honest. If he pushed any further, if he seriously wanted to leave, she'd let him, no questions asked. Allison knew how to push, but she also knew when to let it slide. Kevin rolled his eyes, but said,

"Fine."

Allison clapped, and disappeared into the crowd not long after. Kevin aimed for the wall and managed to maneuver his way through the crowd before he found a spot to watch the dance floor.

It wasn't that bad, he thought after a while. More people in a confined space than he was usually comfortable with, but most of them pretty much stayed out of his way, and the various costumes and complicated outfits clubgoers had put together for their night out was entertainment enough. He felt moderately underdressed in a green shirt and jeans, but he was hardly the center of attention.

Somebody was, though. Even from this distance, it didn't look like he was trying to be, but part of the crowd just swarmed around him, twisting and moving in and amongst each other like the tide. A flash of blond hair in the middle of the crush caught Kevin's eye as he watched.

Aaron looked nothing like he did at Eden's back in college, though Kevin supposed he hadn't really been paying attention back then. Here, now, a year since he'd graduated, it was like he was a completely different person. Aaron's hair was longer, and he wore black jeans with silver chains hanging at his hips, a loose black shirt with a tight fishnet under layer, and a smile on his face that looked like nothing Kevin had ever seen before.

He watched Aaron move for so long he didn't notice when the blond finally appeared at his side, warm, close, unfairly gorgeous.

"No fucking way you're actually here, Your Highness," came the familiar voice, Aaron's voice, slurred from alcohol and barely audible over the pulsing rhythm booming through invisible speakers. Kevin stared at him.

"You're drunk," Kevin said, but that was obvious. Aaron grinned and downed the last of whatever was in his glass.

"You're gay," he replied, pointing an accusing finger into Kevin's face.

Kevin blinked, but pushed his hand away.

"Bi, but sure. So are you, apparently."

Aaron just grinned again.

"Nah," he said, nonchalantly.

"I just come for the..." he paused, taking a long second to look Kevin up and down before finally coming back to meet his eyes.

"Music," he finished.

Kevin felt something disturbingly familiar in his gut and did his best to ignore it.

"You here alone?" Aaron asked, swiping Kevin's drink from his hand and taking a sip, pushing it back with a grimace soon after.

"There's no alcohol in it," Kevin explained.

"And Allison is somewhere, I think."

Aaron raised an eyebrow at him.

"Reynolds?"

Kevin nodded.

"Huh. I didn't know you two still talked."

"You wouldn't," Kevin replied, too fast, and Aaron's expression suddenly turned dark.

"Fuck it," Aaron said, louder, and started to pull away.

"I'm getting another drink."

Kevin suddenly had a hand around Aaron's arm before he fully realised it.

"No," he said.

"Let go of me, Day," Aaron said fiercely.

"It's late, and you're already wasted. We should go."

"Who the fuck is 'we'?"

"Aaron," Kevin insisted, but he loosened his grip. Aaron tried to pull back again, but stumbled, shaking his head like he could make the world clearer by force. Kevin had to grab onto him again to stop him collapsing entirely, and he started to move them around the wall and headed for the door. Aaron pushed at him, but his strains grew weaker. Kevin held on as loosely as he could without dropping him, and finally they stumbled out into the night.

The street was quieter than he'd expected, but one glance at his watch said it was already past midnight. He briefly wondered what had happened to Allison, but all other thoughts suddenly vanished when he looked back at Aaron.

"Why the fuck are you even here?" he spat, sudden anger in his words as he finally forced himself away from Kevin, turning to face him.

A million answers suddenly spun around Kevin's head.

Wondering if Alli will let me drink again.

Trying to distract myself.

Trying to exist as something different for once.

Trying to forget about you.

"Did Andrew fucking send you? To come looking for me?"

Now it was Kevin's turn to stare in confusion.

"What?"

Aaron suddenly laughed, but it was bitter, cold.

"That's it. That's fucking it, isn't it? You can't just leave me alone, can you? Can't let me live my own fucking life for once, on my own!"

"That's not–"

"Why do you think I fucking left?"

Silence. Kevin watched Aaron, tentatively waiting for him to continue, but Aaron folded his arms, shivering in the December night.

"You were trying to forget about the Foxes," Kevin said, slowly, because it was all he really knew.

"I was trying to forget about you," was the response, sharp, angry, full of venom.

Kevin's head spun as he processed the words. He knew he hadn't been drinking, but he suddenly wished he was because this wasn't real. This wasn't right. Aaron had never been like that. Aaron had never wanted him. Aaron was straight, or Kevin guessed that wasn't true either, but whatever he was, this wasn't it. This wasn't how this happened.

Aaron stepped back, like he'd only just realised what he'd said, but he was still drunk, so Kevin instinctively reached out to steady him, but Aaron moved further away.

"Shut up," he said, even though Kevin hadn't spoken.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. It's nothing. Fuck off."

Aaron turned to leave, and Kevin followed. He had to.

"Why were you trying to forget me? What did I do?"

Aaron suddenly spun back around.

"You– you don't fucking know? You don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

Aaron opened his mouth like he was about to speak but no words came. He stared up at Kevin, not angry anymore, but hurt.

"Aaron-"

Aaron's hand was suddenly over Kevin's mouth (IGNORE THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE), and he was shaking his head, voice lower now, almost gentle.

"Don't. Don't say it. I can't hear it from you."

They stayed there for a moment, Aaron's cool skin pressed against Kevin's, heartbeat pulsing steady against his lips, before Aaron stepped back.

"Goodbye, Kev."

Kevin watched him walk away.

-------

[missmaymay13]

everything after the whistle - m.boldy

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

m.boldy x fem!oc | 4.5k | prologue to my original: Everything After The Whistle

summary: the story of how alea and matt fell in love.

masterlist

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Alea pushed open the door to the coffee shop, the little bell above it chiming cheerfully as she stepped inside. The place was warm and bustling, the air rich with the smell of espresso and fresh pastries. She tugged her scarf down and shook the snow from her curls, rubbing her hands together as she scanned for a place to sit.

It had been three weeks since she moved back to Minnesota, and she was still adjusting to the slower pace, the biting cold, and the fact that you couldn't go anywhere without running into someone you knew from high school—or in this case, apparently, college.

"Alea?" a familiar voice said behind her.

She turned and froze.

Matt Boldy.

Same messy brown hair, same wide smile, and somehow still wearing just a hoodie like it wasn't twenty degrees outside.

"Boldy?" she blinked. "What are you doing here?"

"Getting caffeine and dodging practice," he said, lifting his coffee cup like a toast. "What are you doing here? Last I heard, you were conquering the East Coast."

"I was," she said, adjusting the strap of her tote bag. "But I decided to take my talents back home. Figured someone had to keep Minnesota interesting."

He grinned. "Oh, is that what you're doing? Adding 'coffee shop connoisseur ' to your resume?"

"You're one to talk," she shot back. "Didn't you fail your nutrition class because you thought cold brew counted as hydration?"

"That's slander. And it was one time."

She rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. It was ridiculously easy to fall into old rhythms with him—like they hadn't been apart for years. Just standing there in their winter gear and sarcastic energy, right where they left off.

"You wanna sit?" he asked, nodding toward the corner table.

She hesitated for half a second, then shrugged. "Why not. As long as you don't try to steal any of my banana bread."

"No promises."

"So... what have you been up to besides winning over coffee shop baristas and freezing your ass off in a hoodie?" Alea asked, cradling her latte between her hands as she sat across from Matt.

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. "You know, just a little bit of hockey here and there."

"Oh right, professional athlete," she teased. "How could I forget?"

He shrugged with mock modesty. "It's exhausting being this famous."

She snorted. "Yeah, the kids in line for hot chocolate definitely looked starstruck."

He grinned wider. "You should come to a game. Tomorrow night. I'll leave tickets for you."

Alea blinked. "Wait, really?"

"Yeah, seriously. I'll leave two—bring someone. You'll be near the glass. Good view. Great seats. Even better company," he added with a wink.

She shook her head, grinning. "Okay, fine. I'll come. But only if you promise to not fight anyone and get thrown in the penalty box."

"No promises. It's part of my charm."

⸻

Alea and Stacy shuffled into their seats near the glass just as the lights dimmed and the crowd roared to life. The Wild were skating out onto the ice, and the energy in the arena was contagious.

"Damn," Stacy said, eyes wide. "He wasn't kidding—these seats are insane."

"Right?" Alea said, already buzzing with excitement. "We're practically on the ice."

Just then, Matt skated past during warm-ups, doing a casual loop. He spotted Alea and shot her a wink and a head nod before circling back into drills.

"Oh my God, was that for you?" Stacy asked, elbowing her.

"Maybe. Chill."

"You need to marry him."

"Stacy."

The game kicked off, and it was electric. Hits against the boards rattled their seats, the crowd was loud, and Matt? He was on fire. A goal and an assist later, he glanced their way again during a timeout, grinning through his helmet.

After the game, Matt texted her:

You girls coming out? Meet us at the bar across the street. First round's on me.

Twenty minutes later, Alea and Stacy walked into the bar, greeted by a mix of guys in suits and others in team-issued sweats. Matt stood near the back, flanked by a few teammates, already waving them over.

"Ladies," he said, handing them drinks. "Glad you made it."

"This is so fun," Stacy said, already scanning the group. "Everyone's so... tall."

Matt chuckled. "Let me introduce you to some of the guys. This is Brock—he's the baby of the team."

Brock gave a shy smile. "Nice to meet you both."

Alea squinted at him. "Wait. Brock Faber? From Valley Creek Middle?"

Brock's eyes lit up. "No way. Alea Martin? And—Stacy Jordan?"

"You guys know each other?" Matt blinked.

"Middle school, soccer team, and I'm pretty sure Stacy beat Brock in a spelling bee once," Alea said.

"Twice," Stacy added with a grin.

"Well," Brock said, raising his glass. "Guess I have some revenge to plot."

They fell into easy conversation, laughter rising louder between Brock and Stacy with every round. Alea glanced at Matt, who was already looking at her, amusement written all over his face.

"They're kind of adorable," she said.

Matt tilted his head. "Think we just accidentally started a love story?"

"I think they've ditched us."

They both looked over to see Brock and Stacy migrating toward the far end of the bar, already lost in conversation.

Matt laughed. "Well, guess that leaves us."

Alea smiled into her drink. "Guess it does."

By the time Stacy and Brock had completely disappeared—physically and conversationally—Matt turned to Alea with a raised brow.

"So... wanna get out of here? I can walk you home."

Alea glanced toward the door, then back at the now-empty booth they were left standing beside. "What, so you can ditch me too halfway there?"

Matt smirked. "Please. I'd never abandon my best beer pong partner."

She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered as they stepped out into the cold night. The snow was falling softly, coating the sidewalks in a fresh, sparkling layer. It was quiet, calm—the kind of night that makes your breath cloud in the air and your memories come flooding back.

Matt stuffed his hands in his coat pockets. "So. Back in Minnesota. Weird, huh?"

"Feels like time rewound a little," she said. "Except now we're older, allegedly wiser, and slightly more responsible."

"Slightly," he agreed. "Remember when Spencer duct-taped himself to our common room wall because he lost a bet?"

"I told you guys he wouldn't last 48 hours without texting his ex. That was on you."

"And yet you were the one holding the duct tape," Matt teased.

She laughed, the sound echoing a little in the quiet street. "Okay, true. But you and Spencer were always doing something dumb. Like that time you filled your bathtub with ice and beer for a 'cooler party'?"

"That was genius and effective. You can't deny that."

"You almost flooded the entire floor."

"And yet, everyone agreed it was the best pregame of the semester."

She bumped his arm playfully. "I still can't believe how many nights we all slept on each other's dorm floors."

Matt grinned. "Yeah, mostly after dragging each other home from some questionable party."

"Don't act like you didn't hold my hair back more times than I can count."

"I'm just saying I deserved a medal for my patience."

"You weren't that patient. You took selfies while I was puking."

"For the memories."

She groaned. "You're the worst."

"But you still missed me."

She looked over at him then, catching his eyes in the glow of the streetlight.

"Yeah," she said, softer this time. "I did."

Matt didn't say anything for a second, just offered her a small smile, like he'd been waiting years to hear that. The snow crunched under their feet as they kept walking in silence for a beat, the kind that was warm even in the cold.

"Remember almost failing stats together?" she added, laughing again. "We were so dramatic about it."

"We both passed with, like, a C+ and acted like we'd just won a Nobel Prize."

"That class broke me."

Matt nudged her with his shoulder. "I think I still have your notebook from that semester. With all your color-coded notes and angry doodles of our professor."

Her eyes lit up. "Shut up. You don't."

"Oh, I do. It's probably in a box somewhere labeled 'Alea's meltdown materials.'"

She laughed, loud and unfiltered. "You were the only person who could make me laugh during that entire semester."

Matt looked at her, something fond and unspoken in his expression.

"Guess some things don't change."

They reached Alea's house, snow dusting the sidewalk and the tops of the hedges. The porch light flickered faintly as she turned to face Matt, both of them suddenly more aware of how quiet the street was, how close they were standing.

"Well," she said, her voice softer now, "thanks for walking me."

"Anytime," he said, hands still tucked in his coat pockets. "It was fun. Tonight."

She nodded, but neither of them moved. Instead, there was that moment—that stare that lingered just a little too long, the kind that buzzed in the air like static before a summer storm.

She blinked, almost like breaking a spell. "Okay. Night, Boldy."

And then she stepped forward, arms wrapping around him. He didn't hesitate, pulling her in with that familiar ease, the kind of hug that wasn't just a goodbye. It was full of all the time they'd missed, all the words they hadn't said. Warm. Grounding. A quiet kind of I'm glad you're here.

She could feel his breath against her temple, just barely.

When they pulled apart, it wasn't awkward—but it was different.

"Night, Alea."

⸻

Later, curled up on her couch in sweats, her phone buzzed.

Stacy:

Okay so I think I love Brock? Kidding. Kind of. He's SO cute. We're getting dinner Thursday.

Still with him.

Don't wait up.

Alea smiled, her heart doing a weird little flutter. Something about the way things were shifting felt... exciting.

⸻

The following weeks flew by in a rhythm Alea hadn't realized she missed: hockey games, post-game drinks, lazy Sunday hangouts, impromptu dinners and movie nights. What started as the four of them doing everything together quickly became something else entirely.

One week they were at a Topgolf range, laughing as Alea failed to hit the ball more times than she succeeded. The next, they were at a local bar for trivia night, where Stacy and Brock dominated every category that wasn't sports-related.

And somewhere in between drinks and laughter and Spotify playlists, it started happening.

At first, it was subtle. Brock and Stacy would drift into their own little world—whispering, laughing, suddenly MIA for twenty minutes because they "went to grab something from the car."

Then it became a pattern. They'd start the night as a group—at dinner, a cozy double-date vibe—and by dessert, Alea and Matt were left to their own devices, always with amused grins and matching eye-rolls.

"You think they're doing this on purpose?" Alea asked one night as they walked along the river after dinner, the other two having long since disappeared into the crowd behind them.

Matt chuckled. "Either they're terrible friends, or we're very good at being their leftovers."

Alea bumped his arm. "We are great company."

"I mean, can you blame them? Look at this chemistry."

They laughed, but the air between them carried something unspoken. They were joking. But... maybe they weren't.

It kept happening. Movie nights where Brock and Stacy ended up snuggled on the floor whispering, leaving Alea and Matt on the couch sharing popcorn and sideways glances. Game nights that turned into quiet heart-to-hearts between Alea and Matt in the kitchen. A casual hangout that somehow led to a two-hour conversation in Matt's truck outside her house after everyone else had gone home.

And somewhere along the way, the undertones shifted. A lingering glance that felt more like a question. The way Matt would put his hand on the small of her back when he passed by. The way her laugh always seemed to pull his eyes to her.

It was still teasing, still playful. But something was changing.

And they both knew it.

⸻

The rink was buzzing with life—players, wives, girlfriends, kids, coaches. It was the Wild's annual family skate, and Matt had practically dragged Alea there with the promise of "free hot chocolate and mediocre skating music."

She wasn't exactly protesting.

Matt handed her a pair of skates with a crooked grin. "You're not gonna bail on me, right?"

Alea arched a brow. "I was a soccer player, Boldy. We have balance. You hockey guys are the ones always falling on the ice trying to punch people."

"That's a bold claim for someone I've literally seen fall off a treadmill."

"One time."

They were still laughing as they laced up their skates and stepped onto the ice, gliding out into the chaos of families, teammates, and someone's toddler doing their best impression of a figure skater in a puffer jacket.

Matt guided Alea around the rink, their strides syncing up almost effortlessly. They were close, maybe too close—hands brushing, shoulders bumping, like neither of them noticed the space between them shrinking with every lap.

Which was exactly when Marc-André Fleury skated by with a wide grin, clutching a toddler in one arm and holding a juice box in the other.

"Ohhh, Matt!" he called out. "Didn't know you had a girlfriend! That's adorable."

Alea nearly tripped. Matt choked on a laugh and immediately shook his head, flustered.

"No—wait—it's not—we're not—" he stammered, waving his hands like he could swat the words out of the air.

Alea was red in the face. "We're just friends! Like, old friends. College friends. Very platonic. Very normal. Very not—"

Marc just laughed, skating off with a wink and a "Sure, sure," before disappearing into the crowd.

Matt looked over at her, face still pink. "Well... that wasn't awkward at all."

She grinned despite herself. "Remind me to never let you do damage control again."

They fell into silence for a few seconds, still circling the rink. Still too close. Still not fixing it.

And then, slowly, Matt reached out and gently took her hand in his—like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Alea didn't say anything. Just held on.

Meanwhile, across the rink...

Stacy elbowed Brock as they watched from the boards, sipping hot cocoa.

"Tell me you just saw that," she whispered.

Brock smirked. "Hand-holding on lap three. Right on schedule."

Stacy grinned. "Our plan is totally working."

The family skate wrapped up with warm goodbyes and a thousand versions of "You two are so cute!" from players and spouses alike—each one making Alea and Matt laugh nervously, their denials getting more and more half-hearted.

By the time they unlaced their skates and stepped off the ice, their hands fell apart like they hadn't been holding on for dear life the entire time.

And yet, the second that contact was gone, they both felt it. That stupid little ache. Like maybe their hands were supposed to stay together.

The car ride was supposed to be simple. A casual drop-off, maybe a quick hug and a "see you soon." But as they reached the parking lot, Matt paused by his car door and looked at her.

"Hey..." he said, voice a little lower, a little more careful. "Do you wanna grab some dinner with me?"

Alea blinked. "Like... now?"

He shrugged with a crooked smile. "Yeah. Unless you've got another date lined up with someone who skates like I do."

She tried not to look too excited. "I think I can clear my schedule."

⸻

They ended up at a little retro diner five minutes away—neon lights buzzing outside, red vinyl booths, and a jukebox in the corner that probably hadn't worked since 1998. It was perfect.

During the drive, Matt's hand found hers again—this time resting gently on her lap, his thumb brushing soft circles against her skin. Neither of them said a word about it. Neither of them needed to.

At dinner, the conversation was the same as always: sarcastic jabs, inside jokes, memories about college chaos, arguments about the best gas station snacks. But it felt different now. Softer. More aware.

Alea caught him staring at her during a lull in the conversation, and for once, he didn't look away.

"What?" she asked, smiling.

Matt shook his head, a little pink in the cheeks. "Nothing. Just... glad you came tonight."

She ducked her gaze. "Me too."

The drive back was quiet in the best way. Comfortable. Familiar.

When they got to her place, Matt stepped out with her, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets again as they walked up to the door.

"Thanks for the date," Alea said, barely above a whisper, still not facing him.

Matt let out a quiet laugh. "So we're calling it a date now?"

She turned to him, smiling shyly. "Well... it felt like one."

They stood there, tension humming like electricity between them, both of them unsure what came next.

And then—right before she turned to go—Alea stood up on her tiptoes, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to Matt's cheek.

His eyes widened slightly, but he didn't move.

She lingered just long enough to whisper, "Thanks for tonight," before slipping inside and gently closing the door behind her.

Matt stood there on the porch for a long moment, a slow grin spreading across his face.

Definitely a date.

The door had barely clicked shut behind her when Alea turned and spotted Stacy on the couch, arms crossed and eyebrows already raised like she'd been waiting hours for this moment.

"Well?" Stacy asked, biting back a grin.

Alea, still dazed, gave a tiny squeal before launching herself face-first onto the opposite couch, muffling a full scream into the nearest pillow.

"OH. MY. GOD," she shouted into the cushions, voice muffled but ecstatic. "HE'S SO CUTE I CAN'T FUNCTION."

Stacy leaned forward, grinning like a kid watching her favorite soap opera unfold. "So it was a date, huh?"

Alea rolled over onto her back, legs kicking in the air like she was thirteen again. "It was so a date. He held my hand in the car. Took me to a diner. Looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I kissed him on the cheek. I kissed Matt Boldy on the cheek. What is my life?!"

"You're blushing so hard, it's honestly impressive," Stacy said, cackling.

Alea covered her face. "I've had the stupidest crush on him since college, Stace. And now it's like—real. Like, he's still him but hotter and taller and ugh why is this so embarrassing?!"

She flailed dramatically, arms and legs everywhere.

Stacy just laughed. "I think it's adorable. You two are so obvious it hurts. Like, the entire team is probably already placing bets."

Alea groaned into the pillow again. "Stop. I can't even look at him next time without hearing my own voice scream 'he's so cute' in my head."

And then, like fate itself had decided to crank up the cringe...

Brock's voice drifted from the kitchen. "Wait, what happened? Who's cute?"

Alea froze mid-flail. Slowly lifted her head to find Brock standing there, holding a bottle of beer, eyebrows raised in confusion.

Stacy didn't miss a beat.

"Matt," she said casually, sipping her tea.

Brock blinked. "Matt? As in... Boldy?"

Alea turned bright red. "Nope. I'm going to the moon. Immediately. Launch me, I'm ready."

Brock just stared at her, clearly replaying everything he'd overheard.

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear any of that," he said, smirking.

Stacy snorted. "You absolutely did."

Alea rolled back onto the couch with a dramatic groan. "Kill me now."

From the kitchen, Brock's voice echoed back. "For what it's worth... he's been walking around like a love-struck idiot for weeks. So you're good."

A beat of silence.

"Wait—really?" Alea sat up, wide-eyed.

Stacy grinned. "Oh honey. You're so doomed."

⸻

The air buzzed with excitement as the lights dimmed and the crowd on the arena floor started cheering. Chris Stapleton's gritty voice poured through the speakers, and suddenly, it didn't feel like a sold-out show—it felt like the whole world had slowed down.

They'd gotten lucky— last minute floor tickets right near the front, just close enough to see every chord he strummed, but far enough for some space. Stacy and Brock drifted off on their own, and Alea ended up a few feet over with Matt, tucked comfortably into the curve of his body.

His arms were wrapped around her shoulders, and her back leaned against his chest like she belonged there.

Her little white dress swayed with every step, boots scuffed from dancing through the crowd. Matt hadn't said much since the music started, just kept his head resting lightly against hers, like if he spoke, the spell would break.

The soft strums of "You Should Probably Leave" rolled out over the arena, and the crowd quieted into a low, collective hum.

Alea smiled softly. "God, I love this one."

Matt's voice was right against her ear. "Course you do. It's painfully romantic."

"You're the one swaying," she teased.

"You're the one letting me."

They stood like that, wrapped up in each other, as the song spun on. The lyrics were too real, too specific. That push-pull of wanting someone and knowing you're too far in to turn around.

Halfway through the second chorus, Alea turned around slowly in his arms, her hands sliding up his chest to rest near his shoulders. She kept singing along, soft and low, eyes locked on his like it was only him in that arena.

And Matt?

Matt sang too—quietly, barely above the music—but never breaking her gaze. His thumb grazed the side of her waist. Her fingers curled just slightly against his shirt.

By the time the third chorus hit, the world felt like it stopped moving.

He brought one hand up to her face, cupping her cheek gently.

Her eyes flicked down to his lips.

And that was it.

He kissed her.

Right there on the floor of the arena, with thousands of people around them and Stapleton's voice crooning through every crack in the walls, Matt Boldy kissed her like she was the only person in the world. And it wasn't rushed. Or hesitant. It was slow. Intentional. Like he'd been holding it in for years.

When they pulled apart, her lips tingled, and they both stood there for a second—foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

"Just for the record," Matt whispered, "I'm not going anywhere."

Alea smiled, heart pounding. "Good."

Matt's apartment was quiet when they walked in, still riding the high from the concert but suddenly bone tired. The kind of tired that settles into your limbs, not your mood.

He tossed his keys on the counter and looked over at her, cheeks still a little flushed from hours of dancing and that kiss that had been brewing for years.

"Do you wanna crash here?" he asked casually, though his heart was thudding.

Alea didn't hesitate. "Yeah. I don't think I could sleep after that concert anyway."

He grinned and disappeared into his room for a second before returning with a soft, worn BC hockey hoodie and a pair of old boxers. "Here. You've officially entered the sleepover phase of this... whatever this is."

She took the clothes with a teasing smirk. "These smell like beer and ego."

"That's the Boston College special."

A few minutes later, she padded out of the bathroom, brushing her teeth with one of his spare toothbrushes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But Matt?

Matt just stood there, frozen in place, leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, staring.

She was wearing his hoodie. It hung off her like a blanket, sleeves swallowing her hands. The boxers peeked out beneath the hem, her legs bare, her hair twisted up in a messy knot. Oversized glasses perched low on her nose.

She looked so casually herself in his space, it knocked the breath right out of his lungs.

It wasn't new. He'd seen her like this before, countless times back in college—crashing on their dorm couch, raiding his laundry pile for something soft, groaning about early classes with her toothbrush hanging from her mouth.

But now? After that kiss? After years of growing up and finally circling back to each other?

It was different.

She caught him staring from the corner of her eye and glanced up through her glasses, cheeks flushing.

"Maaatt," she mumbled through a mouthful of toothpaste. "You're staring."

He blinked, like snapping out of a trance. "Yeah. I know."

She rolled her eyes and disappeared back into the bathroom to finish up.

When she stepped out a moment later, wiping her face with a towel, he was already walking toward her—slow, deliberate.

And then he stopped right in front of her, hands gently reaching up to cup her face. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, soft and certain.

She looked up at him, wide-eyed, her heart thudding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

"Will you be my girlfriend?" he whispered.

The question hit her like a rush of warmth, like something she hadn't even realized she'd been waiting to hear.

Her lips curled into a smile so big it hurt. She nodded without thinking twice.

"Yes."

And then, before she could finish breathing the word, he kissed her again.

Slow. Familiar. Brand new.

And just like that—Matt Boldy was hers.

[x011011x]

ᴀᴘᴇᴛɪᴛᴇ.

NightmareCreature!Jade x Stuck!Reader

CW: Being stuck in a nightmare, blood, gore, physical abuse, Jade is a warning himself 

WC: 1.4k+

Note- This is actually the prologue to my original story but it was in my draft for months so I edited it a bit and posted it for Jade since it fits well enough 

ø. flickering light is not an auspicious symbol. especially not when it makes you lose sight of that man currently behind you who has been following you since yesterday evening.

The already dim light was flickering restlessly in a rhythm that started to annoy you, and cause a bit of a pulsating throb at the core of your head.

A dull pain creeped up to your eyes. It pricked around those glassy eyeballs like the silent footfalls of a black widow till it set at the back of your sockets, tugging at your ophthalmic veins in a way that made you want to get your eyes smashed into your skull, if only to subdue its insistent pain. You fluttered your eyelids shut, trying to block the light out. Trying to relieve yourself of some of the pain it caused.

But they pierced through sharply, as if intending to melt off your eyes. So then, whether you kept your eyes shut or wide open, the effect of the light weighed on you all the same. That pain. That agony. That annoyance. That tug.

"Does the light not bother you?" you creeped your eyes open, looking at the man before you with a bit of an awed expression.

You were sat on a chair and to your opposite, across the long dining table, was a young man. He was stood up, wiping the already pristine surface of the marbled table, the man seemed wholly unaffected by the flickering lights. He stopped for a second to look at you, mismatched hues of citrine and juniper boring into you in a way that made you infinitely uncomfortable. You suddenly started feeling itchy, and in a way you knew that even if you scratched your skin off, it would be of no help.

"You keep repeating this question," he states curiously, voice calm yet quite apparently jocund, almost like a crazed scientist making observations about his newest subject of madness. He continued on explaining to you, "You asked this when I first took you here. You asked this before you had the soup, while you were having soup, after you had the soup, before you fell asleep– You were even mumbling it in your sleep.

"Soup?" you asked, not being able to remember what that man was talking about. For all you cared, you could've been kidnapped. But you knew that wasn't true. Because from the corners of your eyes, not missed by your peripheral by a scarce scope were the inklings of what you could at best describe as floating spirals in the air.

You daren't look their way, something about them oddly haunting. Haunting enough that you realised that you were stuck in the land of dreams, or perhaps delusions, where the comfort provided by objective reality was absent.

The man in front of you put down the ruby rug that he held in his hands, dusting invisible dirt off his hands with a nearly robotic precision. A bodily mannerism, when received along with his cold gaze, that made you feel like staring into the solitary orbs of a high-functioning but yet not sentient cyborg.

The flickering lights that turned on and off made him blend into the vast nothingness beyond the limits of your vision as he was moving closer to you, silently sliding his feet against the rugged floor, stifling his footsteps much like a predator who had set eyes on his prey. It's as if he kept appearing closer and closer to you out of thin air. You could see the faintest hint of a smile creeping to his face as he approached you. Something that seemed like he saw himself as the victor of some game you both were playing.

He sat down on the chair beside you, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back. He looked relaxed, like he knew what was happening. Upon a closer observation, it felt like you knew this man. But you couldn't put a name to the porcelain visage in front of you. Looking at him filled you with anxiety and a sort of sadness, you didn't know why you would associate those feelings with a stranger.

You weren't sure if that was because you were lost in his eyes– that looked back at you in the shape of two previously carved jewels rather than an honest reflection of his thoughts– but it felt like a lot of time had passed before he opened his mouth, choosing to reply to the question you had asked initially, though at his own pace, "It's not bothering me. Like I've said, I'm used to it."

He seemed like he had more to say. You kept your mouth shut, still looking at him. You weren't sure why he was so... enticing, for the lack of a better word. His countenance was hollow, yet he seemed at the centre of what currently existed around you. The centre of this reality within a dream, the dream that never felt like a dream, despite much evidence to prove it as one.

The conflicting stream of thoughts that teetered you in between the world of dream and reality was quickly broken when you felt a sharp sting on your face as your face was forced to snap to sideways by his hands. That's because he slapped you. 'He…'

"Can you not damn hear me?! I keep telling you to eat up!"

You looked back at him and he wasn't looking at you. His whole body was facing away from you, and he was rather busy pouring a glass of what you thought was red wine. He noticed you looking a bit dumbfounded and asked you, concern skimpily hiding his malevolence, "Why are you looking at me that way? Does the food not suit your tastes?"

"You j-just slapped me..." you accused.

"Excuse me?" he furrowed his brows, as if genuinely offended. But it only lasted for a moment, a moment where your life flashed in front of your eyes when you finally thought you had reached your impending doom all too soon from angering him. After that, he was alright again, teasing with a slight melodious sway to his voice, "Oh, you must be so hungry, you can't even think right!"

He handed you the glass and you accepted with shaky hands. For a second you swore you could see eyeballs swimming around in the midst of velvety liquid. And you could also swear that for a second that velvety liquid let off the most metallic, dizzying smell of blood that made your own blood rush to your head.

But just as the light above you flickered again, it returned back to a normal glass of wine. It looked delicious enough for you to want to taste it a bit.

"It won't uh.. make me fall asleep like the soup, right?"

"Why would you assume it is the soup that made you fall asleep?"

"Because…"– 'Because it's fucking apparent,' is what you wanted to yell back, but knowing better you looked at teal-haired man in front of you before nodding, "Just a passing thought."

He folded his arms over his chest, waiting for you to take a bit of your food. You hadn't even noticed it yet, but once your eyes finally met the dish that had appeared in front of you out of thin air, your breath hitched. Bile raised to your throat till you could feel its acidity poking you at the back of your tongue.

In front of you, combined with an oddly common side dish of mashed potatoes, was the heart of a human. Blood oozed out of it as it was still bleeding, filling up the edges of the plate, threatening to spill over. You wanted to protest, you wanted to cuss him out for expecting you to eat this. But the words got stuck in your throat along with saliva and vomit before they could make their way out.

You knew he was moving, but weren't sure how exactly he was. The plate in front of you transfixed you in a repulsive way and you couldn't look away. It was overwhelming, suffocating. What didn't help was that the flickering of the light became more frequent and the sound of his fingers lightly drumming into the hard table started blaring in your ears.

There came a command, static and buzzy. But over all that, final. Inarguable.

"Eat."

You picked up the tasteful cutlery beside the dish to dine on what would be the last meal of this ominous phantasmagoria as the spirals had made their way towards you and started wrapping you in the circular maze of their existence.

You wouldn't have thought those spirals could move.

Be sure to share to interact if you liked the story. Leave a comment maybe, if you'd be so kind. Till then, next time ♡

x011011x @ all rights reserved.

[nogenderbee]

♡˗ˏ✎*ೃ˚ 𝕀 𝕝𝕠𝕧𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦- ℕ𝕆 𝕎𝔸𝕀𝕋 ₊˚ˑ༄

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ @nenes-numberonefan request: HELLOOO

ima request the same thing i requested @/mizu-nights but i’m a silly goose and i wanna see everyone’s style of writing

basically can i request rui, nene and tsukasa x reader (separate) and they have a platonic relationship with our beloved y/n but then they accidentally confess their love to the reader, sort of like the verse “the time is right your perfume fills my head the stars are red and oh the nights so blue, and then i go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like i love you ❤️” from the song something stupid. thank youuu xxxxxx love youuuuuu 😍😍😍🥶😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍😍(very hyper rn)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ HIIII!! Yeah absolutely! I don't tho songfics normally tho, so I just based on your description and hopefully that's gonna be good enough!

But omg, the moment I saw this, I wanted to run to mizu-nights and read it because I apparently missed this fic- but NOPE I didn't wanted to accidentally write the same thing sooo I held myself back ^^

I totally did not copy lines from event for Tsukasa part-

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ fluff

Affiliation with @virtualbookstore

You've agreed to help Tsukasa with practicing for his upcoming performance, Romeo&Julia. He got the role of Romeo while his other friend from troupe got Julia. He just wanted someone to help him get that feeling of saying it right to soemone's face and... maybe he had planned something more too?

"O Juliet! Sun of my life! I beg of you, allow me your fair hand in marriage!!"

He was now on his one knee, holding your hand like pure gentleman with his left hand. This made you both happy and regretful for agreeing to help him... it's obviously very sweet to see him like this but it's also not helping your feelings for him... and you could swear you're blushing...

"Sweet Y/N...!"

But then he said your name... and you finally looked at him just to see him clearly in state of daydreaming, not stopping reciting next lines, so you had to stop him before he gives more hints than you can handle!

"Wait, wait... wasn't the second main character's name Juliet? Why did you say my name...?"

His face immidietly gained red hue and his hand didn't stop holding your gently. His eyes still looked focused on yours as if he haven't woke up from his dreamland, but his words told you his state was something completely else than you imagined...

"Y-Yes I know..."

You could only stare at him in slight shock... you didn't knew what to say and so did he. He was barely holding himself from turning it into a play someway... but he repeated one sentence in his head, "go big or go home", if he blurted it out, might as well go along?

"O Y/N, sun of my life, I beg of you, allow me to take you on a date!"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

@bleachtheidiot @akitosheart @bad-the-an-enjoyer @yulikesminori @alicewinterway18 @nenes-numberonefan - come get your future star!

You and Nene were hanging out on a rooftop at Kamiyama. Even if you're from Miyamasuzaka, let's say Emu teached you a trick or two~ So either way, you can enjoy your time with your dear friend!

You leaned in, wanting to see what she's playing and for once, instead of seeing shooting or rhythm game, you found her playing some... visual novel? Or was it otome game?

"Hey Nene? Are you playing... otome game?"

"Mhm, yeah."

She responded, clearly way into the game to process what she's saying. But that never was a problem for you since she still responded and was honest if anything when she was in this state.

"Look, you can even name your love interest~"

You looked at the screen with even more interest and saw 2 names... "Nene" and "Y/N". You get why her name would be here but yours? Were you... no way, right?

"Is... is Y/N the name of your... ingame love interest?"

"Yeah, real love interest too."

She finally looked up from her phone right at you with this soft and charming smile, when she saw your blush she was even confused for a second! Untill she realized... she just blurted it out, didn't she?

"Oh- uh- I mean... not like... Like..."

Now it was her blushing like crazy not knowing what to say... she was clearly between 2 thoguhts and had no idea which to choose... oh did you know it was all about if she should tell you the truth or a lie...

"Am I actually~?"

You couldn't help but encourage her a bit, hoping to hear the truth. If she actually saw YOU as the love interest, the real one! Or... if it's just a misunderstanding...

And luckily, you didn't had to wait for long because right after your question, she gave you a little nod, easy to miss if you blinked... but her blushing face and the way she looked away would tell you it either way~

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

@bleachtheidiot @akitosheart @bl4cktourmaline @nenes-numberonefan - come get your shy gamer~

Rui has texted you he forgot his coat from his house. And you as good friend, agreed to bring it to Pheonix Wonderland. He made sure you get a free ticket after all! So how could you say no to free fun at amusement park AND helping out your dear friend?

When you finally arrived at the Wonder Stage, you saw him tinkering with the robot, untill he heard someone's footsteps... his mood immidietly lighting up once he saw it's you!

"You're finally here! And I see you got my coat with you~ I can't express how glad I am for your help~"

"Don't mention it! You offered me a free ticket for that so how could I've said now?!"

He chuckled and finally came over to get his coat back, which you gave him back. And in another second, he had it on!

"But still, you're a great person for bringing it to me at THIS HOUR."

"Awh~ Don't you melt here or I'm gonna melt too!"

You couldn't brush off how sweet it was and opened your arms for quick friendly hug, since you clearly had a bit of appreciation moment going on.

"No, I mean it... you're such a sweetheart... I really couldn't avoid falling for you~"

"Huh-? What?"

After your questioning, he finally got a hang of himself pulling away with faint blush, clearly not knowing what to do. But his first reflex was to lie...

"I-I mean..."

But he seemed to stop himself... he realized lying would only make it last longer... so he decided to pull himself together, take big breath in and take the risk.

"Yes... I'm really sorry. I'm aware this is probably gonna break our friendship but... I indeed did fell for you..."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

@bleachtheidiot @akitosheart @yulikesminori @toyaswif3y @bl4cktourmaline @r4wrclwz @superstar-ethereal - come get your crazy inventor~