#maybe - and hear me out on this one - it's because they are fundamentally different and hold staunchly different views on important aspects

[fairuzfan]

I'm to the point where if I hear you're endorsing/voting for Kamala Harris and you're publicly getting mad at people for not voting for her, I'm not even going to listen what you have to say, you've made it clear you have to strong principles to guide your decisions beyond "what's worse for me personally?" I think Harris voters have no actual ideologies to live by, despite claiming they do, and I fundamentally don't respect them for it. It's one thing to be angry at people who won't vote for Harris, but it's another thing to pretend you're doing it because you have some sort of moral authority and not basing it off pure selfishness. You think that solidarity is posting about things and that's it. You refuse to make yourself uncomfortable, even momentarily. And you get mad at people who are willing to go through discomfort for the sake of others. You call them names, ans claim that THEY are the selfish ones in this scenario. You've given up on making a change in the world for the better, or maybe you were never interested in it. All of your arguments pale in comparison to reality, because Harris is actively funding a genocide. She has even refused to acknowledge a reality in which she does not fund that genocide. Has made such a thing clearer and clearer. All my problems here in the imperial core are secondary to that. I'm about to go through multiple personal issues that are made increasingly hard by political factors and I still think that's nothing in comparison to what Palestinians and Lebanese are going through overseas. You've placed yourselves as the ultimate victims in the world and to me it's laughable and completely out of touch with just how fucked everyone else is because of the imperial beast that is Amerikkka. And speak nothing of the way the victims of Amerikkkan imperialism on Turtle Island bear the brunt of societies' woes for your personal comfort and refusal to make any meaningful change. Not ev baby steps! You think trump is an accidental anomaly and not a product of a larger issue within white amerikkkan politics. Is it not shocking to you that so many people here are voting for trump so enthusiastically?

Seeing things like the weaponization of personal identity, like "Muslims for Harris," used so plainly is an insult to the ideas of internationalism that you all claim to follow. What use is solidarity with the victims of imperialism if you refuse to acknowledge the entirety of the imperial complex? That includes the democrats you hold so dear as well as the Republicans? What use is any of this if you only think for yourself?

You claim to be thinking of others, and that's why you vote for Harris... but what is so incomprehensible to me is the comfort in which you accept the inevitability of Palestinian deaths. Why are you so willing to accept that reality? Why are you comfortable with that reality? It shocks me and disgusts me in a way that I can not really describe. You lot argue and argue and argue, but in the end, the difference between you and me is that I refuse to engage in a reality where Palestinians must die in any case. You have yet to refuse that. In actuality, you all refuse the baby steps, the bare minimum, of refusal to engage in continuation of that reality. And because of that, I do not take you seriously, nor do I view you as being moral in your decision to sacrifice Palestinians.

[jungkoode]

𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 19

˗ˏˋ redefining stances ˎˊ˗

"You have always put people in different categories: friends, dating and fucking. And the idea of someone redefining that makes your chest twist inwardly, because that's just not how it works. Never has."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 15k

content: parental expectations, inner monologue, anxiety attacks, body reactions, redefining terms (friendship), fights, communicating (kind of...), subtle propositions, blowjob, handjob, embarrassment and insecurity / self-doubt (f), guiding (m), orgasm, cumming on face, hanging out plans.

✧ author's note ✧

WHEEEEEEW. okay. hi. hello. greetings. blessings upon your crops.

So first of all, I must humbly report that the new goal system (Tumblr and Wattpad having to align like twin stars) is working beautifully. It gave me a luxurious (dare I say scandalous) nine-day window to edit, tweak, breathe, and cry. And I only did one of those things on the floor (take a wild guess). I’m keeping it for now, besties. Let’s see if it continues to save me from myself.

Now. This chapter. Yeah. She’s 15k. And I would say “I don’t know how that happened,” but I would be lying through my teeth. Ask Koopsy. The BJ scene alone was 3k at one point. And then I had time. And we all know what happens when I have time. I rewrote it. And suddenly it’s eight. I regret nothing. It’s unhinged but like… in a deliciously purposeful way.

I especially loved dragging some vulnerability out of our girl—Y/N’s still that stubborn “keep it all inside or die” kind of girlie, but you’ll see her starting to leak, emotionally. And the way Jungkook isn’t being mocking when she cracks a little? When she masks her insecurity and he just sees her? HELLO. I giggled. I kicked my feet. I twirled my hair.

Also?? This chapter really digs into how fundamentally opposite they are when it comes to emotional frameworks. Like, Y/N hears “friendship” and sees expectations, accountability, people expecting her to care back. Hard pass. Meanwhile Jungkook is like “let’s label this so we can safely not fall.” LMAO. It’s giving defensive strategies 101. It’s giving textbook avoidant-anxious overlap. It’s giving both of you need therapy immediately and maybe a hug.

BUT. You’ll also see a little growth. A spark. A whisper of a maybe. She doesn’t fully shut down. She doesn’t say “no.” She’s simmering. And as someone with trauma? That simmer is progress. That’s real. That’s human. That’s our girl doing her best with a backpack full of emotional grenades.

Anyway. This is your 4x VERY slow emotional slow burn reminder. If you’re here hoping they’ll acknowledge feelings soon—first of all, who are you? Second of all, no. Third of all, this is not a customer service inbox. You don’t get to file complaints. You get to suffer. That’s the deal.

Enjoy the chapter, scream in my inbox, or join the crying circle on Tumblr where the rest of Kiki Nation gathers to chant “girl what the hell” in unison.

Welcome if you're new. Godspeed if you’ve been here.

Kiki out.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Pancakes smell like rain and roses and a home you can't go back to.

The smell is soft at first, curling around the edges of your consciousness as you blink against the morning light filtering through the blinds. Warm and familiar, it drags you back—not to this kitchen, not to this apartment, but somewhere far away. Somewhere softer. Somewhere safer.

Pancakes always smelled like home. Like rainy mornings where the sky was a patchwork of grays and blues, stitched together by streaks of silver rain that blurred the world outside the window. Mom would hum as she worked, her voice low and steady, blending with the sound of batter hitting the pan and the hiss of butter melting into golden pools.

She never measured anything—not really. Just a spoonful here, a dash there, warm milk poured straight from the carton into the bowl without hesitation. She’d laugh when Dad complained about her ‘eyeball method,’ but he never said no to her pancakes. Not once.

The kitchen always smelled alive on those mornings—like butter and sugar and coffee mingling in the air, weaving through the faint floral scent of the potted roses Mom kept near the window. She swore they dulled the smell of food, but they never did. The pancakes always won, their buttery sweetness overpowering everything else until it felt like you could taste them just by breathing.

You loved those mornings. Loved how they made the house feel lived in for once—like more than just walls and furniture and people passing each other on their way to somewhere else. On rainy days, it felt like home. Like something worth staying for.

Maybe that’s why pancakes were your favorite. Not because of how they tasted (though they were always perfect—soft and fluffy with just enough sweetness to make you grin through a mouthful), but because of what they meant. Because they were more than breakfast; they were a memory stitched together with rain and roses and laughter that echoed long after the plates were cleared.

You close your eyes now, letting the smell wash over you like a wave, pulling you under until all you can think about is that kitchen—the one with the chipped tiles and mismatched chairs where Mom would stand with batter-stained hands and Dad would sip his coffee too loudly just to annoy her.

And for a moment—for one fleeting second—you’re there again.

Home.

The problem with perfect memories is they're usually lies.

And then it's gone.

The mirage of home evaporates like morning dew on grass, leaving behind the acrid aftertaste of something that never really existed. Not like that. Not with the softness your mind painted over the jagged edges.

Those pancake mornings? They always came with conditions.

‘Straight A's this semester, honey? Pancakes on Sunday!’

‘Piano recital went well? Let's celebrate with breakfast tomorrow.’

‘SAT prep finished early? I'll make your favorite in the morning.’

Always a reward. Always a transaction. No matter how much vanilla extract Mom added to the batter, you could still taste the expectation underneath—bitter and metallic, like pennies on your tongue.

Makes sense why you can't enjoy things without earning them first. Why everything has to be deserved.

The scent wafting through the apartment shifts now. No longer just butter and sugar and rain-soaked roses, but something sharper. Something that stings the back of your throat and makes your stomach twist.

Guilt.

Because who the fuck resents pancakes? Who looks at a mother standing over a hot stove, humming while she makes your favorite breakfast, and thinks: this isn't enough?

You do, apparently.

You who had everything—the nice house, the private school, the parents who ‘just wanted what was best.’ The ungrateful daughter who still squirmed under their touch, who counted down the days until college like a prisoner marking time.

You don't have the right to feel trapped by love. You know that.

People would kill for what you had. For parents who showed up. For a home without holes in the walls. For pancakes on Sunday mornings.

So entitled. So privileged.

The voice in your head sounds like Mom when she's disappointed—soft and somehow, sharp at its core. She never raised her voice. 

Never had to. 

Just that quiet, ‘I expected better from you,’ that cut deeper than any scream.

Your teeth grind together, jaw clenching so hard it aches. 

There's a pressure building behind your eyes, hot and insistent, but you refuse to let it out. 

Not over fucking pancakes.

Not over the way Dad would look at your report card before he looked at you. 

Not over the way Mom rescheduled your life without asking, because ‘Yale doesn't accept students who waste time on sketching.’

Not over the way they both pretended your opinion was valued while systematically stripping away every choice that mattered.

‘We're just guiding you. We're just helping. We're just doing what parents are supposed to do.’

The smell of pancakes is suffocating now. Cloying. Sweet in a way that coats your tongue and makes you want to scrape it off.

And still, there's that whisper, that insidious little thought that's been following you since you left: Maybe if you'd been better—more grateful, more deserving—it wouldn't have felt like a cage.

Because that's the real fucked-up part, isn't it? You miss them. Miss the security of those Sunday mornings. Miss knowing exactly what was expected, even as you chafed against it.

Miss feeling like someone cared enough to map out your entire life, even if they never bothered asking which direction you wanted to go.

The guilt surges again, stronger. 

What kind of monster resents safety? What kind of daughter hates being loved?

The kind who runs away to New York and still wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, thinking she's late for a lesson she never wanted to take.

The kind who changed her major three times before settling on English, just because it was the one subject Dad thought was ‘impractical.’

The kind who buys her own groceries and pays her own rent and still can't shake the feeling that she's doing everything wrong. That somewhere, someone is keeping score, and you're failing.

The kind who smells pancakes and wants to cry.

Not because you miss home.

But because part of you is afraid it's following you here, to the one place that was supposed to be yours. Just yours. With no expectations attached.

The smell is coming from the kitchen. Someone is making pancakes in your kitchen.

And you don't know whether to smile or scream.

Your fingers clutch your phone, because the pressure building in your chest has to be channeled somewhere. 

The numbers glare back at you, accusatory.

8:00

8:00

8:00

Panic bubbles out of you.

Late. You're late. You're always fucking late. Dad's voice in your head, that disappointed sigh. ‘Time management reflects character, dear.’

You bolt upright, heart hammering against your ribs, and then—

Nothing is right.

The sheets aren't yours. Too dark, too soft. The wall is wrong—black, with one accent wall in deep red that you've definitely never painted. There's a carpet beneath your feet when you swing your legs over the edge. Your water bottle isn't where it should be. Your clothes aren't where you left them, you’re naked.

This isn't your room.

This is Jungkook's room.

Jungkook's bed.

And suddenly last night comes rushing back in fragments that make your skin heat up.

Not the usual—not the snarky comments across the kitchen table or the silent treatment when you're pissed at each other. Not the avoidance of the last four days where you both pretended the other didn't exist.

No, last night was... talking. Just talking. Both of you just... existing in the same space without trying to burn it down.

And then—

Jesus Christ.

You press your palms against your eyes, but that doesn't stop the memory. Him between your thighs, making those sounds like he was the one getting pleasure from it. The way he looked up at you, eyes almost black in the low light. How he touched himself while tasting you, like he couldn't help it.

And then after, when you both should've retreated to separate corners to lick your wounds and rebuild your walls—you didn't. You fucking climbed into his bed. Told him to stay. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal.

What the actual fuck is wrong with you?

You can't even blame alcohol. Two glasses of wine over the entire evening doesn't equal drunk. Doesn't equal stupid decisions. Doesn't equal... whatever the hell last night was.

So what was it?

You drag your hands down your face, feeling the heat in your cheeks. 

Are you really that easy to disarm? One decent conversation, one night where he's not being a complete ass, and suddenly you're sleeping in his bed like some kind of...

Like what? Not a girlfriend. Not a friend with benefits, because friends actually like each other. 

Just... a girl who got confused. Who let her guard down. Who maybe wanted, just for a night, to not fight everything and everyone.

Including yourself.

You grab one of Jungkook’s discarded black T-shirts (oversized ones, because he thinks he’s cool or something) and some clean boxers to entertain your thoughts. 

But it’s no use.

Your fingers dig into your scalp, tugging at your hair. You want to bang your head against the wall until these thoughts scatter, but then you remember—again—that it's not your wall. It's his. This entire space belongs to him, and you're the intruder here.

Except he didn't say no, did he? When you suggested, he didn't really hesitate. Much. Just huffed, carried you and then plopped right next to you. Like maybe he wanted it too.

And for one brief, stupid moment last night, curled up in sheets that still smelled like him, you thought… maybe this could work.

Maybe you could actually be friends.

Real friends.

The kind who talk about shit that matters. Who know things about each other that have nothing to do with sex or power plays. The kind who don’t pretend silence is neutrality and eye contact is war.

But friends means caring. And caring while fucking is a road that leads straight to complication city, population: you, crying on the bathroom floor at 3 AM wondering why you weren't enough.

Fucking is one thing. Dating is another.

Being friends? That’s a whole different monster.

And you’re not naïve enough to believe people can safely be all three at once—not without bleeding somewhere.

Sure, people who date usually start as friends. And yes, most people who date also fuck.

But you?

You don’t date. You detonate.

And Jungkook? He’s got matchsticks for fingers and a mouth that knows exactly where your fault lines are.

So, no. He doesn’t get to be all three. Doesn’t get to orbit your life from multiple angles. Doesn’t get to slip into your day like heat and leave like regret.

He’s not dating material.

But he is fuckable. Dangerously, addictively, ruin-your-life fuckable.

So that’s where he stays. Logically.

You check your phone again. Still 8:00 AM. But it’s Saturday, which means—

Your new job. Barnes & Noble. 10:00 AM.

The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow sort of relief. 

You're not late. You have time. Two whole hours to figure out how to look Jungkook in the eye without thinking about his mouth between your legs or the way his voice sounded when he talked about his ex or how he looked when he seemed actually, genuinely concerned.

Two hours to rebuild all those walls that somehow, without you noticing, started to crumble.

You're not sure it's enough time.

The heel of your palms dig into your eyes as you let out a sigh that feels like it's been trapped in your chest for days. 

Fucking pancakes. The whole place reeks of them, sweet and buttery and—

Pain slices through you, vicious and unexpected.

"Fuck—" 

Your body curls in on itself automatically, a reflex you can't control. It feels like someone's taken a rusty knife to your insides and decided to twist. Your hand flies to your lower abdomen, pressing against it like that'll somehow help. Like you can hold yourself together through sheer force of will.

The IUD. Has to be.

It's been nagging at you for days now. Little pinpricks, the occasional twinge that made you wince but was easy enough to ignore. 

But this? This is something else entirely. This is your body throwing a full-scale revolt.

You sink back onto Jungkook's bed, chest doubling over toward your knees. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Just like Mom taught you, back when panic attacks would hit in the middle of the night before big tests. Back when your chest would get tight and the world would spin and everything felt like too much.

‘In through your nose. Hold for four. Out through your mouth.’

‘Good girl. That's my good, brave girl.’

The memory of her voice is so clear it's almost like she's here, sitting next to you on this bed that isn't yours, in this room that smells like someone else. Guiding you through the pain like she always did. Always so calm. Always so sure.

Even when you hated her methods, you never doubted she knew what she was doing.

The pain ebbs, receding like a tide that's bound to come back. It leaves you empty and oddly fragile, staring at the dark gray carpet between your bare feet. The urge to slide back under Jungkook's covers is almost overwhelming. To just hide there until the world feels less overwhelming.

Something soft and warm brushes against your ankle.

Griffin looks up at you with those unblinking amber eyes, his tail a question mark behind him. He makes that little chirping sound that's not quite a meow, more like he's asking if you're okay in the only language he knows.

"Hey, buddy," you murmur, reaching down to scratch under his chin where he likes it best.

He leans into your touch, purring loudly enough that you can feel the vibration through your fingertips. 

Such a simple thing. Touch and response. Need and fulfillment. No conditions, no expectations. Just connection.

It makes your throat feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with pain.

Griffin bumps his head against your palm, demanding more attention. Typical. Exactly like his owner—always taking more than he's given.

The thought makes you snort softly. 

You stand, slower this time, wary of another attack from your rebellious reproductive system—yet nothing happens. Small mercies.

When you open Jungkook's door, the smell of pancakes hits you like a wall. Rich and sweet and somehow wrong. Not like home. Not quite. Different ingredients, different hands.

And there he is. In a fucking Sonic the Hedgehog T-shirt and matching pajama pants. Hair a mess, like he styled it with a fork and an air fryer. Flipping pancakes like he’s got his life together.

Standing in the kitchen with his back to you, shoulders moving slightly in time to whatever's playing through those expensive headphones. Completely in his own world. Completely unaware that you've been having an internal crisis in his bed for the past twenty minutes.

Completely, infuriatingly normal. Like last night changed nothing.

Maybe it didn't. For him. 

Maybe it didn’t. For you.

Or maybe it did. 

You sigh, dragging yourself toward the kitchen because someone needs to make sure he doesn't burn the whole fucking place down. The security deposit is half yours, after all.

Jungkook doesn’t show any sort of acknowledgement, headphones clamped over his ears, head bobbing so violently you're genuinely concerned it might detach from his neck. 

Like his brain doesn't have enough problems already without the potential concussion.

Now that you're closer, you can actually hear him—not just humming, but full-on rapping? along. 

Or trying to. 

The tinny leak from his headphones gives you just enough to recognize that god-awful song that's been all over TikTok lately. 

Gang Baby, NLE Choppa.

Of course that's what this idiot listens to while making breakfast.

He spots you in his periphery and doesn't miss a beat, turning just enough to start mouthing the lyrics directly at you. His eyebrows do this ridiculous waggle when he gets to the part about let me B-A-N-G and let me fuck some.

You curl your lip in disgust, which only makes him snort and rap more enthusiastically.

"Real classy, Rogue. Nothing says 'good morning' like misogynistic garbage at—" you check your phone, "—8:12 AM." 

He pulls one side of his headphones away from his ear. 

"Sorry, what? Couldn't hear you over this absolute banger."

"I said," you position yourself next to him at the counter, peering at whatever he's mixing in that bowl, "you have the musical taste of a horny fourteen-year-old who just discovered his dad's Playboy collection."

"Hey, don't hate. NLE Choppa is a lyrical genius."

"Oh yeah? What's next on your sophisticated playlist? 'Me So Horny'? Maybe some 'My Neck, My Back'? Real breakfast ambiance."

"Those are classics," he grins, completely unashamed. "But I reserve those for special occasions. Seduction purposes only."

"Has that ever actually worked on anyone with more than two brain cells?"

"You tell me, Nix." His voice drops half an octave, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before he turns back to his bowl. 

You make an incredulous sound. 

“What the fuck are you making, anyway?"

"Protein pancakes, babyyyy!" He drags out the word, lifting the spatula like it's a trophy.

Your face must show exactly how you feel about that because he laughs.

"What? Gotta maintain these gains." 

The fucking idiot actually flexes then, one arm curling up while he continues to stir with the other.

You swat at him, connecting with his bicep. 

Firm. Solid. Warm. 

You pull your hand back like you've been burned.

"God, you're so fucking stupid."

"Stupid hot, maybe."

You ignore that, moving toward the coffee maker. The one thing in this apartment worth waking up for.

"Ah ah," he tsks, reaching behind him. "Already made you some."

You pause, watching as he passes a mug over to you. 

Your mug. The dark blue one with the chip on the handle that somehow ended up being yours even though you can't remember buying it. Steam curls from it, carrying the rich scent of coffee—strong, with just a hint of hazelnut. 

Exactly how you like it.

You bite the inside of your cheek, wrapping your fingers around the warm ceramic. 

“Thanks," you mutter, the word almost painful to push out.

"So," he says, pouring batter onto the griddle, "you're eating some pancakes, aren't you?"

You purse your lips, hesitating. 

On one hand, protein pancakes sound like something a gym bro invented to justify eating dessert for breakfast. 

On the other, your stomach reminds you it's been empty since those chips you inhaled around midnight.

"Come on," he pushes, "you need protein to maintain that ass, Nix."

Your jaw actually drops. "Excuse me?"

"What?" He grins, ducking his head when you swat at him again. "I'm just saying, would be a pity to throw that to waste. You've got an amazing—"

"Ughhhhh, okay! I got it!" You cut him off before he can finish. "I don’t wanna hear it at this hour. I'll eat your stupid pancakes, my god."

He looks far too pleased with himself, flipping a perfectly golden pancake like he thinks he’s an actual chef or something. 

"They're not stupid, they're nutritionally optimized."

"Is that what your protein powder labels call them? The ones with the half-naked bodybuilders flexing on the front?"

"Hey, don't judge my fitness journey."

"Oh, I'm judging everything about you, Rook. It’s my whole brand.”

He just chuckles, sliding the first pancake onto a plate and pouring more batter. The domesticity of it all is somehow ridiculous.

It feels too normal. Too easy. Like you've done this a hundred times before.

Like maybe you could do it a hundred times more.

Dangerous thought. Very dangerous.

You take a long sip of coffee, letting the bitter heat scald away whatever the hell that feeling was.

Jungkook slides a plate toward you, two perfectly golden pancakes stacked and steaming. 

And honestly; they actually smell... decent. Not like the protein chalk you expected.

"Bon appétit," he says with a ridiculous flourish of his hand. "Try not to fall in love."

"With you or the pancakes?" You grab a fork from the drawer, sitting on one stool and poking at your breakfast suspiciously.

"The pancakes.” He says with a smirk, joining you in the adjacent stool. “I’m too much for you to handle.”

You roll your eyes, taking a reluctant bite. Fuck. They're good. Like, actually good. Not gritty or chalky or tasting vaguely of chemicals like most protein-enhanced food.

His smug grin tells you your face has already betrayed you.

"Don't," you warn, pointing your fork at him.

"Don't what?" He leans forward, one elbow propped on the table. "Don't mention how your eyes just rolled back in your head? Or don't point out that I'm right about something, and that's clearly causing you physical pain?"

"Don't be insufferable before 9 AM." You take another bite, speaking around it. "I haven't had enough coffee to deal with you at full throttle."

"What about last night? You seemed pretty happy dealing with me at full throttle then."

"Seriously? We're doing this now?"

"Doing what?" He stabs his own pancakes with his utensil. "Having breakfast? Talking? Being... you know, normal?"

"Normal. Is that what we're doing?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, last night was..." He shrugs, taking a bite of pancake. "Nice. You know? We actually talked. Didn't try to kill each other. Maybe we could do that more."

Oh god. This is exactly what you were afraid of. This weird, awkward morning-after attempt to redefine things. 

He's going to want to put a label on it now, isn't he? 

Turn your convenient arrangement into something messy with expectations and feelings and other terrifying shit.

Friends. Or friends with benefits or whatever stupid idea he’s about to come up with. 

No. Absolutely not.

"We talked," you say carefully. "We also fucked. Let's not make it weird."

"How is it weird to suggest we could be, I don't know, actual friends?"

And there it is. 

"Friends." You stab at your pancake with more force than necessary. "Right. Because that's what people who've seen each other naked are. Friends."

"I mean, yeah? Friends who fuck. It's a whole thing. People do it all the time."

You look up at him, fork frozen halfway to your mouth. 

“And how's that worked out for you in the past, Rogue? These fuck-buddy friendships of yours—all solid, drama-free arrangements, were they?"

His eyebrows furrow. "I'm not suggesting we start braiding each other's hair and sharing deep dark secrets. Just saying maybe we don't have to pretend we hate each other 24/7."

"I don't hate you," you say automatically, then immediately regret it.

He scoffs. "Progress."

"Don't get excited. I don't like you, either."

"Sure you do." He grins around a mouthful of pancake. "You like parts of me, at least."

"Your modesty, definitely. That's my favorite part."

"Not what you were saying last night."

You throw a napkin at him. It flutters pathetically halfway across the space between you. 

Stupid napkin. Stupid Jungkook.

“Can we just—can we just eat? Without dissecting our relationship status?"

"What's there to dissect? We live together. We fuck sometimes. We talk sometimes. We don't hate each other. Seems pretty straightforward to me."

"Nothing's ever straightforward. Sex is one thing. Friendship is another. Put them together, and it's a disaster waiting to happen."

"Why? What's the issue? You really think if we start being decent to each other, suddenly the whole arrangement falls apart?"

"No, I think if we start being 'decent' to each other, suddenly there are expectations. Suddenly I'm supposed to care if you're having a bad day, or listen to your problems, or worry about your feelings when we're fucking."

"Wow. The horror." He rolls his eyes. "God forbid you acknowledge I'm a human being and not just a convenient dick."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you think I'm too fucking stupid to understand boundaries. Like I'll immediately start writing your name in hearts or some shit just because we've upgraded from roommates to friends."

"I didn't say—"

"I don't want to date you, Nix. I don't want to be your boyfriend. I just thought it might be nice to not act like we're in some cold war every time we're in the same room. But if that's too much emotional labor for you, fine. We can go back to pretending the other doesn't exist unless we're naked."

The sting of his words surprises you. Why do you even care? This is what you want—no messy emotions, no expectations. Just the convenience of living together and occasionally hooking up. Clean. Simple.

Except now it feels anything but.

"You're twisting what I said."

"Am I? So you're not freaking out about the terrifying prospect of actually being friends with the guy you've been sleeping with?"

"I am not freaking out." You are absolutely freaking out. "I just think it's... cleaner. If we keep things the way they are."

"Cleaner." He snorts. "Right. God forbid anything in your life gets messy."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've got your shit locked down so tight you're about to snap in half." He stands up, grabbing his mug of coffee. "You think I don't see it? How hard you try to control everything? How fucking terrified you are of anything that doesn't fit into your perfectly organized boxes?"

Your grip on the fork tightens. "Oh, please. Tell me more about myself, Rook. You've known me for what, one month? Clearly you're an expert."

"I may not know shit, but I see enough. I see you'd rather cut someone out completely than risk them having any kind of power over you.”

"Fuck you," you spit, but it comes out weaker than you intended. 

Because he's not wrong, and that's the worst part.

"Yeah, we've established that part works great." He drops his plate on the sink and it clatters noisily. “Look, forget it. You want to keep pretending we're strangers who occasionally fuck? Fine. Works for me. Less work anyway."

"That's not what I said." You stand up. "I just don't see why we need to redefine everything. Why can't we just... let it be what it is?"

"Because I don't even know what the fuck it is! Am I your roommate? Your fuck buddy? That guy you hate but tolerate because the rent is cheaper split three ways? What the hell am I supposed to tell people when they ask about you?"

"Why are people asking about me?"

"Jesus Christ." He throws his hands up. "That's what you focus on? Not the point, Phoenix."

"Then what is the point? Spell it out for me, since I'm clearly too stupid to get it."

"The point is, I talk to you more than I talk to most of my actual friends. I see you every day. I know how you take your coffee and what you look like when you come. So excuse the fuck out of me for thinking maybe, just maybe, we could drop the whole 'we're just roommates who tolerate each other' act and admit we might actually be friends."

You stare at him, chest tight with something you can't name. 

Can't or won't. 

This is exactly what you've been avoiding—this messy, complicated conversation that blurs all the neat lines you've drawn.

"I don't do friends with benefits," you finally say, voice quiet, your plate joining his. "It never works. Someone always ends up hurt."

"Who said anything about hurt? It's not that deep, Nix. We're not in a fucking rom-com."

"No, we're in real life, where things get complicated and messy and people have expectations they don't even realize until they're disappointed."

"The only expectation I have right now is for you to stop overthinking everything for five seconds."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm being realistic."

"You're being paranoid. And kind of insulting, if I'm honest. Like I'm some lovesick puppy who can't handle a casual arrangement."

“I’m paranoid? That’s rich coming from you, Ro. Real fucking rich."

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a fucking hypocrite." The words tumble out, hot and fast. "You want to talk about being friends? About opening up? That's hilarious coming from the guy who deflects every personal question with some stupid joke."

"I don't—"

"You absolutely do. Every time." You step closer, jabbing a finger in his direction. "Ask about your financial situation? Oh, it's fine, just selling a kidney next week, ha ha. Ask about your ex? Turn it into some bullshit story about how she 'graded' you after sex, like it's all a big fucking joke."

His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "That's different."

"How? How is it different? You want me to be all open and friendly, but all you do is deflect and crack jokes.”

"I didn’t say anything about being all open and—”

"Then what are you saying?" You throw your hands up, frustration making your voice rise. "Because it sounds like you want all the benefits of friendship without any of the actual vulnerability. You want me to be your friend when it's convenient, but god forbid I ask about anything that matters."

"What do you want to know, Nix? What deep dark secret are you dying to hear? How I'm drowning in debt because my ex fucked up my credit? How I can barely make rent some months? How I wake up in the middle of the night panicking about money? Is that friendly enough for you?"

The sudden honesty knocks the wind out of you. Your mouth opens, closes, opens again like a fish gasping on land.

"That's what I thought." He tilts his head, motion clearly angry. "You don't actually want to know that shit. You just want to point out that I don't share it to win an argument."

You both stand there, breathing hard, like you’re studying each other.

But then Griffin rubs against your ankle, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare happening above his head and you…

You, honestly, feel tired.

Bone-deep tired. 

It's too early for this much... whatever this is.

"Look," you sigh, the fight draining out of you. "Maybe we're both right, in our own way. And maybe we're both being assholes."

He blinks, clearly not expecting the shift. 

After a moment, his shoulders drop a fraction.

"I’m listening.”

"Last night wasn't terrible," you say, choosing your words carefully. "Talking. Whatever. Maybe we don't need to define everything right now?"

"Revolutionary concept." His voice has lost its edge, that familiar sardonic tone creeping back in. "Not immediately labeling every interaction. Who would've thought?"

"Shut up." 

You pick up your coffee mug again, taking a sip to hide the relief washing over you. 

Crisis averted. Boundaries preserved. 

For now.

"So what are you saying?" he asks, leaning back against the counter. "We just... see where things go?"

"I'm saying maybe we don't have to be strictly roommates or strictly friends. Maybe we can just... exist in the same space sometimes without trying to kill each other. And if it turns out we don't hate it..."

"We can revisit the friend thing?" He raises an eyebrow.

"Maybe." You shrug, aiming for casual. "If you manage not to be completely insufferable."

"Tall order." He's almost smiling now. "I'll have to suppress all my natural charm."

"If that's what you call it."

You roll your eyes, relieved to be back on solid ground. 

This you can handle—the banter, the back-and-forth, the careful dance around anything too real. 

This is safe.

Under control.

"Just eat your protein pancakes, Rogue. Don't you have gains to maintain or whatever?"

"Can't skip arm day," he agrees, flexing dramatically. "These biceps don't maintain themselves."

"God, you're insufferable."

"Yet here you are, eating my pancakes, drinking coffee I made you." He gestures at your mug with his own. "Almost like you tolerate me."

"Stockholm syndrome, obviously."

"Obviously." He hums thoughtfully for a moment. "So, we're good?"

"We're..." you search for the right word, "...fine. For now. Let's just take it a day at a time, okay? No pressure, no expectations."

"I can do that." He nods, looking almost relieved himself. "One day at a time. Starting with today, where you admit my pancakes are fucking amazing."

"They're edible."

"They're incredible and you know it."

"They're protein powder with extra steps."

"They're a culinary masterpiece that your taste buds aren't sophisticated enough to fully appreciate."

"My taste buds are perfectly sophisticated, thank you very much."

"Says the girl who eats chips at midnight."

"At least I don't drink protein shakes for dessert like some kind of psychopath."

"Don't knock it 'til you try it. My midnight chocolate protein shake would change your life."

You make a gagging sound. "I'll pass, thanks."

"Your loss." He shrugs, then glances at the clock. "Don't you have to be at work at 10?"

"Yeah, but it's only—" you check your phone, "—8:30. Plenty of time."

"If you say so." He moves towards the space between the entryway and the couch. "First day, right? Gonna sell some books to the masses?"

"That's generally what happens at a bookstore, yes."

"Well, don't let your sparkling personality scare away the customers."

"I have excellent customer service skills, I'll have you know. I can fake being nice for hours at a time."

“You sure ‘bout that? Haven’t seen you be nice for more than thirty seconds."

"That's because you don't deserve my niceness."

"And the customers at Barnes & Noble do?"

"They're paying for it. You just get the real me."

"Lucky me," he snorts. "So, you nervous? First day and all?"

"It's a retail job, Rogue, not brain surgery. I think I can handle scanning books and saying 'have a nice day' without a panic attack."

"Just asking." He takes a sip from his mug. "Making conversation. Like normal people do."

"Yeah, well." You shift, suddenly uncomfortable with how... normal this feels. 

Like you're actual roommates having an actual conversation. 

Like maybe this friend thing isn't so impossible after all. 

"I should probably start getting ready."

"Right, sure." He nods, glancing at his room. "Wouldn't want you to be late for your first day of shaping young minds through literature."

"It's Barnes & Noble, not the Library of Alexandria."

"Still. Books. Knowledge. Power. You know."

“Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot of shit for someone who reads, like, one book a year?"

"Hey, I read." He looks genuinely offended. "I just finished that one about the guy who—"

"If you say 'Rich Dad, Poor Dad,' I'm going to throw this mug at your head."

"I was going to say 'The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck,' actually."

"Of course you were." You can't help the laugh that escapes. "How original. Let me guess, you also have 'The 48 Laws of Power' on your nightstand?"

"Whatever, man." He shakes his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Suck my dick."

The words come out light, amused—a casual dismissal that’s not angry or bitter, just a throwaway line, the kind of thing he'd say to Yoongi or any of his friends when they're giving him shit.

But something about it—the vulgarity or maybe the signature shitty and playful challenge in his eyes—makes you reckless.

"Okay."

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes sliding to the side as the word slips out. 

Casual. 

Like you just agreed to pass the salt, not... that.

Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. His body goes rigid, one foot already pointed toward his bedroom. He turns his head slightly, just enough for you to catch his profile.

"Huh?"

You cross your arms, teeth worrying the inside of your cheek. A shrug lifts your shoulders—noncommittal, like this isn't making your heart hammer against your ribs.

Your eyes drift back to his. Meet and hold.

"I said okay."

He turns fully now, coffee mug dangling forgotten from his fingers. 

"Okay... what?"

"Sucking your dick." 

You watch his throat bobble, the muscles in his neck working as he swallows. Like he’s processing what you just said. Like you just suggested something completely alien, something that requires a full system reboot. 

And okay, fine, maybe it wasn’t the most casual thing to drop into conversation. But still. 

You arch an eyebrow, scowling at him because why is he overthinking this? Does he not want you to do it? Don’t all guys want to get sucked off? Isn’t that, like, a universal truth or something? What’s with the hesitation?

The longer he stands there, frozen and dumbfounded, the hotter your frustration burns. It’s not like you even want to do this (okay, you do, but that’s not the point). 

The point is he’s always the first one to be like “bet” whenever you throw out some reckless suggestion. 

Pushy without being pushy—he knows boundaries, sure, but he’s still the guy who’ll smirk and say “you won’t” just to see if you will. 

And now? The one time you actually offer something? He’s looking at you like you’re speaking Simlish.

You move toward him, until you're face to face. 

His mug wobbles in his grip, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.

You look up at him through your lashes. 

"I said I can suck your dick if that's what you want."

A shaky exhale escapes him, warm against your face.

"Nix..." His voice has dropped an octave, rough around the edges. "Don't fool around. That's not nice."

"I'm not fooling around."

Slowly—so slowly it feels like time has stretched into something thick and syrupy—you sink down to your knees.

The kitchen tile is hard, and really, it should be uncomfortable. Should snap you out of whatever madness has possessed you.

It doesn't.

Jungkook bites down on his lower lip, the sharp edges of his teeth digging into the flesh like he's physically holding back a curse. You can see the evidence of his interest already straining against his pajama pants.

His fucking Sonic pajama pants.

Because of course. Of course this would happen while he's wearing cartoon hedgehogs. Of course this

moment—where you're on your knees in front of him, heart pounding, breath shallow—would come with this absurd detail that makes it real in a way that's almost uncomfortable.

Your hands come to rest on his thighs. 

Strong. Solid. Warm. 

"I mean, we've been hooking up for a month now. Almost." Your voice sounds different to your own ears. Lower. A little breathless. "You've eaten me out multiple times, but... I haven't sucked your dick. Not even once."

Your eyes drop deliberately to the bulge straining against ridiculous cartoon fabric. It should be funny. 

It's not.

"Is it because you didn't want me to?"

He shakes his head. Fast. Emphatic. A jerky motion that tells you everything you need to know.

"So why didn't you ask me?"

He doesn't answer. Can't, maybe. 

His throat works again, adam's apple bobbing. His pupils are blown wide, dark and hungry as he stares down at you.

Your fingers play with the waistband, slowly—so fucking slowly—pulling it down just enough to reveal his hip bones and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the elastic.

"Have you thought about it at all?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, like it fought its way past whatever restraint he's trying to maintain.

Your eyes snap up to his.

He curses when your eyes lock onto his again—the control you have, even down on your knees.

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah." He exhales, surrender in the sound. "Yes, I've thought about your beautiful plump lips wrapped around my cock, Nix. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Heat blooms in your cheeks, spreading down your neck, across your chest. 

You hadn't expected him to be so... explicit. So honest.

"Maybe." Your thumbs brush against the skin just above his waistband. "What else have you thought about?"

His mug clatters onto the counter beside him, abandoned and his now-free hand comes to your face, thumb brushing against your bottom lip. 

"Thought about how you'd look," he murmurs, voice pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it. "On your knees. Just like this. Those big eyes looking up at me while you take me in your mouth.”

Jesus. 

Your body responds instantly, a rush of heat between your thighs that makes you press them together unconsciously.

When did Jungkook get so... articulate?

His thumb presses slightly against your lip, just enough to part them. "Thought about how warm your mouth would be.

How good it would feel. How you'd sound."

"How l'd sound?”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, confidence returning as he watches your reaction. "The little noises you'd make. The way you'd moan around my cock when I pull your hair."

Oh.

Your hand moves higher, finding the hard length of him through his pajamas. He hisses through his teeth when you palm him, fingers wrapping around his shape.

"Like this?" you ask, squeezing gently.

His hand moves to your hair, fingers tangling in the strands at the back of your head. 

Not pulling. Not yet. Just holding.

"Getting there." His voice is strained now, tight with need.

"But in my head, there's a lot less talking and a lot more—"

"Sucking?"

His laugh is half groan. "Yeah, Nix. A lot more sucking."

"Hmmm" you murmur. "Where's all that big talk from earlier?"

"Temporarily relocated," he manages. "Blood flow issues."

That startles a laugh out of you, breaking the tension for just a moment. Trust Jungkook to crack a joke while you're literally about to have his dick in your mouth.

Your hands pause, giving his bulge another soft squeeze before—

“Wait—couch.” He grabs your wrist, stopping your motions. “Let’s do this properly.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah? Better for your neck and knees and all that. Let’s go.”

You roll your eyes but follow as he then drops onto the couch, sprawling like he owns the place—which, technically, he does, but still. His left elbow hooks over the cushion rest lazily, and his knuckles come up to rest against his cheek as he leans into it. 

The picture of nonchalance. 

Except for the way his hips shift slightly, rolling upward in a small, deliberate motion as he spreads his legs wider.

Your eyes narrow. 

That little buck of his hips? The way his thighs stretch out as if to frame you? It’s not subtle. 

Neither is the look he’s giving you now—those half-lidded bedroom eyes that always seem to appear when he’s horny. His lips curve into something smug, and god he’s so obvious it’s almost embarrassing. Like one of those guys in bad romance novels who lounges around shirtless, flexing for no reason except to remind everyone they have abs.

“So?” His voice is low, dragging out the single syllable like a challenge.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest, glaring at him because—what? Is this supposed to be seductive? Is this his idea of foreplay? 

“You’re already making me regret this, you know that?”

He snorts, the sound sharp and amused as he tilts his head slightly. “I don’t know why I doubt that.”

Your only response is a scoff—short and derisive—as you step closer. The floor feels uneven beneath your feet, though you know it isn’t. It’s just your nerves playing tricks on you. 

Because this is real now. This is happening. You’re about to suck cock. Rogue’s cock.

You want this. You do. You’ve been curious about this for longer than you’d care to admit—curious about him, about what he likes and how he reacts and whether he’ll look as smug when he’s falling apart under your mouth. 

But still… You haven’t exactly done this much before.

David—the forgettable high school boyfriend who thought foreplay was optional—had pretty much stuck his dick in you and called it a day. He didn’t even know girls could orgasm until you brought it up once during an argument (and even then, he seemed skeptical). 

Your life hasn't been that tragic since then, thankfully.

A few hookups here and there have shown you that men aren't a total lost cause after all—some of them even know what they're doing! But sucking dick?

That's... different. It's not something you've done often enough to feel confident about it.

Sure, you know the basics—you've read enough spicy books and fanfics to have a decent idea of what works (English majors don't judge; they research). 

But knowing what works in general isn't the same as knowing what Jungkook likes. 

And this is his cock you’re talking about—his stupidly perfect body and his stupidly perfect everything else.

And now here you are, kneeling between Jungkook’s thighs while he looks down at you with that stupid smirk of his.

You glance up at him expectantly, hoping for some kind of cue or instruction or… anything really. Like he always does, talk shit with that big mouth of his. Dirty talk or whatever. 

But all he does is blink at you for a moment before he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his Sonic pajama pants and starts pulling them down.

His cock springs free, standing there like it owns the place. 

And okay, yeah, you’ve seen it before—plenty of times, actually. 

You’ve had it inside you, for fuck’s sake. 

But this? This is different. This is up close and personal, inches from your face, glossy and flushed and looking way too proud of itself.

Beautiful isn’t the right word. It’s a cock. A literal penis. 

There’s nothing beautiful about it—it’s just a piece of meat, veiny and slightly curved and standing at attention like it’s waiting for applause or something. 

And yet... you can’t look away. 

Why is it so glossy? Is that normal? Does he always look like this when he’s hard? You don’t know why your brain is spiraling into a full-blown analysis of his dick right now, but here you are, mentally beefing with it like it personally insulted you.

Be so fucking for real right now.

And again—there he is. Silent. Watching. Not saying a single goddamn word.

Which is weird because usually, Jungkook doesn’t shut up during sex. He’s all about the dirty talk—filthy little comments that let you know exactly what he likes, what he wants, what he’s thinking. 

But now? Nothing. Just this expectant silence that makes your skin prickle with self-consciousness.

You hate him for it.

Your hand wraps around him before you can overthink it anymore. Because okay, fine—you might not be an expert at this, but you’re not completely clueless either. You’ve sucked cock before (not a lot, but enough to know the basics), and you know how jerking off works. 

So that’s what you do: start slow, your hand moving down his length in a steady stroke.

He hisses softly at the contact, his hips shifting slightly against the couch cushion. When you glance up at him from beneath your lashes, he’s already looking down at you—his lips parted just enough to catch your attention as his tongue darts out to wet them.

And still, he says nothing.

“What?” You grunt the word out before you can stop yourself, frustration bubbling up in your chest.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, too quickly—like he wasn’t expecting you to call him out.

You narrow your eyes at him suspiciously, but his face gives nothing away.

“Okay,” you mutter under your breath, pulling back slightly as doubt creeps in around the edges of your confidence. “I’m doing everything wrong. Forget it.”

You start to stand up—because honestly? 

Fuck this. 

Fuck him and his smug silence and his stupid perfect dick that’s making you second-guess yourself when you were perfectly fine five minutes ago.

But before you can fully retreat, his hand shoots out to grab yours—not rough or demanding, just firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice low and almost... gentle? “Hey, no. Don’t do that.”

You stare at him for a moment, then look away because suddenly eye contact feels like too much.

There’s a beat of silence before he swallows audibly, like he’s pondering what to say. 

“Do you want me to…” He hesitates for half a second before continuing, his tone careful but curious. “Verbally tell you what I like?”

You purse your lips tightly, the edges pressing together in a way that’s almost painful. 

Because somehow, saying yes to that—admitting you need him to tell you what to do—feels like losing. And you don’t want to lose. Not here. Not to him. Not when he’s sprawled out like some kind of smug king on the stupid couch, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to figure out how to solve a puzzle he already knows the answer to.

He doesn’t push, though. His hand stays on yours, warm and steady, as you let him pull you gently back down. 

Your knees hit the floor again, and the carpet feels rough against your skin, grounding you in the moment even as your brain screams at you to get it together.

“Okay,” he says after a beat, his voice soft but probing. “What’s up?”

Your eyes snap to his, narrowing slightly at the question. “That’s what I should be asking you.”

He raises an eyebrow at that, clearly unimpressed with your deflection. 

“C’mon. Usually you’re so mouthy. You literally made me beg yesterday just to eat you out. I don’t get this sudden prude thing you’re pulling.”

Damn him. Damn him and his ability to read you so well it feels like he’s got a script for your every thought and reaction.

“I’m not acting prude,” you snap defensively.

“Really?” His lips twitch upward. “Because you’re staring at my cock like you’re mad at it.”

Your jaw tightens as embarrassment flares hot in your chest. 

“I’m not mad at it,” you mutter through gritted teeth.

“Then what’s the problem?” He tilts his head slightly, genuinely curious now. “Tell me.”

You blink at him, caught off guard by how simple he makes it sound—like voicing whatever’s swirling in your head is the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s not tied up in knots of insecurity and doubt and whatever else is making your throat feel tight right now.

Because he’s right. You could just tell him. That would solve everything, wouldn’t it? But somehow, the thought of saying it out loud—of admitting that maybe you’re not as confident about this as you’d like to be—feels like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there’s anything to catch you at the bottom.

Why does it feel like losing? Like humiliation?

His brow furrows slightly when you don’t respond right away, and then he asks—carefully, hesitantly—

“Okay… have you done this before? A blowjob?”

The question makes your stomach flip for reasons you can’t quite explain. Your eyes drop to the floor as heat creeps up your neck and into your face. 

“…Yus,” you mumble under your breath.

“Yus?” He repeats incredulously, leaning forward slightly like he didn’t hear you right.

“Yes,” you say louder this time, still staring at the carpet like it holds all the answers to life’s mysteries.

“But not often,” he guesses—and fuck him for being right again.

Your head snaps up at that, ready to fire off some kind of retort about how that’s none of his business or how he should shut up because clearly he’s not an expert on everything either—but then he laughs.

Out loud.

And it stops you cold.

Because it’s not mean or mocking or anything close to what you expected—it’s just… laughter. Light and genuine and almost disbelieving in a way that makes something inside you loosen just a little bit.

“What?” You demand sharply.

“Oh my god,” he says between chuckles. “Phoenix—is that what this is about? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

You glare at him because what else are you supposed to do? Admit he’s right? Again? Absolutely not.

He notices anyway—of course he does—and his grin softens into something closer to understanding as he leans back against the couch cushions.

“Bro,” he says lightly, shaking his head like this is all so obvious now. “It’s totally chill.”

You scoff quietly, looking off to the side because meeting his eyes feels impossible right now.

“I mean it, you want to try, right? You want to experience it or whatever? Nothing wrong with that.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a small smile: “Let me help you, aight?”

You don’t say yes. Of course you don’t. You never say yes.

You run your tongue across your upper lip instead, slow and lazy like you’re tasting the tension, and shrug—shoulders stiff like maybe it costs you something to agree. 

Which, okay. It kind of does. Dignity’s already dangling by a thread.

But he reads it. Of course he does. Like you’re a fucking cartoon strip and he’s already memorized every panel. 

He just grins—guffaws, really, because apparently this is hilarious to him—and tilts his chin toward his cock like that’s normal. Like this is a fucking TED Talk on Applied Dick Science.

“Spit.”

You blink. “Huh?”

“Spit on it.” 

Like it’s nothing. Like you’re asking him if he wants oat milk in his coffee and not literally hocking a loogie onto his dick.

Your face does something between a grimace and a snort. “What are you, a porn algorithm?”

“Relax. It’s not a kink thing. Just helps with… y’know. Glide.” A shrug. So casual. “Friction’s not your friend, Nix.”

You squint at him. “So now you’re a physics professor.”

“Professor of good head,” he says under his breath, eyes twinkling like he thinks that’s clever.

You exhale slowly through your nose. Not quite a sigh. Just enough to say fine, sure, without actually giving him anything. 

Then your eyes flick down, then back up.

And maybe you don’t mean to hold eye contact for as long as you do, but whatever. Your gaze locks on his, and his mouth hitches slightly at the corner.

One of those small, lazy smirks that says he’s watching everything you do. Which he is.

You drop your eyes again. Shift forward. Palms to thighs. Inhale once through your nose, just to clear whatever mental fog is still clinging.

Then you lower your face toward him, mouth hovering just above the head of his cock.

And okay. It’s a little intense up close like this.

Flushed dark pink at the tip, that little bead of precum catching the light. Skin taut where it stretches up and around the curve. 

And yeah, it’s pretty? Like, stupid pretty. Which only pisses you off more because it’s a dick. You shouldn’t be thinking aesthetic right now. You should be—

He hisses.

Literally just from your breath.

Like, your breath grazes the head and he inhales sharp through his teeth, a low sound punching out of his chest that he probably didn’t mean to make.

Your eyes cut up automatically.

And you absolutely, one hundred percent bite back a smirk. Can feel it twitch at the edge of your mouth, creeping in before you catch it.

He doesn’t say anything, but there’s a flicker of amusement in his face. A slight arch of his brow, a ghost of a grin that says ‘don’t get cocky’, which is rich coming from him.

You don’t let the moment stretch too long.

You glance down once more, tilt your chin forward, and—

Let spit fall from your lips.

Slow and steady.

A warm trail that splatters right onto his cockhead with a soft, wet noise you pretend not to react to. The drool stretches in a thin line as it drops, catching and sticking in places before sliding down the shaft, slick and messy in a way that feels weirdly intimate and way too graphic for how not romantic this is supposed to be.

You hear him exhale again—less sharp this time, more like a breath he didn’t know he was holding—and when you glance back up, your eyes meet his.

Big. Wide. Intentional.

Because yeah, you’ve read enough porn. You know this trick. Know the effect eye contact has. 

Especially from down here. Especially when your lips are half an inch from his dick and your saliva’s still glistening on it.

And okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little performative. 

But he does it, too. Every goddamn time he’s between your legs, he’s watching you like it’s a sport. 

So maybe it’s not just for you. Maybe it’s projection.

It definitely is.

Because the second your spit hits his cock and your eyes stay locked on his, Jungkook makes this—noise.

Not a grunt. Not a moan. Just this tiny sound, like a choked-up breath dragged out of his throat against his will. The kind of sound you’d miss if you weren’t listening for it. 

But you are. And you do. 

Your fingers wrap around him without thinking. Automatic, almost. Like your hand just knows what to do now. It’s not a tight grip, not at first—just enough to feel the weight of him, hot and heavy and fucking ridiculous in your palm.

You give him one slow pull. A test run. Casual. Clinical.

And his head tips back instantly.

“Ahh—god, yeah,” he groans, voice pitched low and raw like it just escaped him.

You blink. Stare. Something tightens low in your stomach, unexpected.

But before you can fully process the way that noise slithered into your spine and curled up there like it pays rent, he’s looking down again. Immediately. Because apparently the view of your hand jerking him off is not something he’s willing to miss.

His gaze drops to the contact like it’s life or death, pupils blown and mouth slightly parted. He looks wrecked already, and you’ve barely done anything.

Kind of gratifying. Not gonna lie.

So you keep moving. Slow. Measured. A couple more strokes, just to test what rhythm feels natural. Your hand adjusts automatically, finding that friction-slicked spot between too loose and too tight. Thumb brushes the underside near the head, not on purpose, but—

“Yeah,” he breathes. “That’s—”

Pauses. Swallows. Licks his lips like he’s trying not to rush it. 

“That’s good, but… here.”

His voice is soft now, like he’s trying not to scare you off. Like if he speaks too loud you might slap his dick and walk out. 

And then his hand’s there. His actual hand.

The tatted one.

It swallows yours whole like it’s got a god complex. His fingers are longer, rougher, his palm calloused from guitar strings or camera work or something equally shitty—and it lands on top of yours like this is how. Like he can’t not touch. Like the need to guide is stronger than the need to just sit there and enjoy.

And okay, that’s kind of hot.

He doesn’t even do it weird. No pervy whisper, no ‘lemme show you, baby.’

Just—grips your hand, adjusts the angle, and starts moving it the way he would. His pace. His pressure. His exact rhythm.

He’s demonstrating. Demonstrating. The way he does it.

Which—Jesus. Okay. That’s a thing you’re watching now.

You track everything. How he drags you up to the head and tugs just a bit harder when you get there. Not painful, just… firmer. Intentional. Then down again—not all the way, not to the base. Just past halfway. Controlled. Like there’s a limit he doesn’t cross.

You assume it’s a sensitivity thing or maybe it just doesn’t feel good that far down. Maybe it’s one of those ‘my dick isn’t a joystick’ scenarios. 

You don’t know.

But you clock it. Catalog it. 

Mental note: no base. No excessive tug. Got it.

He lets go of your hand after a few strokes, slowly, and leans back just an inch—enough to say ‘your turn’. Still watching, though. Like a perv. Like a mentor.

Like both.

You copy what he showed you. Try to mimic the pressure, the pace, the not-too-tight but not-too-flimsy grip. Try to keep the motion smooth even though your brain’s busy yelling ‘are we seriously learning how he jerks off right now? is this real life?’

Apparently yes. It is. And it’s working.

Because he makes this sound. This little hhuhh in the back of his throat, barely audible but very much real. Not exaggerated. Just… a reaction.

You hold back a grin. Barely.

Pride hits low and hot in your chest like you just got an A on a test you forgot to study for. 

Not because he said something—but because he didn’t. 

That little exhale? That shift in his hips? That subtle fuck, yeah cue without words?

Validation.

Your eyes flick up. You want to see it. Read him.

But he’s not looking at you.

Still staring at your hand. Brows drawn, mouth slack.   

And then—

His front teeth catch his bottom lip. Plush, pink, a little too soft for how filthy he is, and he bites. Not hard. Just enough for it to dimple inward and make something flicker behind his lashes. 

The kind of flicker that screams overthinking, like maybe the feeling’s a little too good, and he’s trying to ground himself with pain or pressure or… whatever the fuck goes on in his chaos brain when he’s like this.

Then comes the sound.

Somewhere between a hiss and a grunt, like his body can’t decide if it wants to breathe through it or fuck into it. 

Rough at the edges, low, weirdly conflicted.

His head dips again.

“Also,” he breathes out, voice crackly and uneven now, “do… do this. Look.”

His hand comes up before you can ask what this is.

Big, again. His palm wraps around yours like he’s your goddamn training wheels. Not even pretending it’s not a tutorial anymore. 

His fingers press lightly into your skin, adjusting your grip—less on the full stroke now and more—

“There,” he mutters, repositioning your thumb, sliding it higher. 

Right to that spot beneath the crown. Soft little groove. Just barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention.

Which, apparently, he really fucking is.

“You feel that?” he says, voice dipping. “Right under. The… fuckin’—yeah, that. That’s the spot.”

You nod a little, but your eyes don’t leave your hand, now with your thumb angled like a pressure point. Like you’re disarming a bomb with one finger.

His voice drops again.

“Okay, now when you stroke—” his hand moves yours with his, slow and controlled, “—pull up like that, and when you hit the top, tighter there—yeah, squeeze just a little—and your thumb… drag it with you.”

He does it again. Once. Then twice. Demonstrating like this is a team sport and you’re in pre-game drills.

That spot.

That frenulum, or whatever the technical term is. 

Doesn’t matter. What matters is how his breath stutters when you pass over it, how his mouth goes a little slack while he watches.

“That’s the shit, Nix,” he says, almost like it’s to himself. Like he’s taking mental notes on his own cock. “That right there.”

Then he lets go again. Fingers slip away from yours, slow. 

And he licks his lips as he leans back into the couch, arm flopping over the top cushion like he’s trying to play it cool again, even though he’s still watching you like a fucking hawk.

So. You try.

You mimic the motion exactly. 

Same rhythm. Same pressure. Same thumb glide up the underside, and—

“Fuck.”

That one’s not breathy. Not soft. Full-bodied groan. Low and honest, punched out of his chest like his lungs just gave up the ghost for a second.

You do it again. And again.

Thumb dragging against that spot every time you pull up. Your grip tightening near the crown, loosening at the glide down.

He melts.

That’s the only word for it. 

His whole body sinks into the cushions like gravity just tripled. Thighs open wider, neck drops back over the edge of the couch, mouth hanging open now like he’s past the point of pretending he’s unaffected.

“Fuck, yeah—that is…” he pants, lips parted, eyes fluttering before he forces them open again, zeroing in on your hand like it’s holy. “That’s fucking perfect, Nix. Jesus Christ, you’ve got magic fingers or some shit.”

Your smirk barely hides itself.

He’s a talker. You knew that. But this? This is next level.

“Fuckin’ knew you’d be good with your hands,” he groans, eyes flicking from your fingers to your face and back down again, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say more but can’t help himself. “Just like that, just like that—shit, that’s so fucking good—”

Your thumb twitches tighter without thinking, and his hips flinch.

And it’s so fucking dumb, the way your stomach flips at the reaction. Like you’re the one being touched. Like you got your nerve endings scraped raw by one tiny squeeze.

But there it is—his hips flinching, a twitch so fast you might’ve missed it if you weren’t laser-focused on every damn micro-expression crawling across his face. 

His mouth opens for half a second like he’s gonna say something, maybe crack a joke, maybe tell you to go harder—but then—

He chokes a breath.

Like it gets stuck somewhere between his ribs and throat, all tangled up in want.

It is shaky, and it hitches like it costs him something to let it out. 

Like just existing through this is work.

And you see it—the way his pupils expand even more, ink bleeding into every millimeter of brown. 

He’s not blinking. He’s not moving, not really. Just chest rising and falling way too slow, like he’s afraid any sudden motion might snap this thread thin tension.

You lick your lips before you can stop yourself. Because he’s staring. Still. At your hand, yeah, but also your face now. 

Like watching you react is part of the pleasure. Like your mouth is more interesting than porn.

And okay. Maybe you’re a little into that.

Maybe that’s why your hand tightens again. Just a little. Not even on purpose this time, more like instinct. Your thumb swipes over that spot again, light and smooth and mean, and his chest fucking jerks.

Then—

A noise. Escapes him. Not a groan. Not a moan either. It’s like a stuttered-out puff of sound that crackles in his throat on its way up, all gritty and broken, like it got caught in static.

And right after that, so soft you almost miss it, he says:

“Your mouth.”

You freeze.

Your pulse jumps like you’ve been caught doing something wrong. Even though you haven’t. Not really. Just… hand stuff. Just skin and muscle and spit and heat.

But his voice? It’s not filthy when he says it. It’s awestruck. Like he’s seeing a fucking shooting star. Like it’s something to be whispered.

Your mouth.

It echoes weird in your head. Bounces off all your internal walls.

You blink up at him, eyes dragging from the handjob, and you look at his face.

And the expression there?

Jesus. He looks like he’s praying.

Not to God. Not even to you. To the feeling. To the moment. To the idea of your mouth on him.

And for some reason, your voice is already moving before your brain can catch it. “What do you want from my mouth?”

You don’t say it cute. Don’t coo. You’re not flirting. You’re daring. Like if he says something you don’t like, you’ll bite down instead of suck.

He blinks. Laughs, almost. Not like it’s funny—more like it surprised him. The way you said it. Like you slapped him with your voice.

Then, low and kind of incredulous: “What do you think I want, Nix?”

And he grins when he says it. Real slow. Not smug. Not sleazy. Just… real. Like that’s the stupidest question you’ve ever asked and he’s giving you a minute to catch up. To get there on your own. Like maybe you’re the dumb one for asking when the answer’s right there, hard and twitching and shiny in your grip.

You glance up through your lashes because fuck it, might as well lean into the trope while you’re down here. Might as well make it mean something.

And you swear to god—something inside him glitches.

Like his whole respiratory system shorts out. You hear it, barely—a tiny gulp, some micro sound buried deep in his throat like a trapped hummingbird. 

Fragile and desperate. 

Faint little flutter.

But it’s real.

Like a ‘fuck’ slips out of the space around you. Not even from his mouth. Just—exists.

As if the universe itself groaned.

And you know he felt it too because he looks at you like you just made the sun blink.

His hand lifts again, slow.

Fingers curl gently around your face, brushing the hair out of your eyes—not rough, not fast. Just… precise. Like he needs to see you. Like eye contact is currency and he’s suddenly flat broke.

You don’t move. Just let him. Let his thumb skim your cheek. Let his gaze drag over your face like it’s got weight behind it. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to blink away from.

And then—his voice. Low. Warm. Calm in that way that feels like it’s trying to keep a leash on something unhinged underneath.

“Suckle the crown a bit while you keep your hand moving. Up and down. Not fast, just… keep rhythm.”

You blink. 

That phrasing. 

Suckle.

What the fuck is he, a medieval warlord?

Still.

Your pulse stutters.

Because he says it like he’s thought about this. Like it’s not just a ‘hey, mouth on cock now’ moment, but something he’s imagined. 

Something he’s replayed in his head with specificity.

“Focus on the tip. You don’t gotta go all in yet. Just use your tongue. Like… tease the slit a little. Then suck around it. Not too hard. Gentle. Like you’re figuring it out.”

Your brows twitch up just slightly, but you nod.

Because yeah. Okay. That you can do.

And your hand’s still on him—hasn’t left. Just slick and steady, lazy little drags up and down his shaft with your thumb gliding right under the head like he showed you.

You shift forward. Let your lips ghost over the tip. Let him feel your breath first. Not teasing, not on purpose. Just… checking the temperature.

You feel the tension ripple through his thigh when you finally close your lips over him—soft, just the crown. Mouth warm and wet as it envelops the head, not too much suction yet. Just heat.

And then—yeah. You suckle. Gentle at first. Not a full draw, more of a tug.

His reaction is immediate.

Lips part. Chest jerks up half an inch.

One of those sounds again. Low. Raspy. A curse swallowed before it could hit air.

Your hand doesn’t stop. You keep it moving—slow pumps that glide down, then back up, thumb still catching that spot he likes every time you reach the top.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, voice low and rough around the edges. “That’s it. That’s—fuck—that’s the perfect pressure. Mmhm. Yeah.” 

His words come in stilted bursts, like they’re being dragged out of him against his will. 

“Keep… keep moving your hand while—ughhnn—keep sucking the tip.”

You do as he says because what else are you supposed to do? You’re not about to stop now—not when he’s making noises like that, not when his cock twitches every time your tongue flicks over the slit. 

But there’s this nagging thought in the back of your mind, this tiny voice that won’t shut up: 

Why isn’t he telling you to take the whole thing already?  

Isn’t that what most guys want? The whole deep-throat porn star routine? You’ve read enough smut (done it a couple times too) to know how this is supposed to go—or at least how it usually does. 

But Jungkook? 

He seems… content. Like he’s not in any rush to shove himself down your throat.  

Maybe he doesn’t want to rush it? Or maybe he’s just weird like that?  

Your eyes flick down to your hand. Analyze the movement. The rhythm. The way your fingers wrap around him, snug and slick, dragging up and down with just enough pressure to make him twitch but not enough to push him over. 

You remember how he did it. The angle. The squeeze. The way his thumb skimmed that spot under the head like it was a fucking button.

You mimic it again. Just to see.

And that’s when he exhales. Soft. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to let it out but can’t help himself. 

The sound drips from his lips like water hitting a rooftop—quiet, but sharp. A little hiss of breath that makes your thighs clench.

Then—

“Look at me.”

It’s not a command. Not barked. Just… said. Low and even. Like he’s asking for something simple. Like it’s no big deal.

But you don’t.

You kind of… ignore him. 

Not on purpose, really. 

It’s just—you’re embarrassed now, okay? 

You don’t want to look up and see his smug face while you’ve got his tip in your mouth like some idiot who doesn’t know what she’s doing. So you keep your eyes trained downward, focusing on the task at hand (and mouth).  

“Nix,” he says again, more pointed this time. “C’mon. Eyes up.”  

You want to bite him for that tone alone—like he’s daring you or something—but reluctantly, you glance up through your lashes. More of a glare than anything else because fuck him for making demands right now.  

He huffs out a laugh at your expression, shaking his head slightly like you’re hopeless or something equally annoying. 

“No, not like that. Like… big. Wide.” He pauses for half a second before adding with a grin: “Make your eyes pop.”  

You pull off his cock with an audible pop of its own because what the actual fuck is he talking about now? 

Your brows knit together as you scowl up at him, and he looks back at you with those stupid boba eyes of his—round and inquisitive like he doesn’t realize how ridiculous he sounds right now.

“Make them pop?” you echo, incredulous. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

He looks at you. Blinks once. Then shrugs, like he’s just now realizing how stupid he sounds.

“I don’t know, man. Just—make ‘em all wide and cute.”

You stare.

Then scoff. Loud. Disbelieving.

“You want me to look dumb and innocent while I suck your cock? That’s what you’re into?”

His eyes widen. “No—Jesus, no. Not like that.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously? Because you sound like a creep.”

He groans. “God, you’re always so fucking blabbermouthed.”

“And you’re always so fucking vague,” you shoot back.

He glares at you. “I don’t mean, like—virgin vibes, okay? I mean that look you get. When you’re being a little shit. When you’re pushing buttons and pretending you’re not. That’s what I like.”

You blink. Your mouth opens. Then closes again.

He leans forward slightly, voice dropping. “I want you to suck my fucking cock like it’s all you want, while pretending you’re not sucking my soul through it. That’s what I’m talking about. Not some weird creepy thing.”

“Oh.” 

You blink once before pursing your lips thoughtfully again. 

“…Okay.”

Because okay indeed. You know what he means.

You hate that you know what he means.

He rolls his eyes, but his cock hasn’t softened. If anything, it’s thicker now. Heavier. The head flushed a deeper pink, veins more prominent. Like he gets off on arguing with you. Like this whole back-and-forth is foreplay.

And maybe it is. He’s already said twice he likes it when you’re mouthy.

Is this what he wants? You pretending you don’t know what you’re doing while you absolutely do?

You take a deep breath before shifting forward again—this time making a conscious effort to widen your eyes as much as possible while looking up at him through your lashes.

Big and round and innocent or whatever. Like you have no idea what effect this is having on him—even though the way his breath catches in his throat tells you exactly what kind of power you hold right now.

And yeah… maybe this is what he wants: you, pretending not to know exactly what you're doing while totally knowing anyway.

So that’s what you give him.

Wide eyes locked on his face as your lips part once more—and then slowly close around the head of his cock again.

And then, your hand moves faster.

Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just—more. More pressure, more rhythm, more confidence. Like your body’s finally synced up with his. Like you’ve figured out the exact tempo that makes him twitch and grunt and grip the couch like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

And he’s feeling it.

Hard (okay that was kinda funny, don’t deny it). 

You can tell by the way his thighs tense under your palms, muscles flexing every time your fist glides down his shaft and back up again. By the way his abs jump when your thumb flicks under the head. By the way he’s breathing now—through his teeth, through his throat, like he’s trying not to make noise but losing the battle.

You keep your mouth soft around the tip. Suction just enough to make it wet and warm and tight. Tongue moving in slow, deliberate waves underneath—right there, under the crown, where he’s taught you he’s most sensitive. 

And it’s funny, because you can feel it. The way he jerks every time your tongue drags across that spot, the way his cock pulses in your mouth like it’s trying to say yes, that, again, more.

And you don’t stop.

You keep eye contact, too. Big, wide, innocent. Like you’re not doing anything special. Like you’re just here, hanging out, casually ruining his life with your mouth.

He looks down at you, and his face is—fuck.

Wrecked.

Brows scrunched, mouth half open, eyes glassy like he’s buffering. Like his brain’s trying to load the next thought but keeps getting stuck on your lips.

Then he groans.

Low and guttural and sharp, like it got dragged out of his chest with a hook.

“Oh my—fffuckkkk—”

His voice breaks halfway through the word, like his throat just gave up. His hand shoots out, grabbing the back of the couch, knuckles white.

“Fuckin’—god, Nix—”

You swirl your tongue again, slow and mean, and he whines.  Actually whines. Like a kicked puppy. 

“I’m gonna—” he pants, hips twitching up into your fist, “—I’m gonna bust a fat nut, I swear to god—”

You snort around him. Can’t help it. The phrase is so fucking stupid, so him, and so hot in the dumbest possible way.

He hears it. Groans again. Throws his head back against the couch cushion and drags a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically hold himself together.

“Don’t laugh at me, you little—fuck, that tongue—”

You do it again. That wave motion. Just to be a menace. Just to see if he’ll break.

He does.

"Y-you have no idea," he pants, Adam's apple bobbing frantically as he swallows between words. "No fucking clue what you do to me when you—hnngh—when you stare up at me with those goddamn eyes while my cock's in your mouth."

His voice is all over the place now. Cracked. Desperate. Like he's trying to keep it together but you're not giving him a single inch of relief.

"Angel," he breathes, and okay, that’s a first (but at least it’s not ‘baby’, ew?) "You're gonna make me cum so hard. So fucking hard I might black out."

Your tongue flicks again—right against that sensitive bundle—and his whole body jerks like you've touched a live wire.

"Christ,” he hisses through clenched teeth. "I can't—I can't even—"

You keep going.

Hand stroking faster. Tongue teasing. Mouth suctioning just the tip, just the crown, just enough to make him lose his mind.

"Nix," he warns, voice strained and desperate. "I'm right there. Right fucking there. You're about to make me—"

His cock pulses against your tongue, the tip growing impossibly harder, slick and hot and heavy in your mouth as his whole body gets visibly ready to detonate. 

“Nix,” he pants, voice raw and desperate. “Nix, I’m—I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

His breath catches. Swallowed back like it’s too big to spit out. His whole chest stutters with it, like the air’s too thick to pull in, like the pressure’s building faster than he can handle.

“Y’tongue,” he gasps, barely coherent, hips twitching up into your fist. “Stick—god, god god—stick it out f’me. Stick that pretty tongue out f’me, Nix. C’mon—”

You don’t hesitate. You just do it. Mouth popping off the head with a wet little tsk, tongue sliding out slow and flat, glistening with spit and still tinged with the taste of him. 

You hold it there, just like he asked.

And he groans.

“Look at—” he starts, but you’re already there. 

Already staring up at him with those same wide, round eyes he asked for. 

Tongue out, lips parted, face tilted up like you’re waiting for it.

He jerks forward, one hand flying to his cock, wrapping around himself and taking over. 

Fast. 

Rough. 

Desperate. 

Like he’s been holding back too long and now he’s got seconds left before he combusts.

“Yeah—ahhh—shit—ah—ah—fuck—”

And then—he breaks. Makes these little grunting, bitten-off noises—like he’s trying to hold them in but can’t. Like every spasm punches another sound out of him. Cums. Hard.

Hot, thick ropes strip across your face—cheeks, lips, chin. 

Some of it hits your tongue, sticky and salty and obscene. 

It drips down your jaw, slides over your skin in messy, wet streaks, and he’s still going. Still twitching. Still jerking himself through it like he’s trying to drain every last drop.

“Oh my god—” he chokes out, voice cracking. “Oh my fucking god—”

His head tips back, eyes blown wide and mouth slack with disbelief.

“You have the prettiest fucking eyes, Nix.”

And he sounds so, so wrecked while he says it, that you can’t help but believe him.

Like it’s the filthiest thing he’s ever said. Or maybe the most honest. 

You don’t know why your chest twists into knots. 

You don’t know why his eyes, hazed, dizzy, looking down at you is suddenly one of your favorite views. 

But you did it. You excelled at it. 

And Jungkook liked it. 

That’s what matters. 

He gives his cock a few lazy strokes, working the last drops out like he’s wringing water from a sponge, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths.

Your eyes catch on the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone and the way his lips are parted just enough for his tongue to dart out to wet them.  

“Fuck…” he mutters. “Fucking hell.” 

Another breath, deeper this time, like he’s trying to find his footing again. 

“That was fucking amazing.”  

You smile—small, sly, the kind of smile that doesn’t need to try too hard. 

“That easy, huh?”  

He snorts, running a hand through his hair, pushing it back from where it’s fallen into his eyes. 

“When you’ve got a mouth like yours? Yeah.”  

The compliment shouldn’t make your cheeks warm. It’s just Jungkook being Jungkook, all cockiness and shameless flirting. But still, you feel a flutter of… something. 

Pride, maybe. Or just the lingering high of having him completely at your mercy.

You push yourself up from your knees slowly, legs stiff from being on the tile for too long. There’s a moment where you think he might reach out to steady you—his hand twitches like it’s considering it—but he doesn’t. Just watches as you stand and brush your hands down your thighs like that’ll somehow make this whole thing feel less messy.  

“Gonna clean this mess up,” you say, already turning toward the bathroom before he can respond.  

“Want me to help?” His voice follows you—soft but not hesitant. Like it’s just something he’d offer anyone without thinking twice about it.  

You pause mid-step, glancing over your shoulder at him. 

He’s still seated on the couch, pants and boxers shoved down his hips, shirt rumpled and sticking to his skin in places. He looks ridiculous and hot at the same time—like someone who just got thoroughly wrecked but hasn’t quite figured out how to pull himself back together yet.

And for some reason—maybe because he asked so easily—you feel your throat tighten awkwardly.

“Uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing against the edge of the doorway as you try to find the right words. “No. No, I’m fine.”  

He doesn’t say anything at first—just purses his lips slightly and nods like he’s accepting your answer even if he doesn’t entirely believe it.  

It should be awkward, but it’s… not. Not entirely. Just unfamiliar. 

New territory you’re not sure how to navigate.

“…But thank you,” you add quickly before darting into the bathroom like a coward.

When was the last time you thanked Jungkook for anything?

You lean against the door for a moment, eyes closed, trying to process what just happened. Not just the blowjob—that part’s easy enough to compartmentalize—but the rest of it. 

Not the banter either, you do that too. 

The almost-friendly moment afterward.

It felt… nice. Easy, even. 

Like maybe being friends with Jungkook wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

Maybe that’s why you step out after cleaning your face, instead of hiding in your room like you normally would. 

Maybe that’s why your eyes search for his as you enter the living room.

He’s already sprawled out like nothing happened. One arm stretched across the back cushions, legs spread wide in that annoying way men always seem to take up space. He’s even cracked one of the floor-to-ceiling windows open, letting in a cool breeze that’s slowly clearing out the lingering scent of sex.

Griffin’s curled against his side, purring loudly as Jungkook absently scratches under his chin. The cat gives you a lazy blink when you appear, like he knows exactly what you’ve been doing and is judging you for it.

You clear your throat, crossing your arms over your chest. Your eyes drift to the TV—some car restoration show you don’t recognize playing—before finding their way back to him.

“So,” you start, the word hanging awkwardly in the air between you. “Do you have plans this afternoon?”

He looks up, one eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “After you get off work, you mean?”

“Yeah.” You shift your weight, suddenly feeling awkward. “I’m done at five.”

Why is this awkward? You just had his dick in your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Asking about his schedule shouldn’t feel more intimate than that. 

“No plans.” His fingers continue their gentle scratching behind Griffin’s ears, the cat purring so loudly you can hear it from where you’re standing. “Why? You offering something better than my thrilling agenda of watching YouTube guitar tutorials and ordering takeout?”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “There’s this new exhibit at the MoMA I’ve been wanting to check out. Photography thing.” 

You shrug like it doesn’t matter either way. Like you’re not actually inviting him to do something that doesn’t involve getting naked. 

“Thought maybe you’d be into it. Being a film major and all.”

“Phoenix wants to hang out with me? Voluntarily? Without the promise of orgasms? I’m shocked.”

“Forget it,” you mutter, already turning toward your room. “It was just a thought.”

“Hey, no—wait.” He sits up straighter, disturbing Griffin who gives an annoyed meow. “I’m in. The photography exhibit sounds cool.”

You pause, glancing back at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and for once, there’s no teasing edge to his voice. “I’ll meet you after work? We could grab dinner after, if you want.”

“Sure.” You try to sound casual, like this isn’t the first time you’ve made actual plans together. “There’s this place in the East Village I’ve been wanting to try. Nothing fancy, just… food.”

“Food is good. I’m a fan of food.” He grins.

“Great. I’ll text you when I’m done.” You head toward your room, needing to get ready for work. 

“Sure, Nix.”

As you close your bedroom door, you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. This feels suspiciously like the friendship you’ve been so adamantly avoiding. 

But maybe—just maybe—it wouldn’t be the end of the world to actually enjoy his company with your clothes on for once.

Besides, you need to keep him occupied until eight. Yoongi had been very specific about the timing when he texted you this morning about Jungkook’s surprise birthday dinner.

Keep him out until 8. Taehyung and Hobi are setting up. Don’t mention ramen.

And yet, he hasn’t even spoken about his birthday to you. 

What kind of person doesn’t mention their own birthday? 

The same kind who makes protein pancakes and pretends everything’s fine when it’s clearly not, probably.

You check your phone. 9:15. Plenty of time to get ready for work and figure out how to navigate this strange new territory where you and Jungkook do normal people things together. 

Like friends.

The word still feels foreign, uncomfortable. 

But not entirely wrong.

goal: 500 notes.

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© jungkoode 2025 no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[transrevolutions]

okay hear me out. what if 'trevor herbert' is jonah magnus. what then.

all the tmagp-versions of tma characters we've seen can honestly, in my opinion, be feasible variations of their tma selves. yes, even gerry. he seems very different, but iirc in a qna it was stated that gerry's the sort of person who genuinely does believe in goodness and the like, it just got stamped out of him by growing up with mary and the fears. so in a universe where that wasn't the case, I can totally see him being cheerful and friendly.

trevor, on the other hand, feels fundamentally wrong. especially given his profession. all the tmagp-tma crossover characters (that we've met! I'm not counting the maybe-jon and maybe-martin because we don't even know if they're the same people!) have jobs that align with their tma selves. basira goes from being a cop to being a school administrator- both positions of authority/control. helen is still a swanky tory real estate agent. gerry is an artist, and it's mentioned he painted in tma as well. georgie does a podcast. gertrude has a mysterious past, and it's implied she was connected to the institute at some point.

but trevor goes from being a homeless monster hunter to.... a member of parliment who drives a bentley? there's no connection there. and he doesn't act like tma trevor in any way either! there's no dedication to hunting about him, even in the metaphorical sense. if anything, he "prefers a hands-off approach" as of episode 30. trevor herbert in tma was the polar opposite of that, one of the most 'hands on' characters in the series. but who else has a penchant for watching without interfering until something actually threatens his vision?

would it be too much of a stretch to posit that jonah, weakened from his institute's destruction, ends up posessing the first body he can get his hands on, steering this new alter ego towards a government position of authority, then to monitoring the OIAR, so similar yet so different from the institute he failed to preserve? what if, when he says gwendolyn bouchard has "quality", he's not just talking about her heritage? what if he's starting to look for his next mark?

anyways, I found an interesting little detail while rereading some transcripts. in the magnus protocol, the first mention of both (presumably) jonah magnus and trevor herbert, MP is in episode 27: driven. before that, they were not named, and trevor was referred to just as "the minister".

now that's a fun little coincidence as it is, but if we return to tma, we notice that trevor's first statement is in episode 10: vampire killer. and elias/jonah's first actual appearance (outside of jon referencing that he's his boss) is in episode 17: the boneturner's tale. 10 + 17 = 27.

WHICH COULD MEAN NOTHING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[hardly-an-escape]

sweet | Buck/Tommy | 1750 words | rated T

let's go back to a simpler time, when we were all thinking about what might happen after their coffee date. this was originally intended to be a prequel to my fic dance with me (I want my arms around you) and at least twice as long, but the second half has been fighting me for months so I figured I'd just share what I have.

“Okay.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” “Okay, great.”

~~~

Evan insists on throwing away the coffee he’d gotten for Tommy and buying him a new one, one he’ll actually enjoy, which is both wholly unnecessary – Tommy has drunk a lot of subpar coffee over the years – and very endearing.

“Let me treat you to something. Please,” Evan says, and he’s so sweet, so sincere, that Tommy relents. Tells him his coffee order – not that it was some big secret – and accepts the replacement cup with a smile. And if their hands brush, when Evan hands it over, and if Tommy lets their fingers linger against each other, well. That’s fine. That’s more than fine.

They talk for the better part of an hour, about everything and nothing: people they both know in the department; the crazy calls they’ve responded to, and the handful they realize they may have been working from opposite sides over the years; shows they’ve been watching and books they’ve been reading. Tommy is strangely delighted to learn that Evan is more of a reader than a watcher – that when they get on the subject of murder mysteries, he knows all about Agatha Christie’s mysterious disappearance in 1926, but takes a minute to remember what Law & Order is. It makes Tommy feel like maybe the ten years’ age difference isn’t such a big gap after all.

Evan doesn’t stop smiling the entire time.

When their coffee cups are empty he glances down at his hands. He’s still smiling, but he looks a little nervous all of a sudden.

“So, uh, what are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?” he asks. “Because th-there’s this farmer’s market a couple of blocks over, I was thinking about swinging through? If you wanted to check it out?”

Tommy’s sure his grin back is almost embarrassing in its enthusiasm. He gently lays a hand on top of one of Evan’s, a mirror of their earlier touch.

“I’ve got some time,” he says. “Let’s go.”

The farmer’s market is almost painfully charming. The coffee shop Evan had chosen, despite the bougie LA vibes of the patio, was a real hometown neighborhood kind of place, and the market is no different. There are local bakeries and sandwich shops with booths; abuelas selling pickles on card tables and a church selling honey from the beehives that apparently surround their community garden. There’s a kid with an honest-to-god lemonade stand.

It’s absolutely delightful. Evan flits from booth to table, utterly in his element, making friends with kids and abuelas alike. He buys a jar of local honey and one of pickled kohlrabi – a vegetable Tommy is fairly sure he had a vague idea was a real thing that exists – and lingers in front of a display of romanesco broccoli for a while with a speculative look that’s starting to make Tommy almost apprehensive, before something else grabs his attention and he’s moving down the row, asking questions about someone’s backyard flock of chickens.

Tommy learns a lot about Evan in the hour they spend wandering the market. He hears a lot about his cooking adventures, of course; Evan is cheerfully unembarrassed about how disastrous some of his kitchen experiments have been, but seems to genuinely treat everything as a learning experience. He hears a lot about the other members of the 118, especially Captain Nash, and starts to form a picture of just how fundamentally things have changed there since he transferred out.

He’s so glad, in wistful kind of way, that the satisfaction and support Evan clearly gets from his work and his firehouse family was never quashed by questionable leadership. He wonders what things would have been like for him, if he’d had someone like Bobby Nash in his corner from the beginning, like Evan has. If he’d be as joyful, as unselfconscious.

If he’d have been able, like Evan, to grab a man he was interested by the elbow to excitedly point out someone selling fresh donuts from a cart on the corner, and slide his hand down his forearm, and tangle their fingers together in order to tug him down the street.

Tommy looks down at where their hands are interlaced. Big hands, firefighters’ hands; calloused and scarred and hairy. At first he thinks Evan hasn’t even noticed what he’s done, and then he looks back up and catches those blue eyes, the hint of a smile in them. Then Evan squeezes his hand and raises it deliberately, just a little, just enough that the message is clear: Yes, I’m doing this on purpose. Yes, I like you. I want to hold your hand and buy you donuts and make you smile in this perfect sunshine.

Tommy is beginning to realize that he might be in the best kind of trouble.

They do get the donuts, which are made by an ingenious and frankly hypnotizing little contraption that squirts out perfect circles of dough, floats them down a river of hot oil, and automatically flips them, at which point the vendor scoops them out, sprinkles them with cinnamon sugar, and hands them over in a paper bag, piping hot.

Eventually, Tommy glances regretfully at his watch.

“I hate to say this, but I’ve got an appointment at 4:00, so I should probably get going.”

“Oh, no worries!” If Evan’s disappointed, he doesn’t let it show in the tone of his voice, or in his smile as they turn to head back to where their cars are parked.

“Hey, uh, before you go.” Evan ducks his head and looks up through his eyelashes with that shy smile he has that absolutely slices through every one of Tommy’s defenses like a hot knife through butter.

Tommy’s pretty sure Evan genuinely had no idea how sweetly flirtatious he’d looked the first couple of times he’d aimed that smile in Tommy’s direction – but he might be catching up, if the way he slouches back invitingly against the door of his Jeep is any indication. They’re standing so close together that Tommy can get just a whiff of some kind of herbal-smelling aftershave or cologne that Evan is wearing.

“Before I go?” Tommy prompts.

“Just, real quick,” Evan says, and hooks one finger between the buttons of Tommy’s henley, and tugs him gently into a kiss.

Sweet, is all Tommy has time to think before his eyes flutter closed and he’s leaning in, one hand still in his hoodie pocket and the other coming to rest on Evan’s hip. God, he’s sweet.

The kiss is gentle. Soft. Just lips, and their noses barely brushing together, and the sounds of birdsong and traffic in the background. Tommy pulls back to take a breath and Evan is beaming at him, eyes so bright and blue that Tommy can’t help but lean in and kiss him again.

And okay, maybe this kiss is pushing the boundaries of what’s appropriate for a coffee shop parking lot, because it only takes about half a second before Evan’s tongue is teasing at Tommy’s bottom lip, and then Tommy learns that Evan’s mouth tastes like coffee, and like the donuts they’d shared.

It’s their third kiss, technically, and Tommy realizes he already can’t wait to find out what Evan’s mouth tastes like on their fourth kiss, and on their fifth. He can’t wait to lose track of the number of kisses he’s shared with this man, who is earnest and kind and who flexes one hand against Tommy’s chest like he wants to dig his fingers in and stay there. Who chases after Tommy’s mouth when he pulls back to breathe again, who makes the tiniest little noise of disgruntlement, of longing, when they separate.

For a heartbeat they just look at each other. Then:

“Wow,” Evan says, mostly under his breath, and clears his throat, and smiles like the sun. “I, uh. I really like kissing you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Tommy says. “Because I really like kissing you, too.”

“Good. That is good.” Evan grins at him. “You know, it’s – it’s kind of stupid, but after I fumbled our first date I just kept thinking, ‘Damn, I didn’t even get the chance to kiss him again.’ So, uh, thanks for giving me another chance.”

“Thanks for asking for one, Evan,” Tommy says.

For another several heartbeats they just look at each other, and look some more. Tommy can feel the smile blooming across his face, and he knows he must look like a fool, and he cannot bring himself to care.

“I really do need to get going,” he says after a minute.

“Yeah! Yeah, don’t let me keep you,” Evan says. Keep me, Tommy thinks. “What are you up to for the rest of the week? I mean, do you want to get together again before the wedding? I’m throwing Chim a bachelor party, you definitely should come to that at least.”

“Got a long run of shifts coming up,” Tommy says. “One of our guys is out on parental leave, so I’m pulling overtime. But text me. We’ll figure something out.”

“Okay, sounds good. I’ll text you.” Evan’s smile is so wide that his dimples look deep enough to swim in.

Tommy can’t help himself. He darts back in for one more swift peck, but ends up mostly missing Evan’s lips and clumsily kissing the corner of his mouth instead. It doesn’t even matter. They’re both smiling so hard it wouldn’t have been much of a kiss anyway.

He manages to restrain himself and only glances over his shoulder at Evan once as he walks across the parking lot to his truck.

Okay. Maybe twice.

Twenty minutes later, he’s halfway to his appointment – only running a little late – when his phone chimes where he tossed it on the passenger seat.

He picks it up after he’s parked. Three texts from Evan Buckley.

so is it too soon to text u or…?

I had a really great time today

I’ll be thinking about you all day, hope that’s ok

Tommy smiles to himself, alone in his car. It takes him a minute to figure out what he wants to write back, but eventually he taps out:

Me too. And that’s more than okay. In fact the feeling is mutual ;)

He should feel embarrassed; he’s really not a smiley face kind of guy. But when Evan texts back a simple :D about two seconds later, he’s pretty sure he’s floating on air as he jumps out of his truck and shoves his keys in his pocket.

[wilwheaton]

Hey Wil, this is out of left field, but you’ve done some work that might have been dubbed into other languages.

Have you ever viewed anything you’ve done in a dubbed version? I can’t imagine what it’s like watching yourself on screen, but it’s got to be pretty trippy to watch yourself performing with a stranger’s voice coming out.

Just wondered. Hope you’re having a great day. Please give Marlowe & Watson scritches from me. 💜

Oh my god. Yes. I have one story and WOW is it weird.

So, in the early 90s, when TNG was dubbed for Germany, the actor they cast to voice Wesley made this choice (or was directed) to be obnoxiously whiny. Like, it could not have been more wrong for the character, and farther away from my performance. This person made Wesley a bratty, whiny, snotty kid. Like, WOW, did they fundamentally change how German audiences experienced this character.

I had no idea, because in the early 90s, the world was bigger than it is today. But I saw LOTS of letters and comments in magazines (and on Usenet) from Trekkies in Germany who fucking HATED Wesley with a firey passion that was even more intense than the way protoincels hated him in America. I didn't understand why, specifically in Germany, he was so despised.

Fast forward to ... I want to say 2011? Maybe 2012? Somewhere around there. I went to Germany for a convention. It was my first time ever visiting the country, and meeting lots of German fans all at once. And over the course of my first day, I began to hear stories from people who hated Wesley, until they heard him in English. In German, he was a whiny little punk, in English, he was ... well, you know who he was.

I wish I knew who made the choice to portray Wesley that way, and why, and why the mothership in Hollywood didn't intervene. I mean, he's just a profoundly different character in German.

I still haven't seen or heard the German dub. Last time I looked, I couldn't find it and I haven't looked again, since.

But now I wonder ... how many anime dubs did I watch over the years where the characters were totally different in English than they are in their original language?

[shinynewmemories]

The exchange between Peeta and Gale in Tigris's basement used to be my least favorite scene in the entire book. I hated how it made Katniss out to be a heartless drone whose only motivation is survival. But I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and I'm now convinced I grossly misinterpreted the purpose of the passage the first times I read it. I don't think it's about Gale revealing some sage wisdom about Katniss; I think it's a revelation about how far gone Katniss and Gale's relationship truly is, and how little he understands the way she loves. AND it's about how much better Peeta understands Katniss, even in his half-hijacked state. Let me break it apart a tad to explain what I mean:

“She loves you, you know,” says Peeta. “She as good as told me after they whipped you.”

Peeta is correct on both counts. Katniss DOES love Gale, and in CF, she internally refers back to the whipping as the moment she "chose" Gale over Peeta. Peeta knew it then, and he knows it now.

“Don’t believe it,” Gale answers. “The way she kissed you in the Quarter Quell... well, she never kissed me like that.”

Correct, but it's interesting that Gale refers to THAT moment on the beach as proof that Katniss loves Peeta. Because on one hand, that WAS the first time she felt and displayed sexual desire for anyone. But on the other hand, I would argue that there was lots more evidence for Katniss's love for Peeta; "anyone paying attention" could see it. So why does Gale point to the one time things got hot and heavy between them?

“It was just part of the show,” Peeta tells him, although there’s an edge of doubt in his voice.

Incorrect, but I'll give him half credit for the "edge of doubt" in his voice.

“No, you won her over. Gave up everything for her. Maybe that’s the only way to convince her you love her.” 

Here's where Gale starts talking kinda crazy. Since when has the issue been convincing KATNISS that HE (or Peeta) loved HER? Since the end of book 1, there has never been the slightest doubt in Katniss's mind that Peeta loved her. And she's never doubted Gale's love, although she admits it caught her off guard. Does Gale actually think that if Katniss could just SEE how much he loves her, she'd have no choice but to marry him? Or does he think Katniss is holding back because he hasn't "given up everything" for her? Either way, he paints Katniss as a fundamentally untrusting and self-centered person.

Also, he implies that Katniss needs to be "won over", that she needs to be PERSUADED to love either of them... Yikes. It's like he actually believes Katniss doesn't have the emotional capabilities of falling in love all on her own.

There’s a long pause. “I should have volunteered to take your place in the first Games. Protected her then.”

Incorrect! Over to Peeta for an explanation of why that would have been a Colossally Stupid idea:

“You couldn’t,” says Peeta. “She’d never have forgiven you. You had to take care of her family. They matter more to her than her life.”

DING DING DING DING! I just picture Peeta making a ????????no??? face as Gale says he should have volunteered for him. Like?? Can you IMAGINE? Book 1 Katniss would have been screaming at Gale like "you absolute IDIOT. WHY would you throw your life and the lives of your and/or my family away. And for WHAT? MORON."

But I get it. Gale is saying this out of desperation. Because he can't say "I wish you had died in those games" (although perhaps that is how he's felt once or twice). And to be fair, if Peeta had never been in those games with Katniss, things between them now would be very... different. (shhhhh Gale doesn't have to know about the whole "this would've happened anyway" thing)

“Well, it won’t be an issue much longer. I think it’s unlikely all three of us will be alive at the end of the war. And if we are, I guess it’s Katniss’s problem. Who to choose.” Gale yawns. “We should get some sleep.”

Correct, nothing to object to here.

“Yeah.” I hear Peeta’s handcuffs slide down the support as he settles in. “I wonder how she’ll make up her mind.”

Even though Peeta is more in sync with Katniss, he doesn't presume to know how her romantic side works. Gotta respect that.

“Oh, that I do know.” I can just catch Gale’s last words through the layer of fur. “Katniss will pick whoever she thinks she can’t survive without.”

So I ask: if Gale is shown throughout this exchange to be mostly wrong about Katniss's motivations, desires, and possibly her whole personality, why would we believe he's correct about this?? I think the only conclusion is that he's NOT.

I'll end by adding Katniss's opinion about Gale's assertion:

It’s a horrible thing for Gale to say, for Peeta not to refute. Especially when every emotion I have has been taken and exploited by the Capitol or the rebels.

Katniss is DEEPLY hurt by what Gale said. And I no longer believe it's because it's the truth about HER. I think it's because it's the truth about how Gale sees her, and he sees her in a very hurtful (albeit incorrect) way.

[nothorses]

This is a genuine ask and I hope it doesn't come off as rude, obviously people can do whatever they want forever, but what is the logic behind a lesbian dating a transgender man? (By lesbian I mean someone who is only attracted to women), wouldn't that exclude binary trans men then since trans men are men? Or is it like "Trans men can be lesbians because they have vaginas" which just feels like bioessentialism with progressive wording...

I think the core misunderstanding here might be in your use of the word "logic". And there's a super high chance I'm extrapolating more intention than you put into that word choice, but hear me out.

On a super basic level, I think it's important to understand the reasons people use words like "lesbian" and "trans man" in the first place. In certain contexts, it makes sense to assign these terms more rigid definitions: a study would likely have a single, clear definition for those words in order to talk about some research results. An academic essay might need a shared definition if they're talking about broad trends and systemic issues.

But when we're talking about an individual's choice of identity labels- the words they use to describe their own personal experiences and relationship to gender and orientation- it doesn't make as much sense to apply someone else's definition of those words to that individual's use of them. They're trying to describe their own internal world to you; what matters in that conversation is how they understand the words they use, and why they chose them.

Don't get me wrong: common understandings of a word can play a part in that conversation! My understanding of what "gay trans man" means has been shaped almost entirely by other people. I chose those words for myself because of what I think most people will understand them to mean. In twenty years, it's possible that the common understandings of those words could change, and I might use different words to better communicate the same internal experience.

But I also might not. I might decide that my personal connection to those words is more important to me, or even that saying I'm a "gay trans man", as a person 20 years older than I am now, better reflects my internal experience as one that was shaped by the time I came to understand myself in. Maybe it'll be important to me to communicate that I understand myself as a "gay trans man" because of what those words meant 20 years ago. Maybe it'll be important to me to ask tomorrow's queer people to learn about my context, and my story, in order to really understand me.

And maybe, when I fill out a survey for a queer study in 20 years, I'll read the definitions they use for all of these identity labels and categorize myself accordingly, even though I don't personally identify with those definitions or words.

So yeah, I could talk about all the reasons someone might identify as a "lesbian" and still be attracted to trans men. I could talk about trans men who still call themselves "lesbians" because of what the words meant 20 or 40 years ago, or some unique definition they heard in one place and decided they liked enough to keep, even though nobody else has even heard it. I could talk about lesbians whose partners turn out to be trans men, and who still feel attracted to them afterwards; whose partners are okay with, or even feel validated by, their lesbian partners still calling themselves "lesbians". I could talk about nonbinary trans men, and bigender or multigender trans men, who are women and/or lesbians as much as they are trans men. I could talk about bi and pan lesbians, who may find themselves attracted to one trans man or a handful of men- trans and cis both- but otherwise mostly experience attraction to women.

But like, the point shouldn't be to find a good enough reason to justify it. The point isn't the "logic". The point is to understand that everyone's internal experience is fundamentally different from yours, and to be curious about each individual.

It's great that you asked this question in sincerity, but I'm the wrong person to be asking.

When someone says they're a lesbian who's attracted to trans men, they're trying to share something about themselves with you! That is a precious, unique thing you are being entrusted with. Get curious! Ask them what those words mean to them, and take the opportunity to get to know them better. Learn their story! Connect!

I can't tell you that person's story any more than you can guess it on your own, no matter how much you try to logic it out. That's exciting! The world is big, and it's full of unique stories and perspectives you couldn't even dream of inventing! That's so much better than a logic puzzle, don't you think?

[michanvalentine]

Some of my favorite lines—among the saddest—that Astarion has ever said. Every time I hear them, delivered so perfectly by Neil, my heart aches. I'm sharing them with you because my husband can't take hearing me talk about Astarion and Baldur's Gate anymore!

"It’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me." There’s an entire world behind this line: the expression on his face, the tone of his voice. There’s sadness and resignation. This is how things work—this is who he is. The person in front of him is no different from the others, just another one who wants to lose themselves in him, use him for their own pleasure, and then move on as if nothing happened. Not only that, but it's also the same old charade used to deliver unsuspecting victims to the slaughter. The same old script, one he’s tired of, one that causes him pain. His eyes grow sad as he says it, his shoulders sink, his lips curve downward, and everything about him exudes bitterness. In that moment, amidst sweet words and sensual movements, the real Astarion comes out, carrying all the heavy baggage he’s been burdened with.

"Maybe, but did he take it." Cazador is dead, Astarion won, he’s alive, and he’s free. But the death of his tormentor didn’t turn back time, the death of the monster didn’t undo the damage or return what was stolen. It’s a powerful, terrifying, and painful realization, especially when you think about how these things—these parts of Astarion—were taken and erased. Because what is gone wasn’t just lost—it was replaced with suffering, shame, anger, hatred, and horrific experiences. These are memories that will stay with him for the rest of his un-life, memories he’ll have to battle every single day.

"All right, I’ll do it." The way he says it, after Tav/Durge delves into his mind and uses his greatest fear against him, is utterly heartbreaking. Once again, there’s resignation, but there’s also fear and, worst of all, a hint of submission. In that moment, Tav/Durge is the embodiment of Cazador. They bring back his most horrifying experience, fill him with pure terror, and remind him of how useless, weak, and pathetic he is—unable to defend himself. It makes him feel small again, lost, and willing to do anything just to feel safe. And this is coming from the very person who, up until that moment (unless the player is a complete sociopath xP), had been helping him regain a shred of self-worth and independence. It’s truly a low blow, a betrayal—especially because Astarion depends on Tav/Durge, much like he depended on Cazador, but in a positive way instead of a negative one. They force him, against his will, to do something he doesn’t want to do, and with that statement, Astarion seems to be saying, “Yes, master.”

"I didn’t know how to say no." This one is heartbreaking too, it hits right in the heart. It really hurts, especially in context, but also in general. Saying "no" is a fundamental right of every free individual. But Astarion doesn’t say that he can’t say no—he says he doesn’t know how to say it. And that’s truly sad, because at this point, it’s no longer just an external imposition; it’s something internalized. And of course, it goes without saying that here too, Tav/Durge took advantage of Astarion—of his inability to defend himself, to immediately recognize and stop behavior that should be shut down at the first sign because it’s harmful to him. Once again, Tav/Durge betrays him in the worst way, right after an agonizing confession, no less—Astarion opens up and admits to having very real struggles with sex.

Do you have any favorite lines too? Obviously, there are a billion more funny ones, but I’m afraid I’d need an entire day to write down all my favorites. I just love this little shit too much. xD

[thetableshavetabled]

I saw a comment u made on another post about andrew drugging neil and I thought one thing u said was rlly interesting -

it was about Roland's and andrews relationship, I'm paraphrasing but I think u said something like Roland wouldn't get the 'yes or no' that Neil does because andrew 1) doesn't rlly care about Roland personally & 2) Andrew has no promise to protect Roland

I agree completely, but I've never seen anybody else say it! Andrew often gets portrayed by fans like he would always ask for consent this way, and I never rlly agreed. I don't think he would ignore Roland telling him to stop or anything, but I don't think he'd be considerate or careful like he is with neil.

If u have anymore thoughts on their relationship or andrew or roland in general, I'd love to hear it :)

Thanks for giving me an excuse to dig into this! To talk about Roland I first want to talk about the fandom's misconceptions of Andrew.

The way some fans try to retroactively frame Andrew's handling of Neil as a universal consent practice completely misses why it exists specifically with Neil. This comes up especially now that AFTG has reached platforms like TikTok, where I often see claims like "Andrew wouldn't have drugged people, he cares about consent" or the Allison incident or even, most insane to me, how Andrew shouldn't have kissed Neil that first time on the rooftop without asking first. These interpretations fundamentally misunderstand Andrew's character.

Frankly, I don't understand why you would bother to advcate that a character is acting out of character in the canon material. That just means you don't like the character, which is fine. "The monsters were never redeemed" (which was the original post where I left my comment) is much more textually accurate and a much better take than trying to sanitize Andrew's actions.

Understanding why Andrew and the other Monsters act as they do isn't the same as justifying their actions and people should be a lot more comfortabe enjoying morally gray characters, or, even better, just admit you don't like them. Fans do that with Kevin, Aaron and Nicky all the time, but with Andrew they struggle because they love this cute little gay ship with their soft kisses and touch him and die trope. The desire to ship Andreil seems to create this pressure to soften and force Andrew into a romance booktok mold when the real beauty of their relationship lies in how they accept each other's sharp edges and scars.

Take Andrew drugging Neil, for instance. We can understand the strategic reasoning (keeping Neil from running, maintaining control, protecting Kevin) while still recognizing it as a violation. The same goes for his violence toward Allison or his blowout at Katelyn or how he treats Aaron. Understanding that these actions stem from Andrew's trauma, his protection mechanisms, and his "nothing" philosophy doesn't require us to retroactively frame them as morally acceptable.

We are repeatedly shown that Andrew is not a character who cares about others' boundaries. From the moment we meet him and right until the end he shows this. Andrew is not a good person, and he is not mentally well. He's complex, traumatized, and his actions make sense within his characterization, even when, or maybe especially when they're morally questionable.

This brings us to Roland. With Roland, Andrew has a pragmatic arrangement that lets him focus on his own needs without managing someone else's trauma or emotions. Their dynamic works because:

Roland is experienced and emotionally self-sufficient.

Andrew doesn't have to manage his emotional state or trauma responses.

There's an established history that makes Roland a "safe" option.

Neil was always going to be different. The combination of Andrew's promise to protect him, Neil's extensive trauma history, and his complete inexperience with intimacy shattered every one of Andrew's patterns. Where others fit into clear categories - threat, asset, occasional outlet - Neil defied classification from the beginning. With Roland, it's pragmatic: they both know what they want and can handle themselves accordingly. With Neil's inexperience and extensive trauma and the deepness of the relationship it shakes up everything. If Roland had shown the kind of ambiguous consent that Neil does on the rooftop Andrew would never have pushed through or done anything but stop immediately, but he wouldn't have worked through it either. He would just simply not have approached Roland again.

It is less about "yes or no" even though i initally used that phrase and most about "I won't be like them. I won't let you let me be." It exists specifically because of Neil's circumstances and Andrew's promise to protect him. It's not a universal approach to consent, it's about their unique dynamic and mutual understanding of trauma.

This ties into a larger discussion of how Andrew sometimes gets "fanon-ized" in ways that smooth over his complexities and contradictions. He is not someone who is conventionally "good" or mentally well, but whose actions make sense within his own internal logic and experiences. The Andrew who shows careful consideration for Neil's boundaries, who gets in the shower fully clothed, who asks 'yes or no', is the same Andrew who drugged Neil, nearly stabbed Nicky, and almost killed Allison. Not to mention driving under the influence and, of course, literal manslaughter.

This is not to say Andrew doesn't evolve as a character, of course, but not in a conventional redemptive way. Without turning this into a full character analysis I will sum it up like this: Andrew's character arc is about him going from nothing to something.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind The Lens | Joe's POV | Part Three

📸 Catch up on Behind the Lens — in case you're behind 👀

📝 Read all my stories on the Masterlist

✨ Join the taglist so you never miss a story ✨

💌 It’s Friday night, I’m up late — let’s talkkkkkkkkkkkkk

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 21.4k

📩 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: And just like that… Joe’s POV is done.

This one pushed me in ways I didn’t totally expect. Writing it alongside Y/N’s POV, trying to keep everything aligned emotionally and logistically, was honestly kind of a beast. Especially with how long my chapters are—every scene had so much to carry. But I’m really proud of how it turned out. My biggest goal was to stay true to Joe’s internal voice while keeping the emotional beats consistent with what we already saw from Y/N. That meant rereading a lot, reworking scenes to make sure they still hit from his perspective, and sitting with some hard silences that I think needed to be felt instead of filled. Thank you for your patience while I figured this out. Truly. I hope the payoff feels worth it. And as always—I’d love to hear what landed for you, what made you feel things, or just your favorite lines. You know I’m in the comments all night.

Let’s talk. I’m up for a while. 💬

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

Tuesday Morning - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at the ceiling of his bedroom, the same position he'd been in for the past hour. Sleep had become impossible since that night in the edit bay. Every time he closed his eyes, he was back there—Y/N's hands in his hair, the way she'd kissed him back with equal desperation, the taste of everything they'd held back for five years finally given permission. His phone sat on the nightstand, screen dark and silent. He'd drafted seventeen different messages to Y/N over the past three days, deleting each one before he could send it.

Are you okay?

Delete.

Can we talk about what happened?

Delete.

I meant every word I said.

Delete.

The problem was that everything felt either too much or too little. Too casual for something that had fundamentally shifted his entire understanding of what he wanted. Too intense for a woman who'd asked for space to think clearly.

* * *

Tuesday - Facility Encounters

Joe arrived at the facility with a strategy. Act normal. Give Y/N space. Don't push for conversations she wasn't ready to have. Be the same professional, controlled Joe Burrow he'd been for five years. The strategy lasted exactly twenty-three minutes.

He spotted her in the hallway near the media offices, files clutched against her chest like armor, that focused expression she wore when she was managing multiple priorities. The sight of her made everything else fade—not because she looked different, but because she looked exactly the same while everything inside him had changed.

Their eyes met across the corridor. For a fraction of a second, Joe saw something flicker in her expression—surprise, warmth, maybe recognition of the man who'd kissed her like his life depended on it three days ago. Then the professional mask slid back into place.

"Morning, Joe," she said as they passed, her tone pleasant but distant. The same tone she'd use with any other player.

"Morning," he replied, matching her formality even as every instinct screamed at him to stop her, to ask about the kiss, to demand to know if she'd felt what he'd felt. But she was already moving past him, disappearing into her office without looking back. Joe stood in the empty hallway, feeling like he'd just failed a test he didn't know he was taking.

* * *

Tuesday Evening - 07:47 PM

Joe couldn't focus on the film in front of him. The defensive formations blurred together as his mind kept drifting to how Y/N had treated him that morning—like he was just another player, like nothing had changed. The silence between them was killing him. Three days of careful distance, of pretending that kiss had never happened, of watching her retreat behind walls he'd finally managed to break down.

Finally, he typed: Are you okay?

Simple. Direct. Giving her an out if she needed one, but letting her know he was thinking about her. That he'd been thinking about her constantly since Sunday night. He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately regretted it. Too simple. Too safe. After everything he'd said in that edit bay, after the way she'd kissed him back, "are you okay?" felt like he was hiding behind politeness.

The message showed as delivered. Then read. Joe stared at the screen, waiting for the three dots that would indicate she was typing back.

Nothing.

He set the phone aside, running his hands through his hair. Maybe she was asleep. Maybe she didn't know how to respond either. Maybe she was regretting the entire thing and trying to figure out how to let him down gently. His phone buzzed at 11:52 PM.

Y/N: I'm fine. Just processing. Thank you for asking.

Polite. Professional. She could have been responding to anyone. Joe read the message three times, looking for any trace of the woman who'd kissed him like she'd been waiting years to do it.

Nothing.

* * *

Later Tuesday Evening - Ja'Marr's Reality Check

Joe was sprawled on his couch that evening, mindlessly flipping through game film when his phone rang. Ja'Marr's name on the screen.

"What's up?" Joe answered, pausing the video.

"Bro, you sound like shit. What's going on? You've been weird all week."

Joe considered deflecting, making some excuse about playoff preparation or off-season planning. But the weight of carrying this alone was becoming too much.

"I kissed Y/N," he said simply.

Ja'Marr's eyebrows shot up. "Finally. When?"

"The other night. In the edit bay."

"And?"

"And now she's back to treating me like any other player. Polite, professional, completely fucking unreachable."

"She kissed you back?"

"Yeah. God, yeah. Like she'd been waiting as long as I had."

"Then what's the problem?"

Joe laughed, but there was no humor in it. "The Giants want her. You know that man. VP position in New York. She has to decide by Friday."

"Shit, you're right." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "So you kissed her right before she has to choose between staying and leaving?"

"The timing wasn't exactly planned."

"Jesus, Joe. You've been in love with this woman for years, and you choose the week she might leave to finally make a move?"

The blunt assessment hit Joe like a physical blow. "I wasn't—"

"Don't," Ja'Marr interrupted. "Man, I've watched you for five years. You always want her filming your stuff, you look for her after every game, and you've been acting weird as hell whenever she backs off. You've been gone over this girl since day one."

Joe stared into his beer, unable to argue with the truth. "Maybe. Yeah. Probably."

"Definitely. So what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know. I told her I'd respect whatever decision she makes. That we'd figure it out."

"That's dumb as hell," Ja'Marr said. "You want her to stay."

"Of course I want her to stay. But I can't ask her to give up her dream job for someone who took five years to figure out his own feelings."

"Why not?"

Joe looked up, surprised by the question. "Because that's selfish. Because she's worked her ass off for this opportunity. Because I don't have the right to ask her to choose me over her career."

"Says who?"

"Says—" Joe stopped, realizing he didn't have a good answer. "Says me, I guess."

"I'm not saying manipulate her or nothing. But damn, Joe, you can at least tell her how you feel. Let her know what she's walking away from."

Joe felt the weight he'd been carrying since that night in the editing bay night start to shift—not gone, but not crushing him anymore.

"What if she chooses New York anyway?"

"Then at least she knows what she's choosing," Ja'Marr said. "Right now you're deciding for her by not telling her shit."

* * *

Wednesday Morning - The Conference Room

Joe spotted Y/N the moment he entered the facility. She was moving quickly, eyes fixed straight ahead, clearly not looking for conversation. He couldn't take another day of this. Couldn't watch her pretend that other night hadn't happened, that five years of building toward that moment could be reduced to a mistake to be managed.

"Morning," he said when their paths crossed near the media suite.

"Morning," she replied, her voice giving nothing away.

Joe pushed off the wall, taking a step toward her. "Do you have a minute?"

The request clearly caught her off guard. She glanced at her watch—a gesture he recognized as buying time rather than actually checking the time.

"I have a meeting with Kayla at nine."

"This won't take long," Joe said, nodding toward an empty conference room.

Something in his tone must have conveyed that this wasn't optional, because Y/N followed him into the room without further protest. Joe closed the door behind them, the soft click seeming unnaturally loud.

He turned to face her, hands in his pockets partly to appear casual and partly to keep from reaching for her. Y/N stood near the conference table, posture guarded, watching him with the same wary attention she'd give a wild animal.

"You've been avoiding me," he said, deciding on directness over diplomacy.

Y/N set her files down, the gesture buying her time. "I've been busy. The Giants deadline—"

"I know about the deadline." Joe kept his voice calm, conversational. "Friday, right?"

She nodded, and he caught the flicker of surprise that he'd been keeping track.

"Three days," he continued, taking a step closer. "That's what you have left to decide."

"Yes."

Joe studied her face, cataloguing the details he'd memorized over five years—the way her eyebrows drew together when she was thinking, the slight tightening around her eyes that meant she was holding something back, the particular stillness she adopted when she was trying not to react to something.

"Have you made up your mind?"

Y/N shook her head, her gaze dropping. "I'm still weighing options."

Joe heard what she wasn't saying.

"Including what happened between us?"

Her eyes snapped back to his, sharp and defensive. "That's not a factor in a career decision."

Joe felt that barely-there smile tug at his mouth despite the seriousness of the conversation. Classic Y/N—trying to compartmentalize when her feelings were clearly written all over her face.

"Isn't it?" he asked. "Because it seems like you've been avoiding me specifically to keep it from being a factor."

He watched her carefully, saw the moment his words hit home. Her breath hitched slightly, her grip on the edge of the table tightening.

"I can't make a life-changing decision based on one kiss," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"It wasn't just one kiss," Joe replied, letting his voice drop. "And you know it."

The air between them shifted, charged with the same electricity that had sparked in the edit bay. Joe felt the pull toward her, the same magnetic force that had been drawing him for years but which he'd finally stopped fighting.

"What do you want from me, Joe?" Y/N asked, the question carrying the weight of five years of careful distance.

Joe didn't hesitate. This was why he'd asked for this conversation—to stop dancing around the truth.

"I want you to be honest. With me, and with yourself."

"About what?"

"About whether you're running to New York or away from Cincinnati." He took another step closer, close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, to catch the faint scent of her perfume. "Away from whatever this is between us."

Y/N's pulse was visible at her throat, her professional composure cracking under the weight of his direct attention. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," Joe agreed, surprising himself with the admission. "The timing, especially. But I've spent too long not saying things I should have said. Not acknowledging what's been happening."

"Which is what, exactly?"

Joe met her eyes directly, no hesitation, no careful deflection. Time for complete honesty.

"That there's always been something between us. Something I didn't understand at first. Something I couldn't act on for a long time. But something real."

The words felt like a release, like finally saying what he'd been carrying for years. Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something more vulnerable.

Joe chose his next words carefully, knowing they would matter. "I loved Olivia. What we had was real and important. But even then, there was always... this connection with you that I couldn't explain. I told myself it was just respect, or friendship, or that you just got me in a way other people didn't."

His jaw tightened as he pushed through the harder admission. "After Olivia, when I started seeing Ellie, I think I was still trying to figure things out. To move forward. But the whole time, you were there, and that connection never went away."

Y/N's eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she blinked them back with the same stubborn control she'd shown for five years.

"Why now, Joe? Why when I'm finally being offered everything I've worked for?"

The hurt in her voice made everything clear. She thought this was about timing, about him finally wanting her only when he might lose her. She didn't understand that losing her had simply forced him to confront feelings he'd been suppressing for years.

"Because I'm finally clear about what I want," he said simply. "And because the thought of you leaving made me realize I can't keep pretending I don't feel what I feel."

He stepped closer, close enough to touch her but keeping his hands carefully at his sides. "But I'm not asking you to stay for me. That wouldn't be fair to either of us."

"Then what are you asking?"

Joe considered his words, knowing this might be his only chance to say them. "I'm asking you to consider that maybe what you've built here isn't finished yet. That maybe your story in Cincinnati isn't over." His voice softened. "And I'm asking you to believe that whatever you decide, I'll respect it. We'll figure it out."

The door behind them opened suddenly, Kayla's voice cutting through the intimate bubble they'd created. "Y/N, I was looking for—oh." She stopped, clearly reading the tension in the room. "Sorry, I didn't realize you were in a meeting."

"We were just finishing," Y/N said quickly, her professional mask sliding back into place as she gathered her files.

Joe watched her collect herself, watched the walls rebuild in real time. Part of him wanted to ask Kayla to leave, to finish this conversation, to push until Y/N gave him a real answer. But he'd said what he needed to say. The rest was up to her.

"I have to go," Y/N said, her voice steadier than her hands.

Joe nodded, stepping aside to give her space. "That's okay. I said what I needed to say."

As she moved toward the door, Joe felt compelled to offer one final thought. "Just remember, I asked you to be honest with yourself. Not with me. Whatever you decide... make it about what you want, Y/N. Not what you think you should want."

Y/N paused at the door, her back to him, and Joe thought for a moment she might turn around, might say something that would give him hope. Instead, she walked out, leaving him standing alone in the conference room with the weight of everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - The Wait

Joe sat in his car in the facility parking lot that evening, staring at his phone. Y/N's car was still there, which meant she was working late—probably trying to avoid him, or maybe trying to make sense of the decision she had to make by Friday.

He wanted to go back inside, to find her, to continue the conversation that had been interrupted. But Ja'Marr's words echoed in his mind: Let her make an informed decision.

He'd given her the information. The rest was up to her.

Joe started his car and drove home, carrying the weight of two days until Friday, two days to learn whether five years of building toward something had been worth the wait, or whether he'd finally found the courage to reach for something only to watch it slip away.

But for the first time since Sunday night, Joe felt like he'd done something right. He'd been honest. He'd been direct. He'd given Y/N the truth she deserved, even if it meant risking everything.

Now all he could do was wait, and hope that the woman who'd thrown him a perfect spiral on his first day would choose to stay and see what else they could build together.

* * *

Thursday Evening - November 2025

Joe sat in his living room, staring at game film that he wasn't actually processing. His laptop screen showed defensive formations from the Steelers, but his mind was replaying the conference room conversation from the day before. Y/N's voice echoing: "What do you want from me, Joe?"

One day. She had one day left to decide about New York, and he'd laid everything on the line. Now all he could do was wait and hope that five years of building trust meant something when weighed against a VP title and a fresh start three states away.

His phone sat silent on the coffee table. No messages from Y/N since their conversation. No indication of what she was thinking, what she was feeling, whether his confession had changed anything or just complicated an already impossible decision.

Joe picked up his phone, thumb hovering over her contact. He wanted to text her, to ask how she was processing everything, to remind her that he meant every word he'd said. But Y/N had asked for space to think clearly, and the last thing he wanted was to pressure her into a decision that should be entirely her own.

Instead, he found himself scrolling through their text history—five years of professional exchanges punctuated by moments of genuine connection. Late-night messages during his recovery. Quick check-ins during stressful media days. The gradual evolution from formal communication to something that felt like friendship, then something deeper neither of them had been willing to name.

The cursor blinked in the empty message field. Joe set the phone aside without typing anything.

* * *

Friday Morning - Facility Silence

Joe arrived at the facility early, hoping to catch Y/N in the parking lot or hallway—not to pressure her, just to gauge her mood, to see if their conversation had shifted anything between them. But her car wasn't in its usual spot, and a quick check of the media schedule showed she was working remotely.

Avoiding him, or avoiding the building entirely while she made her decision. Joe couldn't blame her either way.

"You look worse than yesterday," Ja'Marr said, dropping onto the bench beside Joe's locker. "Did you talk to her?"

"Yeah."

"And?"

"She's deciding between me and New York."

"Damn." Ja'Marr was quiet for a moment. "When's she gotta choose?"

"Today."

"And you're just sitting here?"

"What else am I supposed to do? I said what you told me to say. Now I wait."

"Man, I didn't tell you to give one speech and disappear. You could at least check in, see how she's doing."

Joe shook his head. "I've said everything I can say. The rest is up to her."

Practice was a disaster. Joe's timing was off, his reads slow, his accuracy inconsistent. He kept checking the facility windows, looking for any sign that Y/N had come in, that she was somewhere in the building making her final calculations.

Coach Taylor pulled him aside after the third incomplete pass in a row.

"Where's your head today, Joe?"

"Sorry, Coach. Just distracted."

"By what? We've got the Ravens in two weeks. I need you locked in."

Joe nodded, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. Football had always been his refuge, the one place where external complications couldn't touch him. But today, even that sanctuary felt compromised by the weight of what Y/N might be deciding.

* * *

Friday Evening - The Deadline

By 5 PM, Joe was staring at his phone, wondering if Y/N had made the call to New York, if she was somewhere packing boxes or booking flights or having conversations that would take her halfway across the country.

He forced himself to stay home, to resist the urge to text or call or do anything that might influence a choice that had to be entirely hers.

His phone stayed silent all evening.

* * *

Weekend - Radio Silence

Saturday morning brought no word from Y/N. Joe threw himself into his workout routine with punishing intensity, trying to exhaust himself enough that he couldn't think about what her silence might mean.

Ja'Marr texted around noon: Any word?

Nothing, Joe replied. Radio silence.

Maybe that's good? Maybe she's still deciding?

Or maybe she's already decided and doesn't know how to tell me.

Joe's phone stayed silent all weekend. By Sunday evening, he was convinced that Y/N had taken the Giants job and was either already in New York or preparing to leave Cincinnati behind. The silence felt like an answer in itself.

* * *

Monday Morning - The Practice Window

Joe arrived at the facility Monday morning with a knot in his stomach. If Y/N had taken the New York job, today might be one of the last times he'd see her. There would be transition meetings, handover conversations, maybe a goodbye that would have to be professional and polite while his heart was breaking.

He changed into practice gear mechanically, going through the motions of preparation while his mind raced through possibilities. Maybe she'd already given her notice. Maybe she was upstairs right now, cleaning out her office, preparing to leave everything they'd built together behind.

Practice felt surreal. Joe moved through drills on autopilot, muscle memory carrying him through formations while his attention kept drifting to the facility windows. Looking for any sign of her, any indication that she was still here, still part of this world they'd shared for five years.

Halfway through practice, during a water break, Joe glanced toward the building again. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the windows overlooking the practice field, watching them run drills. Even at a distance, Joe could see her clearly—the way she held herself, the familiar silhouette he'd memorized over five years of working together.

She was here. She hadn't left.

Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, everything else faded away. The other players, the coaches calling plays, the general noise of practice—all of it disappeared until it was just Joe and Y/N, looking at each other through glass and possibility.

Then Y/N gave him a small nod. Subtle, but deliberate. A communication that said everything without words.

I'm staying.

Joe felt the tension he'd been carrying suddenly snap—relief so profound it was almost painful. She was staying. She'd chosen Cincinnati. She'd chosen to see what might happen between them.

He nodded back, the corner of his mouth lifting in that barely-there smile she knew so well. Neither of them moved to break the moment. It felt significant, this quiet acknowledgment across the distance. She was staying. He knew she was staying. What that meant for them remained unspoken, unresolved, but suddenly full of possibility.

A coach's whistle finally broke the spell, and Joe's attention returned to practice as players reorganized for the next drill. But the relief flooding through his system made everything feel different. Lighter. Full of potential he'd been afraid to hope for.

Y/N lingered at the window for another moment, and Joe caught her eye once more before she turned away. Something passed between them—understanding, maybe even anticipation.

* * *

Monday Afternoon - The Text

Joe showered and changed after practice with more energy than he'd felt all weekend. Y/N was staying, which meant they had time to figure out what came next. Time to explore what they'd started without the pressure of an imminent deadline.

But he also knew they needed to talk. The nod through the window had communicated her decision, but they still had everything else to work through—what this meant for them, how they wanted to handle things professionally, what came next.

Joe pulled out his phone and typed carefully:

Joe: Can we talk? No pressure, just clarity.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately wondered if he should have waited, given her more time to settle into her decision before asking for anything.

Her response came quickly:

Y/N: When?

Joe: Tonight? I know a place. Quiet. Private.

Y/N: Where?

Joe thought for a moment, then typed: Ever been to Hermitage Brewing? They have a back room. Owner's a friend. We can talk without interruption.

It was perfect—Danny would give them privacy, the atmosphere was relaxed, and it was removed from both the facility and the upscale places where Joe might be recognized. Neutral ground where they could be honest without performance or pretense.

Y/N: 8 PM?

Joe: I'll be there. Thank you.

Joe pocketed his phone, feeling something like excitement mix with the relief. Y/N was staying, and tonight they'd finally talk about what that meant for both of them.

For the first time in days, Joe felt like the future was full of possibility instead of dread. She'd chosen to stay, and now they could figure out everything else together.

* * *

Monday Evening - Anticipation

Joe arrived at Hermitage Brewing twenty minutes early, nerves humming with anticipation. Danny set them up in the back room without questions, just a knowing smile and two IPAs—he'd remembered Y/N's preference from Joe's description.

As 8 PM approached, Joe found himself checking his phone, adjusting his position in the chair, running through possible conversation starters. This wasn't a date, exactly, but it felt more significant than any date he'd ever been on. This was about five years of careful distance finally becoming something honest and real.

When Y/N appeared in the doorway at exactly 8 PM, Joe felt his breath catch. She looked nervous but determined, wearing dark jeans and a sweater—casual but thoughtful. Like she'd considered this conversation as carefully as he had.

"This is perfect," she said, settling into the chair across from him. "How did you find this place?"

As Joe explained his connection to Danny, he watched Y/N relax into the space, appreciating the privacy and authenticity of the setting. She understood immediately why he'd chosen it—somewhere they could be real with each other without worrying about cameras or curious observers.

"So," Joe said finally, when they'd both settled with their beers and the small talk had run its course. "You're staying."

"I'm staying," Y/N confirmed, meeting his gaze directly.

And Joe smiled, feeling lighter than he had in months. The conversation they'd been building toward for five years was finally about to begin, and for the first time, they had all the time in the world to figure out what came next.

* * *

Late November 2025 - 6:23 AM

Joe stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He'd been awake for twenty minutes, trying to figure out how to ask her for coffee without it sounding like work or some kind of follow-up to their brewery conversation.

Three days since they'd talked. Three days of being careful around each other at the facility, keeping things polite and professional. But he was tired of overthinking every word, every look, every interaction.

Y/N had told him to be real with her, to stop performing. And here he was, planning out a text message like it was a game script.

Joe typed quickly, before he could second-guess himself:

Coffee before work? Not facility coffee. The good stuff.

Simple. No overthinking it. If she wanted to see who he really was, this was it—direct, no games, no careful politeness.

Her response came almost immediately:

Where?

He remembered something she'd mentioned months ago during one of their content planning sessions—a throwaway comment about needing to escape to "that little bookstore cafe where nobody cares about sports." He'd filed it away at the time, the way he filed away most details about Y/N, not knowing why they might be important but unable to forget them.

You know that bookstore cafe you mentioned? East side? Thought I'd see what the fuss was about.

It was perfect for what he needed—somewhere Y/N felt comfortable, somewhere he wouldn't be recognized, somewhere they could have a normal conversation without the weight of his public persona intruding.

Collective Grounds. 7:30?

See you there.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling nervous in a way he hadn't since high school. Their brewery conversation had been about figuring out where they stood. This was different. This was him trying to be normal around her—just Joe, not the quarterback.

The problem was, he wasn't entirely sure who that person was anymore.

* * *

7:15 AM - Collective Grounds

Joe parked on the street outside Collective Grounds, taking a moment to assess the space before going inside. The converted bookstore looked exactly like the kind of place Y/N would love—eclectic, intellectual, unpretentious. Through the windows, he could see mismatched furniture, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the kind of customers who looked more interested in their laptops and newspapers than in spotting celebrities.

Perfect.

He entered the bookstore section first, navigating narrow aisles between towering shelves, taking in the organized chaos of used books and hand-written recommendation cards. The cafe occupied the back corner, separated from the main bookstore by a low barrier but sharing the same warm, lived-in atmosphere.

Joe ordered coffee—black, the same way he'd been drinking it since college—and scanned the space for Y/N. He found her at a corner table near the poetry section, laptop open, already settled into the environment like she belonged there.

She looked up as he approached, and Joe felt that familiar flutter of recognition—not just seeing Y/N, but seeing her in her element, relaxed and unguarded in a way she rarely was at the facility.

"This place makes sense for you," he said, settling into the chair across from her.

No "good morning" or "thanks for meeting me." Just an immediate observation, the kind of direct communication that felt natural with Y/N.

"How so?"

Joe glanced around, cataloguing details the way he read defensive formations. "Quiet. No distractions. Good for thinking." His eyes returned to her. "Also no one here cares about football."

It was true. In the fifteen minutes he'd been here, no one had given him a second glance. The graduate student at the next table was absorbed in what looked like a dissertation. The artist near the window was sketching in a journal. The older man by the biography section was deep in conversation with someone who was clearly a regular.

"That obvious?"

"I haven't been recognized once since walking in." Joe felt his mouth curve slightly. "Novelty experience."

Y/N's smile was genuine, amused. "Poor you, having to be just another customer."

"It's not terrible," Joe replied, keeping his tone deadpan. Then, more seriously: "You come here often?"

The question was deliberate. Y/N had challenged him to show her who he was beyond football, but that meant learning who she was beyond their professional relationship. He knew Y/N the media coordinator, Y/N the strategic thinker, Y/N the crisis manager. He was only beginning to understand Y/N the person.

"When I need to think. Or when I want to read something that has nothing to do with sports."

Joe nodded, filing away another piece of information. "What kind of books?"

Y/N studied his face, and Joe had the distinct impression she was trying to determine whether his interest was genuine or polite conversation. "Fiction, mostly. Some poetry. Whatever catches my attention." She paused. "What about you? Do you read?"

The question caught Joe slightly off guard. Most people assumed athletes didn't read, or if they did, it was limited to sports-related material or whatever their PR team recommended.

"Physics, mostly. Some astronomy. I've been working through this book on string theory." He gestured toward the science section, then realized how that might sound. "Probably sounds boring."

"Not boring. Surprising, maybe."

Joe's eyebrows lifted. "Why surprising?"

"Most people don't read string theory for fun."

Joe considered this, recognizing the opening to share something real about how his mind worked. "It's interesting how everything connects. The way small forces can create massive changes." He felt his composure slip slightly as he engaged with the topic. "Plus it helps with pattern recognition."

"Pattern recognition?"

"Everything has patterns. Physics, football, people." He paused, realizing he was about to reveal more about his analytical approach to relationships than he'd intended. "I like understanding how things work."

Y/N's expression shifted, something like fascination flickering in her eyes. Joe felt a small surge of satisfaction—this was what he'd hoped for. Not Y/N being politely interested in his hobbies, but Y/N being genuinely curious about how he thought.

"And you think relationships follow patterns too?"

The question was direct, challenging. Joe met her gaze steadily, recognizing the moment to be completely honest.

"Most of them. People playing roles, following expected behaviors, responding to predictable stimuli." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "But not all of them."

He watched Y/N's cheeks flush slightly, saw the moment she understood the implication. This—whatever was developing between them—didn't follow the usual patterns. It was more complex, more honest, more real than the careful performances he'd grown accustomed to.

"What makes the difference?"

Joe leaned forward slightly, holding her gaze. "When both people stop performing. When what they want from each other is just... truth."

The word felt significant as he said it. Not romance, not attraction, not chemistry—though all of those were present. Truth. The thing he'd been avoiding for five years, the thing Y/N had been challenging him to offer.

"Is that what this is?" Y/N asked. "Truth?"

"That's what I'm hoping for," Joe replied. "From both of us."

The silence that followed felt comfortable rather than awkward. Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw something shift in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but recognition. Like she was seeing him clearly for the first time.

"So what happens now?" she asked.

Joe leaned back, letting his natural confidence settle over him. This was familiar territory—problem-solving, strategic thinking, managing variables toward a desired outcome.

"Now we figure out what we want from each other. Without all the professional complications and timing issues and excuses we've been using."

"Just like that?"

Joe's eyes held hers, acknowledging the complexity while refusing to be intimidated by it. "Why make it complicated? We're both adults. We're both interested. We're both capable of handling whatever challenges come up."

He could see Y/N fighting a smile, could practically hear her thinking that his assessment was both completely logical and completely insufficient for the emotional reality they were navigating.

"You make it sound simple."

"The feelings part is simple," Joe said, his voice dropping slightly. "I know what I want. I think you do too. Everything else is just logistics."

"Logistics like my brand-new promotion and workplace dynamics and the fact that we see each other every day?"

"Logistics," Joe confirmed, unruffled by her list of complications. "Things to be managed, not barriers to be overcome."

Y/N shook her head, and Joe caught the mix of amusement and admiration in her expression. He was being clinical about something deeply personal, but somehow that felt more honest than pretending emotions couldn't be approached strategically.

"You've really thought this through."

"I think everything through," Joe replied simply. "It's what I do."

"And what conclusion did you reach?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, though his voice remained steady. This was the moment to be completely honest about his assessment, his decision, his commitment.

"That I want to see what this could be. That you're worth whatever complications might arise. And that I'm done pretending otherwise."

He watched Y/N's face change as the words landed. No dramatic declarations or emotional speeches—just clear, honest communication of his position. This was how Joe approached everything that mattered: with careful analysis followed by unwavering commitment.

"What about work?"

Joe had anticipated this question, had already worked through the practical implications. "What about it? We're both professionals. We know how to separate personal and business." He paused, considering her specific concerns. "Though we should probably be discrete until your promotion feels established. For your sake, not mine."

He saw relief flicker across Y/N's face, confirming that he'd correctly identified her primary concern. She needed to know he understood the professional stakes, that he wouldn't do anything to undermine the position she'd worked years to achieve.

"How discrete?"

"As discrete as you need," Joe said. "I'm not looking to broadcast anything. I just want the option to see you outside of work without having to pretend it's about content strategy."

Y/N's smile was genuine now, amused by his phrasing. "The option?"

"The standing invitation," Joe clarified, allowing a hint of humor into his voice. "To coffee that isn't about work. Dinner that isn't about team business. Conversations that don't involve quarterback mechanics or social media metrics."

"That sounds..." Y/N paused, and Joe waited, curious about her assessment.

"Normal?" he suggested.

"Revolutionary," Y/N corrected.

The word surprised a laugh out of him—genuine, unguarded, the kind of response he rarely allowed himself in public. Revolutionary. He liked that assessment better than normal.

"I'll take revolutionary," he said, checking his watch and noting they'd need to head to work soon. "But right now I'll settle for not being late to morning meetings."

They gathered their things efficiently, a comfortable routine that felt natural despite being new. Joe waited while Y/N packed her laptop and notes, noting how she moved through the space like she belonged there.

Walking to their cars, Joe felt cautiously optimistic. The conversation had gone exactly as he'd hoped—honest, direct, focused on practical realities rather than emotional complications. Y/N had seen him thinking through problems, making decisions, being himself rather than performing for her benefit.

"Same time tomorrow?" he asked as they reached the parking area.

It was a test, subtle but deliberate. Joe wanted to know if Y/N was genuinely interested in building something consistent, or if this morning had been a one-time exploration of possibilities.

"Tomorrow might work," Y/N said, her tone deliberately casual.

Joe recognized the challenge in her response and felt his competitive instincts engage. She wasn't going to make this easy, wasn't going to let him assume her interest or take her availability for granted. Good. He preferred partners who matched his intensity.

"Good," he said, getting into his truck. "I'll bring better coffee recommendations. This place is adequate, but I know better."

As he drove away, Joe felt satisfied with the morning's work. He'd shown Y/N who he was when he wasn't performing—analytical, direct, confident in his decisions but interested in her perspective. He'd demonstrated that he could navigate their professional complications while pursuing something personal.

Most importantly, he'd proven to himself that authenticity didn't require becoming someone different. It just required stopping the performance and letting Y/N see the person who'd been there all along.

* * *

December 2025 - Saturday Afternoon

Joe was sprawled on his couch, laptop balanced on his chest, halfheartedly reviewing film from last week's practice when his phone buzzed with a text from Y/N.

Y/N: Target run. This is what my Saturday has become.

Joe smiled at the message. Three weeks into whatever they were building, and Y/N had started sharing the mundane details of her weekend—grocery lists, errands, the small domestic realities that most people kept private. It felt significant, this casual intimacy of shared boredom.

Joe: Which Target?

He wasn't sure why he'd asked. Mild curiosity, maybe, or the simple desire to know where she was, what her Saturday afternoon looked like when she wasn't at the facility managing his media obligations.

Y/N: Springdale. Getting boring stuff - shampoo, paper towels, etc.

Joe sat up, closing his laptop. He'd been planning to order takeout and spend the evening alone, the way he spent most Saturday nights during the season. But the thought of Y/N navigating Target aisles by herself, loading boring necessities into her cart, suddenly seemed like something he wanted to be part of.

Joe: Let me come pick you up when you're done. We can grab food.

He hit send before he could analyze the impulse. This was what Y/N had asked for—authenticity, not performance. His first instinct had been to offer practical help and companionship. No need to overthink it.

Y/N: You want to rescue me from Target?

Joe: I want to get dinner and you're already out.

Joe appreciated that Y/N didn't need elaborate explanations or romantic justifications. She understood efficiency, practical decision-making, the logic of combining errands with social time.

An hour later, Joe pulled into the Target parking lot, spotting Y/N loading bags into the trunk of her car. Hair pulled back, jeans and a sweatshirt—she looked completely normal, like any person finishing weekend errands.

Joe found this version of Y/N unexpectedly appealing. Not the polished professional from the facility, not the carefully put-together woman from their coffee dates, but someone running weekend errands like any normal person.

"Need help with those?" he called through his open window.

"I've got it," Y/N replied, closing her trunk and walking toward his car. "Thanks for the rescue mission."

"Drive-through okay?" Joe asked as she buckled her seatbelt. "I'm not really feeling like sitting in a restaurant."

He surprised himself with the admission. Most of his previous relationships had involved carefully planned dinners at upscale restaurants where he could control the environment and manage potential interruptions. But with Y/N, he found himself preferring casual, low-key options that felt more like real life than performance.

"Fine with me."

They ended up at Culver's, Joe navigating the drive-through with the same efficiency he brought to everything else. He ordered without consulting Y/N—she'd mentioned liking their burgers during one of their coffee conversations—and drove to an empty parking lot where they could eat without curious observers.

"This is nice," Y/N said, stealing one of his fries.

The casual theft made Joe smile. It was such a normal, comfortable gesture—the kind of thing people did when they were relaxed with each other, when boundaries had softened into familiarity.

"Better than eating alone."

"Is that what you usually do? Eat alone?"

Joe considered the question while unwrapping his second burger. "Usually. Or with teammates, but that's just different."

"How so?"

It was a fair question, one that made Joe think about the careful compartmentalization of his social life. "With teammates, you're still kind of performing. Even when you're relaxed, you're still the quarterback. This is just... normal."

He glanced at Y/N, noting how she listened—not just waiting for her turn to speak, but actually processing what he was telling her about the isolation that came with his position.

"You miss normal?" she asked.

"I didn't think I did," Joe admitted. "But yeah. This is the first time in years I've eaten fast food in a parking lot and just... talked."

"About nothing important," Y/N added, gesturing to the empty parking lot around them.

"Exactly. About nothing important."

But even as he said it, Joe realized it wasn't true. Everything about this felt important—not the conversation topics, but the ease of being with Y/N without agenda or expectation. The way she'd texted him about Target runs, the way she'd accepted his offer to pick her up, the way she was stealing his fries like they'd been doing this for years.

"Can I ask you something?" Y/N said, settling back in her seat.

"Shoot."

"Do you ever get tired of being 'on' all the time?"

The question hit closer to home than Joe had expected. "Yeah. More than I probably should admit."

"When was the last time you felt like you could just... exist? Without managing perceptions or meeting expectations?"

Joe thought about it, really considered the question. "Honestly? Right now. Sitting in a Culver's parking lot with you, eating terrible-for-me food and not thinking about anything else."

Y/N smiled, and Joe felt something shift between them—not dramatic, just a deepening of the comfort they'd been building over the past few weeks.

"Good," she said. "That's the version of you I'm here for."

"Just Joe might be boring," Joe warned.

"I seriously doubt that."

Joe found himself smiling back, feeling lighter than he had in months. For the first time since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing, he felt like he was successfully showing Y/N who he really was. Not through grand gestures or carefully planned dates, but through moments like this—ordinary, unguarded, real.

"So what else does Saturday night Joe do?" Y/N asked. "Besides rescue people from Target and eat drive-through burgers?"

"Not much, honestly. Watch film, read, maybe call my parents."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I'm probably more boring than you think."

"Or maybe," Y/N said, finishing the last of his fries, "you're exactly as interesting as I hoped."

As they sat in the quiet parking lot, Joe realized this was what he'd been missing in all his previous relationships—the ability to be completely ordinary with someone who found that ordinariness worth her time. No performance, no pressure, just the simple pleasure of shared space and stolen fries.

* * *

December 2025 - Wednesday Morning

Joe was reviewing game film in his home office when his phone buzzed. Y/N's name on the screen immediately shifted his attention away from defensive formations.

Y/N: Car's at the shop. Apparently I need new brakes and God knows what else.

Joe frowned at the message. Y/N didn't usually share problems unless she was looking for practical solutions, which meant she was probably stranded and trying to figure out logistics.

Joe: How long?

Y/N: All day apparently. I'm about to call an Uber.

The thought of Y/N stuck at some service center, dealing with car repairs and ride-sharing apps, when he was sitting at home with nothing but film study on his schedule, felt wrong. Not because she couldn't handle it—Y/N was capable of managing anything—but because he wanted to help. Because offering practical assistance felt like something he could do without overthinking it.

Joe: I'll come get you.

Y/N: You don't have to do that.

Joe was already reaching for his keys. This wasn't about obligation or grand gestures. It was about Y/N being stuck somewhere when he had time and transportation. And he wanted to spend time with her.

Joe: I'm not doing anything anyway. Text me the address.

Thirty minutes later, Joe pulled into the parking lot of a service center in Springdale, spotting Y/N through the windows of the waiting area. She was sitting in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, laptop open, making the best of an inconvenient situation with the same practical efficiency she brought to everything else.

When she saw his car, Y/N's face lit up with genuine relief and something that looked like appreciation. Not surprise—she'd probably expected him to follow through on his offer—but gratitude for the gesture itself.

"My hero," she said, sliding into the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh. "They're keeping it overnight. Something about parts and labor costs that made my credit card weep."

"Where to?" Joe asked, putting the truck in drive.

"I should probably head home and figure out how to get to work tomorrow."

Joe glanced at her, noting the slight disappointment in her voice. "Or we could drive around for a while. Unless you have somewhere you need to be."

Y/N studied his face, clearly trying to determine if he was being polite or genuine. "You really want to spend your afternoon chauffeuring me around?"

"I really want to spend my afternoon not sitting in my house analyzing film," Joe replied honestly. "And you're better company than most people."

"Most people?"

"All people."

Y/N smiled at that, settling back in her seat. "Okay. But I get to navigate."

"Deal."

For the next three hours, Joe followed Y/N's random directions through parts of Cincinnati he'd never seen despite living there for five years. She had him take turns based on whim—"Let's see what's down this street" or "That neighborhood looks interesting"—with no destination in mind beyond curiosity.

"Left here," Y/N said as they approached a residential area lined with historic houses. "I want to see what's down this street."

"You're just picking random turns," Joe observed, though he made the left without hesitation.

"That's the point. When do you ever get to just drive around without a destination?"

The question caught Joe off guard. He drove the same routes every day—home, facility, maybe a restaurant if he had to. Always going somewhere specific, always the fastest way there.

"Never," he admitted, something shifting in his understanding of how rigidly he'd structured his life.

"Exactly. So today we're going nowhere in particular."

The concept felt foreign and oddly liberating. Joe found himself relaxing into the aimlessness, following Y/N's directions without questioning the logic or efficiency. When she wanted to explore a particular neighborhood, he slowed down so she could point out architectural details or comment on gardens. When she suggested taking a detour through a park, he found a route that wound through tree-lined paths he'd never known existed.

They ended up at a scenic overlook Joe had driven past dozens of times but never stopped at. The city spread out below them, familiar skyline made new by the afternoon light and the company.

"I grew up in neighborhoods like that," Y/N said, pointing to a section of older houses with wide porches and tree-lined streets. "Louisville has whole areas that look exactly like this."

"What was that like?" Joe asked, genuinely curious. "Growing up with three brothers in a place like Louisville?"

"Loud. Competitive. Every dinner conversation was a debate about sports, usually football." Y/N smiled at the memory. "My parents thought they were raising four boys until I turned out to be better at arguing about draft picks than any of them."

"That explains a lot about your media instincts."

"Years of practice defending my opinions against people who assumed I didn't know what I was talking about."

"What about you? Small-town vs. city?" Joe asked. "More in-between," Y/N said, thinking about growing up in Louisville. "Big enough to have options, small enough that football still felt like the most important thing in the world." "I get that," Joe said, thinking about his own childhood in Athens. "Before all the pressure and expectations."

"Do you miss it?"

Joe considered the question, watching the city below them. "I miss the simplicity. The feeling that football was just football, not a business or a brand or a platform for everything else."

"When was the last time it felt simple?"

"Honestly? Right now. Driving around with no agenda, talking about nothing in particular." Joe glanced at Y/N. "This is the most relaxed I've been in months."

Y/N studied his profile, and Joe had the sense she was cataloguing this information, adding it to her understanding of who he was beyond the quarterback persona.

"Good," she said simply. "Because this is exactly what I was hoping for."

"What do you mean?"

"This version of you. The one who's curious about neighborhoods and willing to drive around aimlessly because someone asked him to. The one who doesn't need every conversation to be purposeful or strategic."

Joe felt something loosen in his chest. "You were testing me?"

"Not testing. Just... hoping you were actually interested in being normal for an afternoon."

"I'm discovering I like normal more than I thought I would."

As they headed back toward the city, Joe realized the afternoon had shifted something fundamental in how he thought about time and spontaneity. Y/N had shown him that not every moment needed to be optimized, that aimless exploration could be its own kind of valuable.

"Thanks for rescuing me from car service hell," Y/N said as they approached her neighborhood.

"Thanks for showing me how to drive without a plan," Joe replied, meaning it completely.

"Any time you want to get lost around Cincinnati, I'm your girl."

I'm your girl. Joe liked how naturally she said it, how it implied more afternoons like this, more chances to explore the city together without any particular destination in mind.

"I'll hold you to that," he said, pulling into her driveway.

As Y/N gathered her things, Joe realized he didn't want her to leave yet. Not because he wanted to drag it out artificially, but because this felt like the most honest time they'd spent together—no coffee shop conversations about expectations, no brewery talks about boundaries. Just two people choosing to spend time together because they enjoyed each other's company.

"See you tomorrow," Y/N said, pausing at the passenger door.

"See you tomorrow."

But as Joe drove home, he was already thinking about the next time Y/N might need rescuing, the next excuse to spend an afternoon discovering parts of himself he'd forgotten existed.

* * *

December 2025 - Sunday Afternoon

Joe had been looking forward to this all week—Y/N coming over to watch the afternoon games, the easy domesticity of shared space and comfortable silence. Seven weeks into whatever they were building, and he'd grown addicted to these Sunday afternoons when Y/N settled into his living room like she belonged there.

She'd arrived with coffee and the newspaper sports section, claiming her usual spot on his couch with the casual familiarity that had developed over weeks of careful boundary-testing. Joe found himself watching her as much as the game—the way she tucked her feet under herself, how she unconsciously leaned forward during crucial plays, the soft commentary she offered that revealed her deep understanding of football strategy.

"Terrible coverage," Y/N observed as the visiting team scored on a blown assignment. "Safety was completely out of position."

"Rookie mistake," Joe agreed, though his attention was more focused on Y/N's profile than the replay. Seven weeks of coffee dates and aimless drives, and he was still discovering new things about her—like the way she analyzed defensive schemes with the same precision she brought to content strategy.

During halftime, as analysts droned through statistics Joe could recite in his sleep, he found himself studying Y/N's position on the far end of the couch. Close enough to talk comfortably, far enough to maintain the careful distance they'd been navigating since their conversation at Hermitage Brewing.

The distance felt unnecessary now. Artificial.

"Come here," Joe said, gesturing to the spot beside him. "You're too far away."

Y/N looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised slightly at the direct request. For a moment, Joe wondered if he'd pushed too fast, assumed an intimacy they hadn't established. But then Y/N moved, settling beside him close enough that their shoulders touched when he leaned forward.

The contact was electric—just the simple awareness of Y/N's warmth beside him, the faint scent of her perfume, the way their bodies naturally aligned when they sat together.

"See how the linebacker's dropping back?" Joe said as the second half began, using the game as an excuse to lean closer, his voice dropping to match their proximity.

"Mmhmm," Y/N replied, though Joe could sense her attention wasn't entirely on the defensive formation he was explaining.

Without thinking about it, Joe's hand came to rest on Y/N's knee. The movement felt automatic, like his body had decided before his mind caught up. Y/N didn't pull away—if anything, she leaned slightly into his side, her hand finding his forearm

The game continued, but Joe's awareness had shifted entirely to the points of contact between them. His thumb traced absent patterns on Y/N's leg, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft fabric of her jeans. Y/N's fingers rested on his forearm, occasionally tightening slightly during tense moments in the game.

This was what he'd been missing in all their careful conversations about boundaries and expectations—the simple pleasure of physical proximity, of being close to someone without agenda or analysis.

"This is nice," Joe said during a commercial break, his voice low enough that it felt like a confession.

"What is?"

"You being here. Like this."

Y/N tilted her head to look at him, and Joe felt his breath catch at how close they were. Close enough to see the gold flecks in her eyes, close enough to count her eyelashes, close enough that the space between them felt charged with possibility.

"Joe..."

The way she said his name—soft, questioning, maybe a little breathless—changed something in the air between them. Seven weeks of taking things slow, of being careful, of respecting boundaries and managing expectations. But right now, with Y/N warm and close beside him, all of that felt less important than the simple truth of what he wanted.

"I know we're supposed to be taking this slow," he said, his eyes dropping to her mouth. "But I really want to kiss you right now."

The admission hung between them for a heartbeat. Joe waited, letting Y/N process what he was asking. He could see the moment she made her decision—not just about the kiss, but about crossing the line they'd been carefully maintaining.

"Then kiss me," Y/N said, the words barely above a whisper.

Joe's hand moved to cup her face, thumb brushing across her cheek in a gesture that felt both reverent and possessive. Y/N's skin was soft, warm, real in a way that made everything else fade into background noise.

When his mouth found hers, the kiss was soft at first—tentative, testing, giving both of them a chance to adjust to this new territory. But when Y/N's hands fisted in his shirt and pulled him closer, Joe deepened the kiss, weeks of wanting finally allowed to surface.

Y/N tasted like coffee and something uniquely her. She kissed him back with an intensity that matched his own, her fingers tangling in his shirt like she was afraid he might pull away. Joe had no intention of pulling away—if anything, he wanted to pull her closer, to eliminate any remaining space between them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing harder than they should have been from just a kiss, Joe rested his forehead against Y/N's. Her eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted, and Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having put that particular expression on her face.

"We should probably talk about this," Y/N said softly, though she made no move to put distance between them.

"Probably," Joe agreed, his hands still framing her face, his thumbs tracing along her cheekbones. "But not right now."

"Not right now," Y/N confirmed, opening her eyes to meet his gaze.

When she kissed him again, Joe felt something settle into place—not just the physical connection, but the recognition that they'd crossed into new territory together. This moment of spontaneous honesty felt exactly right.

The game played on in the background, but Joe's attention was entirely focused on Y/N—the way she felt in his arms, the soft sounds she made when he deepened the kiss, the way her fingers had moved from his shirt to the hair at the nape of his neck.

This was what he'd been waiting for without fully realizing it: not just Y/N's presence in his space, but the permission to touch her, to be close to her, to stop pretending that seven weeks of building toward something hadn't been leading exactly here.

When they finally settled back against the couch, Y/N curled into his side with natural ease, Joe felt a contentment he hadn't experienced in years. Her head rested on his shoulder, her hand splayed across his chest, and the simple domesticity of it was more satisfying than any carefully planned date could have been.

"I've been waiting for that," Y/N said softly.

"Should've done it sooner," Joe replied, his hand finding hers.

As the afternoon game continued, Joe found himself only half-watching the action on screen. His attention was focused on the weight of Y/N against his side, the way her breathing had synchronized with his, the occasional brush of her fingers against his chest.

Seven weeks of taking things slow had led to this—not a dramatic declaration or grand gesture, but the simple honesty of wanting to be close to each other. It felt like the most natural thing in the world, and Joe wondered why they'd waited so long to cross this particular line.

But as Y/N's hand found his and their fingers intertwined, Joe realized the timing had been exactly right. They'd built trust and understanding first, established a foundation that could support whatever came next.

* * *

Wednesday Evening - Joe's House

Joe's phone buzzed as he was changing out of his work clothes, Y/N's name appearing on the screen with a message that made him smile.

Y/N: Dinner? I'm tired of my own cooking.

Joe typed back quickly: Come over. I'll order something.

When Y/N arrived twenty minutes later, Joe felt that familiar flutter of anticipation mixed with contentment. She looked tired but happy to be there, settling onto his couch like she belonged there.

"What did you order?" she asked, kicking off her shoes and tucking her feet under herself.

"Thai. Should be here in twenty minutes."

"Good choice."

Joe sat beside her, deliberately close. His arm stretched along the back of the couch, not quite touching Y/N but close enough that she could lean into him if she wanted to.

She wanted to. Y/N settled against his side with a soft sigh, her head finding the perfect spot on his shoulder, her hand resting on his chest. The weight of her against him felt exactly right—not performance or strategy, just simple comfort.

"How was your day?" Joe asked, his fingers automatically finding her hair.

"Long. Meetings, content reviews, more meetings." Y/N's voice carried the exhaustion of someone who'd been managing multiple priorities all day. "How was practice?"

"Fine. Nothing dramatic." Joe's fingers played with the soft strands of her hair, noting how Y/N's eyes fluttered closed at the gentle contact. "This is better."

"What is?"

Joe hesitated. He could deflect, make some casual comment about relaxing after work. But Y/N had asked him to be real with her.

"Coming home to you being here."

The words carried more weight than Joe had intended—an admission of domesticity, of wanting Y/N in his space, of the particular satisfaction that came from knowing she'd chosen to spend her evening with him rather than anywhere else.

Y/N went quiet against him, and Joe wondered if he'd overstepped.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said quietly, understanding her hesitation. "I know we're being careful. But I like this. I like you being here."

Y/N turned in his arms to face him properly, and Joe felt his breath catch at the expression in her eyes. Not concern or caution, but something softer, more open.

"I like being here too."

The simple admission was everything Joe needed to hear. Y/N wasn't just tolerating his interest or going along with his suggestions—she was actively choosing to be here, actively enjoying the intimacy they were building.

Joe's thumb traced along her jawline, feeling the softness of her skin, the way she leaned into his touch. After weeks of careful distance, he finally had permission to touch her face, to trace the features he'd been memorizing from across conference rooms.

"Can I kiss you again?"

oe could see the answer in Y/N's expression, in the way her lips parted slightly, in the way her hands had moved to rest on his chest. But he asked anyway—he needed to hear her say it.

"Yes."

This kiss was different from their first. Less tentative, more certain. Joe kissed Y/N like he was learning her, like he wanted to memorize the taste and texture and perfect pressure that made her sigh against his mouth. Y/N's hands slid up his chest to curl around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at his nape in a way that sent heat straight through him.

Joe pulled her closer, one hand tangling in her hair, the other settling at the small of her back. Y/N felt perfect in his arms—the right height, the right weight, the right responsiveness to his touch. Like they'd been designed to fit together exactly like this.

The doorbell rang, sharp and intrusive, breaking the spell they'd created.

"Bad timing," Joe muttered against Y/N's lips, though he made no immediate move to answer the door.

"Very bad timing," Y/N agreed, her breath warm against his mouth.

For a moment, they just looked at each other, both slightly breathless, both reluctant to break the intimacy for something as mundane as food delivery. Then Joe leaned in and kissed her again—deeper this time, slower, like he was making a point about priorities. Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, her fingers tightening in his hair.

The doorbell rang again, more insistent.

"Food's getting cold," Y/N murmured, though she showed no signs of moving.

"Don't care," Joe replied, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the sensitive spot just below her ear that made her shiver.

Y/N laughed, the sound breathless and delighted. "You'll care when you're hungry later."

"Fine," Joe said, pulling back with exaggerated reluctance. "But this conversation isn't over."

By the time they actually ate dinner, they'd established a new rhythm of casual intimacy. Y/N curled against Joe's side while they shared takeout containers, her legs draped over his lap, his hand resting on her ankle. The touches were constant but undemanding—not building toward anything specific, just maintaining contact because they could.

Joe couldn't get over how natural it felt. No awkwardness, no overthinking, just the simple pleasure of being close to Y/N while they talked about their days and shared food and existed in the same space without agenda or expectation.

"This is working," Joe said as they cleaned up the empty containers, Y/N moving around his kitchen with easy familiarity.

"What is?"

Joe gestured between them, encompassing the evening, the easy intimacy, the way Y/N had seamlessly integrated into his space and routine. "This. Us. Whatever we're calling it."

Y/N smiled, standing on her toes to kiss him briefly—casual, affectionate, like it was already habit. "It is working."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer, enjoying the way she melted against him. "Because I'm not ready to go back to pretending I don't want to touch you."

"Then don't," Y/N replied simply. "At least not when we're alone."

That was all Joe needed to hear. They could keep things professional at work and be real with each other everywhere else. No rushing, no pressure from anyone but themselves.

* * *

Playoff Push - The Pressure Builds

The facility hummed with a different energy as December progressed and the playoff picture crystallized. Joe felt it in every meeting, every practice, every interaction—the weight of expectations, the knowledge that everything they'd worked for during the regular season would be determined in the next few weeks.

But alongside the familiar pressure of playoff preparation, Joe was navigating something entirely new: maintaining a secret relationship while under the most intense scrutiny of the season. Every stolen moment with Y/N felt both more precious and more dangerous as media attention intensified and their time became increasingly fragmented.

Monday - Content Planning Meeting

Joe walked into the monthly content planning meeting with the same professional focus he brought to film study. These meetings had always been routine—necessary coordination between football operations and media strategy—but now they carried an additional layer of complexity. Y/N would be there, and he'd have to spend an hour watching her lead the meeting, making strategic decisions, commanding the room, all while pretending she hadn't spent Sunday evening curled against his side on his couch.

"Playoff content timeline," Y/N said, pulling up her presentation with the crisp efficiency Joe had admired for five years. "We'll need quarterback availability for three key pieces."

Joe took notes on his tablet, asking practical questions about scheduling and time commitments, maintaining the same professional demeanor he'd cultivated through hundreds of similar meetings. But he was hyperaware of Y/N's presence—the way she gestured while explaining strategy, the particular tone she used when addressing him directly, the subtle way her eyes would linger on his face for just a fraction longer than strictly necessary.

"The fan message piece - when do you need that filmed?" Joe asked, his voice carrying no hint of the fact that twelve hours earlier, his fingers had been tangled in her hair while they watched a movie.

"This week, before playoff prep intensifies," Y/N replied, matching his professional tone perfectly.

Joe admired her composure, her ability to compartmentalize. It was one of the things he'd always respected about Y/N professionally, but now he appreciated it on an entirely different level. She could sit across from him in a conference room full of colleagues and give no indication that they'd spent the previous evening discussing everything from childhood memories to playoff strategy while sharing takeout on his couch.

"Wednesday afternoon work?"

"Perfect. Tyler will coordinate the details."

As the meeting concluded and Tyler and Kayla gathered their materials, Joe lingered, ostensibly reviewing something on his phone. He waited until they were alone, then moved closer to Y/N's chair, his body language casual but intentional.

"Wednesday filming," he said, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "What time?"

"Three o'clock. Should only take an hour."

Joe's hand found her lower back, hidden from view by the conference table. The contact was brief but deliberate, a reminder of the physical connection they'd been building away from these professional spaces.

"And after?"

Y/N's pulse quickened under his touch—Joe could see it in the slight flush that rose to her cheeks, the way her breathing shifted almost imperceptibly.

"After what?"

"After filming. You free?"

The question carried layers of meaning. Not just about her schedule, but about her willingness to continue navigating the complexity of stolen time together during the most intense period of his professional year.

"Depends what you have in mind."

Joe leaned down, his mouth close to her ear, close enough that he could smell her perfume, could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. "Come to my place. I want to actually spend time with you without worrying about who might see us."

He'd said too much. Made it obvious how tired he was of all the sneaking around, the constant watching over his shoulder.

Before Y/N could respond, Joe headed for the door. Better to leave it simple than stand there explaining himself.

Wednesday - After Filming

The filming went fine. Joe delivered what Y/N needed, same as always.

But he found himself watching her work—the small nods when he hit the right tone, how she quietly directed Tyler to fix the lighting. She was good at this. Had been since day one.

"That's a wrap," Tyler announced as they finished the final take. "Great stuff, Joe."

"Thanks," Joe replied, already looking toward Y/N. This was the moment he'd been anticipating all week—the transition from public performance to private connection.

"Y/N, can I get your take on the messaging? Make sure it hits the right tone?"

The request was professional enough to avoid suspicion while creating space for them to talk privately. Joe watched Y/N recognize the manufactured excuse and play along seamlessly.

"Of course."

As Tyler packed equipment, Joe and Y/N moved to the side of the media room, maintaining the pretense of content strategy discussion while actually negotiating the evening ahead.

"Tone was perfect," Y/N said quietly. "Confident but not arrogant. Focused but not tense."

Joe stepped closer, not enough to draw Tyler's attention but enough to lower his voice. "Good. Now, about tonight..."

"Tyler's still here," Y/N murmured, and Joe appreciated her continued awareness of their surroundings even as her body language suggested she wanted to be closer.

"He's not paying attention," Joe replied, letting his hand brush against hers—brief contact that sent electricity up his arm. "Eight o'clock?"

"I'll be there."

oe smiled despite himself. A whole evening without watching the clock or checking who might walk in.

"Good. I'll order dinner. Actually want to talk to you without interruptions for once."

Thursday Morning - Facility Hallway

Joe made sure to be in the main corridor Thursday morning when Y/N usually got to work. He knew her routine—coffee in hand, sitting in her car for a few minutes going through her notes before coming inside.

When she walked in, Joe felt that familiar flutter. Y/N looked relaxed, like their evening together had been good for both of them.

"Morning," he said, falling into step beside her.

"Morning," Y/N replied, and Joe caught the subtle smile she was fighting.

"Sleep well?" The question was innocuous enough for any observer, but Joe's tone carried the intimacy of someone who knew exactly how Y/N had looked curled against his side during the movie, how peacefully she'd slept with her head on his shoulder.

"Very well," Y/N said, and Joe heard the acknowledgment in her voice—not just of sleep, but of the comfort they'd found in each other's company.

Joe's mouth curved slightly. "Good. You looked comfortable when you left."

"I was comfortable. Your couch is better than mine."

"It's not the couch," Joe said, his voice dropping despite the public setting. "It's the company."

The comment was risky for a hallway conversation, but Joe didn't care. Having Y/N at his place had changed something. Made his house feel less empty, more like home.

"Joe..."

"I know," he said, recognizing her warning about location and propriety. "Wrong place for this conversation. But I like having you there. In my space."

They'd reached the point where Joe went one way and Y/N went the other. Joe stopped, trying to figure out what he could get away with here.

"Dinner tonight?" he asked, his tone casual enough for any passerby but his eyes holding hers with obvious intention.

"Can't. Early meeting tomorrow, need to prep."

Joe felt a flicker of disappointment but respected her professional priorities. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow works."

Joe nodded, then surprised himself by stepping closer, his hand briefly touching Y/N's elbow. To anyone watching, it would appear to be a casual gesture of farewell, but Joe made sure she felt the intentional warmth of his palm, the deliberate nature of the contact.

"See you later," he said, already moving toward the player area but carrying the satisfaction of Y/N's response with him.

Friday - Storage Room

By Friday, Joe's restraint was wearing thin. A week of careful public interactions and stolen moments had built to a level of tension that demanded release. When he spotted Y/N gathering equipment for a social media shoot, Joe saw an opportunity for the kind of private contact they'd been rationing all week.

"Need help with anything?" he asked, stepping into the storage room and closing the door behind him with deliberate precision.

"Just grabbing camera gear," Y/N replied, though she stopped what she was doing when she saw the expression in his eyes.

Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist with the kind of familiarity that felt both natural and dangerous in this setting. "How long until your shoot?"

"Twenty minutes. Why?"

The practical question carried undertones of anticipation. Y/N knew exactly why Joe was asking about timing, just as she knew exactly what he intended to do with whatever private moments they could steal.

"Because I've barely seen you this week and I miss you."

The admission was more vulnerable than Joe had intended, revealing the emotional cost of maintaining professional distance while building personal intimacy. Every careful interaction at the facility felt like performance when what he wanted was authenticity.

"Joe, we can't keep doing this here," Y/N said, though her hands came up to rest on his chest in a gesture that contradicted her words.

"Doing what?" Joe asked, his thumb tracing a small circle on her hip, enjoying the way her breath caught at the contact.

"Meeting in storage rooms like we're in high school."

Joe's smile was slight but genuine. "Would you prefer your office? Because that seems riskier."

"I'd prefer not to get caught by my staff making out with the franchise quarterback."

"We're not making out," Joe pointed out, though he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her neck, breathing in the scent of her perfume. "We're just talking."

"This isn't talking," Y/N said, her eyes fluttering closed at the gentle contact.

Joe pulled back to look at her, recognizing her need for actual conversation along with physical connection. "Fine. Let's talk. How was your meeting with the sponsors?"

"Boring. How was film study?"

"Tedious." Joe's hands stayed at her waist, providing the constant contact they'd both been craving. "Better topic—what are you doing this weekend?"

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Time together. No meetings, no schedules, no one else around."

The proposal was simple but felt revolutionary after a week of careful public management. Joe wanted uninterrupted access to Y/N's company, the luxury of being together without constant awareness of external observation.

"That sounds perfect," Y/N admitted.

Joe smiled, leaning down to kiss her properly—soft and brief but enough to remind both of them what they were building toward. "Good. Because I have plans for us."

"What kind of plans?"

"The kind where I get to keep you on my couch for hours without anyone interrupting."

Weekend - At Joe's House

Saturday afternoon found them exactly where Joe had envisioned—on his couch, Y/N curled against his side while he traced absent patterns on her arm. No agenda, no timeline, no external pressure. Just the simple pleasure of proximity and the luxury of unstructured time together.

"This is nice," Y/N said, her head resting on his shoulder in a position that had become natural over their weeks together.

"Better than sneaking around storage rooms," Joe agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

"Much better."

Joe's hand found hers, their fingers intertwining with practiced ease. The simple contact felt significant—not dramatic or overwhelming, but steady and satisfying.

"Y/N?"

"Mmm?"

"I like this. Whatever this is we're doing."

The words carried weight beyond their casual delivery. Joe was acknowledging not just the physical comfort but the entire structure they'd built—the careful balance of professional respect and personal intimacy, the way they'd learned to navigate complexity without losing authenticity.

Y/N tilted her head to look at him. "Even with all the complications?"

"Especially with the complications," Joe said, his expression serious. "Makes it worth something."

Joe had never been someone who valued things that came easily. Challenge and difficulty were familiar territories that made success feel earned rather than given. What he and Y/N were building required constant navigation, careful timing, mutual respect for professional obligations—and all of that made their private moments feel more precious rather than less.

"Yeah," Y/N said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "It is worth something."

Joe leaned into her touch, then turned his head to kiss her palm gently. The gesture was tender, intimate, free of the urgency that characterized their stolen moments at the facility.

"Stay for dinner?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"Good," Joe said, pulling her closer. "Because I'm not ready for you to leave yet."

As they settled back into comfortable silence, Joe reflected on how natural this felt despite its newness. The easy intimacy, the unforced conversation, the way they fit together both literally and figuratively. Whatever they were building felt solid and real, worth the careful navigation required to protect it from external pressures.

The playoffs would bring their own intensity and demands, but Joe felt confident that what he and Y/N had established could withstand those pressures. They'd proven they could maintain professional excellence while building something personal and meaningful.

And as Y/N's breathing grew slower and more regular against his side, Joe realized that this—more than any championship or individual accolade—was what he'd been working toward without knowing it. Not just success, but someone to share it with who understood both the cost and the value of what they were building together.

* * *

The Final Whistle

Joe stood where the final play had died, staring up at the gray Pittsburgh sky. Steelers 28, Bengals 21. Season over. Another year of carrying everyone's hopes and expectations, another year of falling just short when it mattered most.

The stadium noise faded to nothing as it hit him. Five months of work. Sixteen weeks of games. All of it for nothing.

He spotted Y/N on the sideline, camera up, doing her job even now. Part of him was glad she was there. Part of him hated that she had to see this.

Players started moving toward midfield for handshakes. Joe made himself walk, go through the motions—shake hands with Steelers who meant their respect, nod at teammates who looked as gutted as he felt.

Walking toward the tunnel, Joe caught Y/N's eye for a second. No words. Just a look before he disappeared into the locker room, carrying another year that ended too soon.

The visiting locker room was dead quiet. No yelling, no speeches. Just guys sitting there, processing that it was over for another year. Joe sat at his locker in full gear, staring at the floor.

He knew what came next. Interviews. The same questions he'd answered before. Credit the opponent, say you're disappointed, thank the fans. Every losing quarterback said the same things.

But his mind kept replaying the game. The pick in the third quarter. Getting sacked on second down when they needed a first. The audible that didn't work.

Coach Taylor gave his comments to the media—said the right things. Joe's were shorter. Just enough to get through it so he could get on the bus, get on the plane, get back to Cincinnati and deal with another season that ended without a ring.

On the Plane - 11:47 PM

The team plane was quiet. Most guys were sleeping or staring out windows. Joe sat a few rows back from the media staff, giving everyone space to deal with this however they needed to.

He couldn't sleep. His mind kept running through every play, every decision, every moment where things could've gone different.

All of it was on him. Not just tonight, but every season that ended like this. He was the franchise quarterback. The city's hopes, everyone's dreams—it all came back to him.

Joe pulled out his phone. Five years of handling disappointment the same way—stay composed, don't let anyone see it get to you. But tonight felt different. Tonight he couldn't carry it alone.

He typed without thinking too much about it:

When we land, will you come to my house and stay?

He'd never asked anyone to help him deal with this before. But Y/N had seen him at his worst—during the injuries, the rehab, when his guard was down.

Y/N's response came fast: Of course.

No questions. No hesitation. Just yes.

Don't want to be alone tonight.

He'd never admitted that to anyone. Not during his careful courtship with Y/N, not ever. He needed her here tonight.

I'll follow you home from the facility.

Thank you.

Joe put his phone away, feeling like he could breathe for the first time since the game ended. Y/N would be there. He didn't have to do this alone.

Cincinnati - 1:23 AM

The facility parking lot was mostly empty when the team buses got back. Just a few cars—staff and families who'd waited up. Joe grabbed his gear and said goodbye to teammates, but he was really watching Y/N finish up her work.

When he came out twenty minutes later in sweats with his bag, Joe felt completely drained. Everything they'd worked for, gone. But Y/N was there, waiting for him like she'd promised.

Their eyes met across the parking lot. This wasn't about whatever they'd been building between them. This was about trust—trusting her to see him like this and not think less of him.

He nodded toward his car. Y/N followed him through empty Cincinnati streets, both of them driving in silence through a city that had gone to sleep disappointed. But at least they'd face whatever came next together.

Joe's House - 1:52 AM

Joe's house felt different when they arrived—darker, quieter, emptier than usual. The careful order that normally brought him comfort felt sterile in the face of the emotional chaos churning in his chest.

"You want anything?" Joe asked, dropping his bag by the door. "Water, food, whatever?"

The offer was automatic, part of his ingrained politeness, but it felt inadequate for what was actually happening. Y/N wasn't here as a guest making social calls. She was here because he'd asked her to help him carry something he couldn't handle alone.

"I'm fine," Y/N said softly. "What do you need?"

The direct question hit Joe like a physical blow. What did he need? He'd spent years carefully managing his emotions, maintaining professional composure, handling disappointment with controlled grace. But tonight, all of that felt insufficient.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, feeling the first crack in his composed facade since the game ended. "I don't know. Just... not to be alone with this."

Y/N moved closer, her hands finding his forearms with gentle certainty. "You don't have to be."

The simple assurance nearly undid him. "We were so close. Again. And I just... I can't stop thinking about what I could have done differently."

"Joe..."

"The interception in the third quarter. The sack on second down. The audible that didn't work." His voice was quiet but strained, the words tumbling out despite his usual emotional control. "I keep replaying every decision, every throw, every fucking play call."

Y/N stepped closer, her hands moving to frame his face with a tenderness that felt both foreign and necessary. "Stop."

"I can't."

"Yes, you can. For tonight, you can." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones, her touch grounding him in the present moment. "Tomorrow you can watch film and analyze every play. Tonight, you're just Joe. And Joe doesn't have to carry all of this alone."

Something in Joe's expression cracked at her words. The careful control he'd maintained all evening—through the handshakes, through the interviews, through the long plane ride home—finally began to slip under the weight of Y/N's permission to be human.

"I wanted it so bad. For the team, for the city, for..."

"I know," Y/N said simply. "I know you did."

When Joe opened his eyes, the professional mask was gone, the careful composure stripped away by exhaustion and disappointment and the relief of finally having someone who saw him as more than just the quarterback who'd lost the game.

"Come here," he said quietly, pulling her closer until there was barely any space between them.

Y/N went willingly, her arms sliding around his neck as his wrapped around her waist. They stood like that in his dark living room, holding each other while the weight of the season's end settled around them. For the first time in hours, Joe felt like he could breathe.

"Thank you," Joe murmured against her hair. "For being here. For seeing me."

"Always," Y/N replied, and Joe believed her completely.

When Joe pulled back to look at her, something had shifted in his expression. Y/N was exactly where he wanted her to be—not because she had to be, not because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be there when he needed someone most.

And for the first time since the final whistle, Joe felt like he might actually be okay.

Y/N could feel the tension radiating from him—not just disappointment, but something deeper. Frustration, anger, the weight of carrying everyone's expectations and falling short. She took his hand, leading him to the couch.

"Sit," she said gently.

Joe sank onto the cushions, and Y/N moved to straddle his lap, her hands resting on his shoulders. The position was intimate but not sexual—more like she was anchoring him, giving him something solid to hold onto.

"What do you need?" she asked, studying his face.

Joe's jaw clenched, his hands finding her hips. "I don't know. I'm just... I'm sad and I'm angry and I don't know what to do with any of it."

Joe had spent years carefully containing his emotions, channeling them into performance and preparation. But tonight, with Y/N's weight warm and solid in his lap, her eyes focused entirely on him, he felt something fundamental shifting.

"I'm not asking for soft," Y/N said quietly, her hands moving to frame his face. "I'm not asking for slow. I'm asking you to stop holding it in. You don't have to be careful with me right now."

Joe's eyes searched hers, something vulnerable and desperate flickering there. "You don't understand what you're saying."

"I understand perfectly." Y/N's thumbs brushed across his cheekbones. "You've been holding this together all night. Holding yourself together. You don't have to do that with me."

"If I don't hold it together—"

"Then don't," she said simply. "Let it break. Let me help you put it back together."

Joe's breathing grew uneven, his hands trembling slightly where they gripped her hips. Years of emotional control warring with the desperate need to let someone else carry the weight for once.

"Y/N..."

"Stop," she said quietly, her hands still framing his face. "Stop trying to be okay for me."

"Use me," she whispered, her thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. "Work it out on me. Be angry. Be sad. Be real. I can take it. I want it."

Something shifted in Joe's eyes—the last of his control beginning to fracture. His hands tightened on her hips, pulling her closer against him.

"You want me to stop being careful?" he asked, his voice rough with barely contained emotion.

"Yes," Y/N breathed. "Show me who you are when you're not trying to be perfect."

Joe stared at her for a long moment, his breathing growing heavier. Then he saw the exact moment his restraint snapped—not into violence, but into something raw and desperate and honest.

His mouth was on hers in the next second, rougher than he'd ever kissed her, like he'd been holding it back for years. Y/N met him with equal force, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring him to the moment.

He broke the kiss with a breathless, “Fuck,” his grip tightening on her hips like he couldn’t hold himself back another second.

“Off,” he said, tugging at the hem of her dress. “I need—fuck—I need to see you.”

She didn’t say anything, just stripped. No hesitation, no ceremony. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady and unflinching, and then—she dropped to her knees like she’d been waiting to do it.

Joe leaned back slightly, planting his hands on his thighs. She was still looking at him, like she was daring him to say something, to stop her. Like she knew he wouldn’t.

“You want this?” His voice was low, rough.

“Yes.”

His jaw clenched. “Then look at me.”

She didn’t look away as she untied his sweats and pushed them down just enough. He was already hard, already throbbing, and she hadn’t even touched him yet.

“Don’t tease,” he muttered, hand coming to the back of her head. Not forcing, just steady. A warning. “Not tonight.”

She wrapped one hand around him and took him into her mouth—no warm-up, no playing around, just all in, smooth and sure.

Joe’s head dropped back, a hiss cutting through his teeth. “Fuck—that’s it.”

He looked down again, watching her, needing to see it. His fingers tightened in her hair. “Deeper. You can take it.”

She adjusted, let him guide the pace, didn’t flinch.

“That’s it,” he said, breath catching. “Eyes on me. I want you to feel this. I want to feel you.”

She moaned around him, and he felt it, low and deep. His whole body jolted.

He was already too close, already on edge, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when her mouth felt like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“Don’t look away,” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t fucking look away.”

She didn’t. She couldn’t. And he didn’t want her to. Her eyes stayed locked on his, steady even as she kept her rhythm. She was doing it for him. Just for him.

“You like that?” he rasped. “Fuck, you love it, don’t you?”

She hummed, deliberate. That sound hit him low, sharp. His hips jerked forward just slightly, control unraveling.

“I’m not gonna last,” he got out, breath gone, voice uneven. “Not like this.”

He looked down at her again, jaw tight, eyes locked in. “Get up.”

She pulled back, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Still breathless. Still tasting him.

Joe stood, grabbed her hand, held on tight. Not gentle. Not rough. Just certain.

“Come on,” he said, voice low and frayed. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on my couch.”

* * *

He pulled her up in one smooth motion, not letting go of her hand as he headed down the hall. Grip locked tight. Like if he let go, the moment would break.

He pushed open the bedroom door with his free hand, backed inside, and pulled her in with him.

The second the door clicked shut, he was on her again.

He walked her backward toward the bed, hands on her waist, mouth back on her throat. No pause. No slow build. Just heat and need and the taste of her still on his tongue.

She hit the edge of the mattress and he nudged her down. Stood over her, eyes dragging across her body, trying to figure out where the fuck to start. He wanted all of it. Every inch.

She reached for him.

He shook his head once. Firm.

“Lie back.”

She did. Breath shaky. Legs already open for him.

He dropped to his knees, fingers sliding between her legs—and froze.

“Jesus,” he muttered. His voice came out low, rough. “You’re soaked.”

Her breath hitched, sharp. She didn’t say anything.

He looked up at her. Dead on. “That was just from your mouth on me?”

She didn’t flinch. “What do you think?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“Good,” he said.

Then he dropped his head and took.

No warm-up. No easing in. Just mouth on her, tongue moving with focus. He didn’t give a fuck about rhythm or build-up. He just wanted to make her come apart. Fast. Hard. Like she had five years of tension to burn off.

She cried out. Loud. One hand flying to her mouth like she couldn’t believe how good it felt.

His hands came up to her hips, holding her still.

“Don’t run from it,” he said against her. His voice was already frayed. “Stay with me.”

“I’m trying,” she gasped. “Fuck—don’t stop.”

So he didn’t. He doubled down. Groaned low when she tilted her hips, licked deeper when she gasped. Let her ride it. Let her take what she needed.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured into her. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

She tried to speak. Didn’t make it. Legs shaking. Hands clawing for something to grab.

“I’m gonna—Joe—fuck—”

“Do it,” he said, lifting his head just long enough to say it against her. “Come on. Give it to me.”

And she did.

The sound she made was raw. Nothing soft about it. She broke apart with her thighs tight around his shoulders, whole body shaking.

He didn’t stop until she slumped back, wrecked. Chest heaving. Breath shot to hell.

Only then did he pull back. Slow. Deliberate. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving hers.

He stood. Looked down at her, completely laid out for him, and wrapped his hand around himself—just once, steady. He was hanging on by a thread.

“This what you want?” he asked, voice wrecked.

She nodded. “Yes.”

He tilted his head, thumb sliding across the head of his cock. “You’ve wanted this for five years?”

She exhaled like it knocked the wind out of her. “Yes.”

His jaw locked. “Say it.”

“I’ve wanted you,” she said, right on the edge of begging. “Please, Joe. I want you.”

That was it.

He pushed forward in one hard thrust. Deep. All the way.

Y/N gasped, hands flying to the sheets, back arching. “Fuck—”

Joe dropped his head, groaning. “Jesus, Y/N…”

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, buried inside her, holding her hips. Taking in the feel of her. Tight, warm, perfect.

“You feel that?” he murmured, finally pulling back and driving in again. “That’s what you’ve been needing?”

“Yes,” she panted. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He gave her more—deeper, faster—his pace picking up as she met him, her leg hooking around his hip like she couldn’t get close enough.

“This what you wanted?” he growled. “Me fucking you like this?”

“God, yes, harder,” she gasped. “Just like that—Joe, fuck—”

He bent over her, hand braced beside her head, thrusts sharp now, hitting deep every time.

“You take me so fucking well,” he grit out. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

She moaned, loud and open.

“I want to feel you come,” he said, pushing harder. “You gonna come for me again?”

She whimpered. Body locking up. So close.

“I want to feel you lose it around me,” he ground out. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

“Joe, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Look at me.”

Her eyes flew open. Met his.

“Look at me when you do it.”

She came hard. Whole body clenching around him, thighs shaking, breath breaking into pieces. Her cry punched right through him.

“Fuck—” Joe gasped, hips jerking, rhythm gone. He thrust once, twice, then lost it completely—groaning low as he came inside her, everything snapping loose all at once.

He stayed there. Inside her. Still breathing hard. Forehead pressed to hers like he needed something to hang onto.

Neither of them said anything.

* * *

He stayed inside her longer than he meant to. Just breathing. Just feeling it. Her heartbeat under his hand. The way her body was still holding him, still wrapped around him. The weight of what they’d just done settling between his ribs like gravity.

Then he pulled out, slow, careful, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee before stepping back.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, voice still rough but steadier now. Not wrecked anymore. Just real.

She didn’t answer. Just stared up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling fast.

He went to the ensuite. Turned on the water. Let it run warm while he found a cloth. When he came back, he was still naked, still buzzing under his skin, but he didn’t rush. He knelt between her legs again, holding the cloth in one hand. Looked at her like a question.

She didn’t flinch.

He cleaned her with quiet, focused movements. No talking. No big moment. Just taking care of her because he wanted to. Because this part mattered too.

Wherever the cloth passed, he followed with a kiss—her thigh, her hip, her stomach. He didn’t think about what it meant. Just did it.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at her.

“You know this changes everything, right?”

She didn’t answer. But she didn’t look away either.

His thumb ran over her knee. Steady. Like he always was when it counted.

“I’m not going back from this,” he said. “And I’m not going to pretend.”

She swallowed hard. He saw it.

“I’ll handle it,” he told her. “The higher-ups. Front office. I’ll talk to them myself. You don’t have to do anything.”

His eyes didn’t leave hers.

“All you need to do is give Kayla a heads up. So she’s not blindsided. The rest? I’ve got.”

She exhaled. Not relief exactly, but close.

His hand skimmed up her thigh again. Slower now. Grounding, not hungry.

“We’ll keep it professional at work,” he said. “I won’t make you look bad.”

She met his eyes. “I know you won’t.”

He leaned down and kissed her again. Slow. Mouth lingering. His hand cupping her cheek like he wasn’t done holding her yet. Like maybe he never would be.

They got under the covers without much talking. Not because there wasn’t anything to say. Because they’d already said enough.

She curled into him like it was muscle memory. Head on his chest. Her leg over his. Like they’d done this before. Like it wasn’t brand new.

His hand moved along her back in slow, absent lines. Not thinking about it. Just needing the contact.

Silence held for a while. Heavy but not uncomfortable. Then he said it, soft. Quiet enough he almost hoped she didn’t hear it.

“Thank you.”

She stirred a little. “For what?”

He exhaled through his nose. The weight of it sat in his chest.

“For being here tonight,” he said. “For giving yourself to me.”

She didn’t say anything right away. Just brushed her fingers over his ribs. That little spot that always made him feel like his body wasn’t all his own anymore.

“I’m sorry it took me five years to get here,” he said, and his voice cracked a little.

Her voice didn’t break. Not even close. “You’re here now.”

He nodded once, barely.

Then he put his hand at the base of her spine and left it there. Holding her. Holding this.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

And he meant it.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - Joe's House, 7:47 AM

Joe stood in his bedroom doorway with his coffee, watching Y/N get ready at his bathroom sink. A week of mornings like this—her stuff on his counter, their clothes mixed together in the hamper. It felt right.

He'd been thinking about this since their first night together. They couldn't keep sneaking around forever. This thing between them had become too important to hide. He was tired of pretending Y/N was just another employee.

"I'm sitting down with the front office today," Joe said, his tone casual but decisive. "To tell them about us."

Y/N's toothbrush stopped mid-stroke. Their eyes met in the mirror, and Joe saw the moment his words registered—surprise, then something close to panic.

"Today?" Y/N managed around the toothpaste, then quickly spit and rinsed. "What do you mean today? What time?"

"Eleven," Joe replied, taking a sip of coffee. He'd already run through this conversation in his mind, anticipated her concerns, prepared his responses. "Meeting with ownership, Kayla will probably be there, maybe legal."

Y/N whirled around to face him, and Joe could practically see her mind racing through the implications. "Joe! You can't just spring this on me! I haven't told Kayla yet!"

Joe set down his coffee, recognizing that Y/N's panic was legitimate even if he didn't share it. "I told you last week I was done hiding this. I meant it."

"You said you were 'done pretending' - I didn't know you meant this week!" Y/N's voice rose slightly, stress making her words sharp. "Shit, what time did you say? Eleven?"

"Eleven."

Joe watched Y/N glance at her phone, saw her calculating the time she had to manage this situation. Her mind was already in crisis management mode, the same focused efficiency she brought to handling his media disasters.

"Fuck. Okay. I need to get to work and talk to Kayla before you talk to them. She needs to hear this from me, not find out in a meeting where she's blindsided."

Y/N pushed past him toward the bedroom, and Joe followed, recognizing that his casual approach to this announcement had created exactly the kind of professional complication he'd been trying to avoid.

"Y/N," he called after her, watching her pull clothes from his dresser with sharp, efficient movements. "It's going to be fine."

"You don't know that," Y/N said, her anxiety evident in every gesture. "This could mess up everything I've worked for. The timing, the optics, the fact that I just got promoted—"

Joe caught her hand, stopping her frantic preparation. He'd miscalculated this moment, had been so focused on his own readiness to go public that he hadn't fully considered Y/N's need to control the narrative around her career.

"Hey. Look at me."

Y/N met his eyes, and Joe saw the fear there—not of their relationship, but of the professional implications she'd been carefully managing since her promotion.

"I've thought this through," he said quietly, meaning it completely. "I know what I'm going to say, how I'm going to frame it. This isn't going to hurt your career."

"But you're telling them before I tell Kayla," Y/N pointed out, pulling her hand free to continue getting dressed. "That makes it look like I was keeping secrets from my boss while you were being transparent with yours."

The moment Y/N said it, Joe realized his mistake. He'd been thinking about this from his own perspective—his timeline, his readiness, his need to stop hiding. But Y/N was right about the optics. The order of these conversations mattered.

"Shit. You're right."

"I know I'm right!" Y/N said, already reaching for her phone. "Which is why I need to get to the facility right now and have a very awkward conversation with Kayla before eleven o'clock."

Joe watched Y/N text with practiced efficiency, coordinating an emergency meeting while simultaneously getting dressed and mentally preparing for a conversation that could affect her entire career trajectory.

"This is going to be a disaster," Y/N muttered, checking her reflection in his mirror.

Joe moved to block her path to the door, recognizing that his casual confidence wasn't helping her anxiety. "It's not. Y/N, stop panicking."

"I'm not panicking, I'm being realistic about the professional implications of—"

Joe kissed her, cutting off her spiraling thoughts with the kind of direct action that had always worked between them. When they broke apart, he saw some of the tension ease from her shoulders.

"Better?" he asked.

"Marginally," Y/N admitted, though her breathing had slowed. "But I still need to go handle damage control."

"There's no damage to control," Joe said firmly, meaning it completely. He'd run through every possible scenario, every potential complication. "We're adults in a relationship. We're both good at our jobs. Everything else is just logistics."

Y/N stared at him with something between admiration and frustration. "I wish I had your confidence about this."

Joe opened the front door for her, his voice gentle but certain. "You don't need confidence. You just need honesty. Tell Kayla the truth—that we've been seeing each other, that it's serious, and that it won't interfere with either of our professional responsibilities."

"And if she thinks the timing of my promotion looks suspicious?"

Joe's expression grew more serious, his protective instincts engaging. "Then you remind her that you earned that promotion through five years of excellent work, and anyone who suggests otherwise can take it up with me."

Despite her anxiety, Y/N's expression softened slightly at his immediate defensiveness on her behalf. "Okay. I'm going to go have the most awkward conversation of my professional life. Try not to torpedo my career while I'm gone."

"I'll be the picture of professionalism," Joe promised, kissing her forehead. "Text me after you talk to Kayla."

As Y/N walked toward her car, Joe felt a mix of anticipation and determination. He'd made his decision about going public, and while the timing had created temporary stress for Y/N, he knew it was the right choice. They'd been careful long enough. It was time to stop hiding.

10:58 AM - Before the Meeting

Joe walked into the conference room the same way he approached playoff games—confident, prepared. He'd spent the morning thinking through what he'd say, what questions might come up. The ownership group was already there—Mike Brown, Katie Blackburn, the executives, and Kayla. Good. Y/N had talked to her. This wasn't about asking permission. This was about telling them what was happening. His relationship with Y/N was serious, and they needed to know.

"Joe," Mike Brown nodded as he took his seat. "Appreciate you making time during the off-season. What's on your mind?"

Joe settled into his chair, hands relaxed on the table. No notes, no prepared remarks. Just the same directness that had served him well for five years as their franchise quarterback.

"I wanted to inform you that I'm in a relationship with Y/N Y/L/N," he said simply. "It's serious, and I thought you should hear it from me directly."

The brief silence that followed was exactly what Joe had expected. He could read the room like he read defensive coverage—surprise shifting to calculation, executives processing implications and potential complications.

Katie Blackburn spoke first. "Y/N from our media team? The new VP?"

"That's right."

"How long has this been going on?" Mike Brown asked, his tone neutral but evaluating.

"We've been seeing each other for a few months. It became official recently." Joe's voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. "I want to be clear about something from the start—this relationship had nothing to do with her promotion. Y/N earned that position through five years of exceptional work."

Joe let that statement settle, making direct eye contact with each person at the table. Not defensive—just establishing facts that couldn't be disputed.

"The timing of her promotion and your relationship becoming public could raise questions," one of the executives pointed out.

"It could," Joe agreed, his tone remaining conversational. "Which is why I'm addressing it directly. Y/N and I are both professionals. We understand the boundaries required to maintain our respective roles."

Joe paused, choosing his next words carefully. He wanted to be respectful but also clear about his position. "I think it's worth noting that I just finished a season where I threw for over 4,000 yards and led this team to the playoffs despite some significant roster challenges."

The subtle shift in the room was immediate. Joe continued, his voice still measured but carrying unmistakable weight.

"The offensive line issues, the depth concerns at key positions—we all know what this team dealt with this season. But we made the playoffs anyway." His eyes moved around the table. "I mention that because I think my commitment to this organization has been pretty well established."

Katie Blackburn nodded slowly. "It has been, Joe."

"Good. So when I tell you that Y/N is the most talented media professional this organization has, and that she earned her promotion through merit, I hope that carries some weight." Joe's tone remained friendly, but there was steel underneath. "Because I'd hate for anyone to suggest otherwise."

The implication hung in the air—polite, but unmistakable. Joe had made his position clear without raising his voice or changing his expression.

"Joe, no one would suggest that," Mike Brown said.

"I'm sure they wouldn't," Joe replied smoothly. "But just so we're all clear—Y/N doesn't know I'm saying this, and she'd probably prefer I didn't—but her success reflects well on this organization. She's been documenting my career since my rookie year, and she's a big part of why our media presence has improved so dramatically."

He leaned back slightly, the picture of relaxed confidence. "I'd consider any suggestion that her promotion was connected to our relationship to be... inaccurate. And I think my track record gives me some credibility on personnel evaluations."

The room was quiet, but not tense—just thoughtful. Joe had made his point without being confrontational, had protected Y/N's reputation while establishing clear boundaries.

"Now," he continued, as if the previous exchange had been purely informational, "Kayla can walk you through the protocols Y/N has already implemented to ensure there are no conflicts of interest."

The meeting proceeded smoothly from there, covering practical considerations and establishing clear guidelines. When it concluded, Joe felt satisfied with the outcome. He'd protected Y/N's reputation, established his position, and set the tone for how their relationship would be handled moving forward. As he walked out of the conference room, Joe checked his phone and found a text from Y/N asking how it went. He smiled, typing back quickly:

Joe: Exactly like it should have. They're supportive. Kayla will handle the paperwork.

For the first time in months, Joe felt completely free. No more careful scheduling, no more stolen moments, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life. They could finally be together openly, honestly, without the weight of secrecy.

It felt exactly right.

* * *

January 12, 2025 - 12:47 PM - Y/N's Office

Joe walked through the facility feeling lighter than he had in months. The meeting had gone exactly like he'd expected—straightforward, professional. Five years of good work meant they respected his judgment. No drama, no complications. He went straight to Y/N's office. Felt good to just walk there without timing it perfectly or making up some excuse. When he knocked and went in, closing the door behind him, it was simple—he wanted to see her.

"Got a minute?" he asked, taking in Y/N's expression of barely contained anxiety.

Y/N practically launched herself out of her chair, and Joe felt a flutter of amusement at her obvious stress. "How did it go? Seriously, be honest."

Joe's mouth curved into that subtle smile, the one that appeared when he was satisfied with an outcome he'd carefully orchestrated. "Exactly like I said it would."

"That's not details," Y/N said, moving closer with the kind of urgency that suggested she'd been catastrophizing every possible scenario for the past hour. "I need actual details. What did they say? How did they react? Are we in trouble?"

Joe reached for her hands, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers that betrayed her attempt at composure. "We're not in trouble. Y/N, breathe. It was fine. Better than fine."

"Define fine."

Joe pulled her closer, his hands settling at her waist in the kind of casual intimacy they could now display without worry. "Mike Brown said they appreciate me handling it the right way. Katie confirmed your promotion was unanimous and had nothing to do with us. Kayla will handle the HR paperwork. End of story."

Y/N searched his face with the same intensity she brought to analyzing game footage, looking for any sign of concern or uncertainty. "That's really it? No pushback, no concerns about optics?"

"None that matter," Joe said simply.

"What does that mean?"

Joe was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. He'd handled the meeting with the same strategic precision he brought to reading defenses, but Y/N didn't need to know about the subtle power dynamics he'd navigated to protect her position.

"They needed to understand that questioning your qualifications or suggesting your promotion was connected to us would be... problematic."

Y/N's eyes widened, and Joe saw the moment she understood what he'd actually done in that conference room. "Joe, what did you say?"

"Nothing dramatic," he replied, though he could see Y/N wasn't buying his casual dismissal. "I just reminded them that I had a pretty good season despite some organizational challenges, and that my opinion on personnel carries some weight."

"You didn't..."

"I protected you," Joe said firmly, his voice dropping to match the seriousness of what he was telling her. "Without being dramatic about it. Just made sure everyone understood where things stand."

Y/N's expression shifted, surprise giving way to something that looked like overwhelming gratitude. Joe felt a surge of satisfaction at having handled the situation exactly as he'd intended—no drama, no ultimatums, just clear communication of his position and the consequences of questioning it.

"You really did handle it."

"I told you I would."

"But I was so nervous, and you were just... confident. Like you knew exactly how it would go."

Joe's hands moved to frame her face, his thumbs brushing across her cheekbones in a gesture that felt both tender and possessive. This was exactly why he'd been confident—not because he was naive about potential complications, but because he'd understood the dynamics at play and his own value within the organization.

"Because I did know. Y/N, I'm the franchise quarterback and you're incredibly good at your job. We're both adults. There was never any real question about how this would go."

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is simple," Joe said, leaning down to kiss her softly. The kiss felt different now—not stolen or careful, but open and honest. "Everything else was just noise."

When they broke apart, Y/N rested her forehead against his, and Joe felt the tension finally leave her body. "I can't believe we're actually doing this. Like, officially doing this."

"Finally," Joe said, his voice dropping lower as the full implications hit him. "No more hiding. No more pretending I don't want to touch you when you're in the same room."

The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Months of careful management, of stolen glances and manufactured professional distance, were finally over. He could touch Y/N when he wanted to, could look at her without calculating who might be watching, could stop performing careful indifference when what he felt was anything but indifferent.

"No more storage room meetings," Y/N added with a laugh.

"Definitely no more storage room meetings," Joe agreed, though his expression grew slightly nostalgic. "Though I have to admit, there was something exciting about the secrecy."

Y/N pulled back to look at him, eyebrows raised. "You're not going to miss it?"

Joe's expression grew more serious as he considered what he would and wouldn't miss about their careful navigation of professional boundaries. "I'm not going to miss watching you worry that someone might see us together. I'm not going to miss you editing yourself out of conversations because you're afraid of how it looks. I'm not going to miss pretending that what we have isn't important."

The honesty in his own voice surprised him. Joe hadn't fully realized how much Y/N's careful self-protection had affected him until he was able to articulate its absence. Watching her constrain herself professionally because of their relationship had been more painful than maintaining his own careful boundaries.

"It is important."

"It's the most important thing," Joe confirmed, meaning it completely. "And now everyone knows it."

Y/N's phone buzzed, breaking the intimate bubble they'd created. Joe watched her glance at the message, saw her expression shift to something like amused resignation.

"Sam," Y/N explained, showing him the screen. "She's been suspicious for weeks. She's going to lose her mind when I tell her."

"Good," Joe said, kissing her forehead with genuine satisfaction. "I want people to know. I want everyone to know that you're mine and I'm yours and we're done pretending otherwise."

The possessiveness in his voice was deliberate and unapologetic. Joe had spent months carefully managing his feelings, restraining his natural inclination to claim what mattered to him. No more restraint, no more careful distance.

"Yours, huh?"

"Completely," Joe said without hesitation. "Is that a problem?"

"Not even a little bit," Y/N replied, standing on her toes to kiss him properly.

This kiss was different from their earlier exchange—deeper, more certain, carrying the weight of finally being able to be honest about what they meant to each other. When they broke apart, Joe felt settled in a way he hadn't experienced in years.

"So what happens now?"

"Now we go back to work," Y/N said practically, and Joe appreciated her ability to compartmentalize even in moments of emotional significance. "I have meetings, you probably have film study or workouts or whatever quarterbacks do in January."

"And tonight?"

"Tonight you come home to my place and we celebrate not having to sneak around anymore."

Joe's smile was slow and satisfied. The casual assumption that he'd come to her place, that they'd spend the evening together, felt like the most natural thing in the world. "I like the sound of that."

"Good," Y/N said, reaching up to straighten his quarter-zip in a gesture that was both unnecessary and deeply intimate. "Because I have about five years of not being able to touch you in public to make up for."

The promise in her voice sent heat through Joe's chest. Five years of careful professional distance, of managing attraction and suppressing the desire to touch her, were finally over. Tonight, and every night going forward, he could stop pretending Y/N wasn't exactly where he wanted to be.

Joe kissed her once more—quick but thorough, a promise of more to come—then moved toward the door. "I'll see you tonight. And Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"No more worrying about this. It's handled. We're handled. Everything else is just logistics."

As Joe left Y/N's office, he felt a completeness he hadn't experienced since before their relationship began. No more careful scheduling, no more manufactured reasons to be in the same room, no more pretending that Y/N wasn't the most important thing in his life.

For the first time in months, Joe Burrow could just be himself—franchise quarterback, sure, but also a man completely in love with a woman who'd finally stopped having to hide it.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe nodded to colleagues with the same professional courtesy he'd always maintained. But now, when people looked at him, they'd see someone who'd chosen transparency over convenience, who'd prioritized honesty over ease.

They'd see a man who'd found something worth protecting and had protected it exactly the way it deserved.

And Joe had never felt more like himself than he did in that moment, walking through his workplace knowing that Y/N was somewhere in the same building, officially and openly his.

* * *

July 15, 2025 - Training Camp Begins

Joe arrived at the facility early for the first day of training camp, his usual routine unchanged despite everything that had shifted over the past six months. The summer air was thick with humidity and the promise of another season ahead. It had been six months since his meeting with ownership, six months of being openly together with Y/N, and this was their first time back in the facility as an official couple.

The parking lot was packed—players' cars mixed with media vehicles and staff arriving for the official start of football season. Joe parked in his usual spot and noticed Y/N's car a few spaces over. No more careful timing of arrivals, no more pretending they didn't coordinate their schedules.

Walking through the facility corridors, Joe noticed the differences immediately. Staff members who used to give him polite professional nods now smiled with something warmer. They knew about Y/N now, knew she was part of his life in a way that went beyond work.

"Morning, Joe!" called out one of the equipment managers. "Your lucky practice jersey's ready. Tell Y/N I said hello."

Joe nodded, appreciating how naturally Y/N had been incorporated into the team's understanding of who he was. She wasn't just the VP of Digital Media anymore—she was his girlfriend, part of his world in a way that felt right. The locker room was buzzing with the energy of a new season starting. Players catching up after the off-season, coaches reviewing practice plans, the familiar rhythm of football preparation that Joe had missed.

"Look who's back," Ja'Marr said, appearing beside Joe's locker. "How's it feel to be Cincinnati's most private power couple?"

"Like we're doing it right," Joe replied, pulling his practice gear from his locker. "Y/N's not built for a spotlight on her personal life."

"No kidding. You give one-word answers about her in interviews and somehow still make it clear you're completely gone."

Joe felt himself smile slightly. "I protect what matters to me."

"Including her," Ja'Marr said with obvious approval. "It's actually really sweet how you handle it. And can I just say, it's about damn time you two stopped pretending."

"We weren't pretending, we were being professional."

"Man, you were torturing yourselves," Ja'Marr said with a laugh. "The whole team could see it. You've been different since y'all got together—more focused, less uptight. Whatever she's doing, tell her to keep doing it."

Before Joe could respond, Coach Taylor's voice echoed through the locker room, calling for the first team meeting of training camp.

As Joe headed toward the meeting room, he pulled out his phone and typed a quick message to Y/N.

Joe: First day back. Feels right being here with you.

Her response came quickly.

Y/N: Feels right not hiding.

Joe: Never hiding again. See you at lunch?

Y/N: If you're not too exhausted from practice.

Joe: Never too exhausted for you.

Around eleven, after the team meeting but before practice started, Joe found himself walking toward the media offices. Not because he had to—no scheduled interviews or content shoots—but because he wanted to see Y/N in her element here, at the place where they'd built their foundation over five years. He knocked on her office door and stepped inside, closing it behind him out of habit more than necessity.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Always," Y/N replied, looking up from her computer. "Ready for the first practice?"

"More than ready. Excited." Joe moved closer, his hands finding her waist as she stood up from her chair. "I missed this place. Missed working here with you."

"We've been together all off-season," Y/N pointed out.

"Not here. Not where it all started." Joe's expression grew more serious. This building held five years of their history—every careful conversation, every stolen moment, every time he'd requested her specifically for his media needs because he trusted her judgment completely. "Y/N, having you here, being able to be open about us—it makes everything better."

"Even with people watching?"

"Especially with people watching. I like that the team knows you're mine."

Joe kissed her then—brief but thorough—marveling at how natural it felt to be affectionate with her here, in her office, without calculating who might see or what conclusions they might draw.

"Go get ready for practice," Y/N said when they broke apart. "Show them why you're worth all the fuss."

"What fuss?" Joe asked with that subtle smile.

"The fuss of dating the VP of Digital Media."

Joe's expression grew more serious. "Best decision I ever made."

As he reached the door, he paused and turned back. The words came easily now, after months of being able to say them openly.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you. See you at lunch."

"Love you too," she replied, and Joe felt that familiar satisfaction at hearing her say it back so easily, so certainly.

Walking back toward the practice facility, Joe felt a completeness he'd never experienced here before. For five years, he'd been excellent at his job while carefully managing his feelings for Y/N. Now he could be excellent at his job while being completely himself.

As he changed into practice gear, Joe looked out the windows toward the practice field. For the first time in five years, Y/N could watch him work without having to hide how much she cared about him, both as a player and as a person.

And Joe could perform knowing that the woman who'd documented his entire NFL career was there not just because it was her job, but because she'd chosen to be part of his life in every way that mattered. The first practice of training camp was about to begin, and Joe Burrow had never felt more ready for a season to start.

[whateveriwant]

Ok ok ok hear me out for a second. What if Simon has dimples?

I know that in reality, even if he did have dimples, the chances of you knowing is probably slim to none. I mean, it’s not like that man is exactly forthcoming when it comes to sharing his identity with others, right? For Christ’s sake, his own teammates have likely seen his bare face only a handful of times. I doubt the number of times they’ve seen him visibly express any kind of emotion is much better.

But just imagine that you do get a chance to see his dimples; that you’re one of the lucky few that can say you’ve had a glimpse of the real man beneath the mask. Imagine you’re sitting in a dingy pub one night, shooting the shit with your mates, trying to slyly admire the rare peep you have of your Lieutenant’s unmasked face. Maybe Johnny or Kyle or whomever tells some dumb joke that gets the whole group laughing, and as you instinctively look over to catch Simon’s reaction, imagine the awe that would overtake you upon spotting his lopsided grin.

In all the time you’ve worked with Simon, you must’ve imagined what his smile looks like a thousand times. In your mind’s eye, you’ve conjured up a hundred different variations – how his lips would part, his nose would crinkle, his cheeks would round with gentle amusement. But in all those fantasies, all those hours spent daydreaming, you never, not once in your life, imagined he could have dimples. And now that you’re quite literally face to face with the evidence, you wonder how you could have ever been so daft to exclude them.

And it’s amazing, really, how much those two little indentations seem to instantly transform Simon’s face. They shave about 10, even 15 years off his age, imbuing him with this sort of boyishness that offsets his otherwise grisly appearance. To most people, the sight before you would be nothing remarkable – a smile no different than any other. But to you, this cheek-splitting grin reveals so much more. It shows you that beneath the scars and the marks and the brutal reminders of his past lies a handsome, benign man just begging to be noticed.

Of course, with the way you’re admiring him like he’s a block of marble carved by Michelangelo himself, sooner or later Simon is bound to feel the weight of your gaze pressing into him. So when he turns to look at you with that quizzical notch to his brow, you’re quick to swivel your head in the opposite direction, but not before meeting his eye for a second or two.

Shame heats the back of your neck for having been caught staring at your Lieutenant, burning a hole in the side of your head from where he now peers at you. And yet, despite your sense of embarrassment, there’s another feeling boiling away in your belly. It’s a curious sensation, tingly almost, like how you imagine a child feels the first time they witness a magnificent fireworks display.

In all honesty, you feel like you could float out of your seat right now, not stopping until you reach the Earth’s upper atmosphere. It’s like one look at Simon’s infectious smile has fundamentally rewired your brain. Though by the time you risk another glance at him his dimples have totally vanished, that doesn’t stop that giddy feeling from churning inside you, nor does it stop your mind from racing.

And so for the rest of the night, as you sit in that dark pub only half listening to conversations going on around you, you make a silent vow to yourself. You swear to do everything in your power to make Simon smile again and to keep him smiling for as long as physically possible, because, in your eyes, there’s not a prettier sight in this world to behold.

[phecdasolar]

Tumblr I need your help I am in dire need of feral/unhinged Disaster Twins fics pleaseeee (and maybe Mikey as a bonus) I’m just in love with the idea of Raph being the impulse control for once with this iteration, and just the second he’s out of commission the other three go insane.

Weapons of War, Bioengineered Killing Machines, Manufactured Supersoldiers Rottmnt turtles my BELOVEDS

And maybe just like,,, set Leo and Donnie loose on one of the other dimensions and have them absolutely horrifically annihilate their counterparts’ villains while they watch on in horror

(B.E.A.S.T. was SUCH a good fic you guys oh my GOSH go read it I’m begging you-)

I NEED to have it addressed in fic form that the Rise turtles are fundamentally different than all their other counterparts, because their counterparts? They were accidents. Just a couple of turtles splashed with mutagen and oh look now they’re people but Green. (Huge oversimplification I’m aware but hear me out okay-)

But the Rise boys were created. They were specifically designed to be weapons of mass destruction. They were built with the intent to cause harm which means they were bioengineered to be stronger, smarter(?), faster, to heal quicker, to have the capacity to take hard hits while dishing out even harder ones, they were literally forged with a purpose to kill.

Add on their mystic powers? Then their unlocked Ninpo? You can’t honestly tell me that these four aren’t the strongest and potentially deadliest version of themselves out there.

Yes they still had to learn things, as did the other iterations, they weren’t immediately good (that much is obvious, like c’mon it’s IN the name) but I don’t think the other iterations possess the same instincts as these guys do. They’re just so. Unhinged. They’ve all had their moments in the show I think where it’s obvious they’re not really,,, stable. I love them.

In a plain fists only, maybe weapons, no powers fight, I do think some of the other iterations would win, but purely because they have way more experience than these guys do. (If I did any crossovers I’d say 2003 and 2012 are definitely older than these guys, especially if we’re basing this at the end of their shows) But put them against each other when they’re still at the same level? Rise is whooping butt, I know where I’m placing my bets. It’s called RISE of the TMNT for a reasonnnnnn they’re not there yet but they WILL BE, and as of the end of s2 and the movie I say they’re finally THERE.

I have no idea how this turned into a headcanon rant this was just supposed to be me asking for fic recs hsgdjdjdk it’s almost 3 am tho so whatever sorry if none or only some of this is incoherent o7 o/

Editing this with a list of fics I have been graciously recommended below the cut:

Firefight by remrose [43/43 chapters 222k words] (edit: JUST FINISHED READING ch38-42 WATCH ME BAWL MY EYES OUT I was rotating them in my brain all morning at work) less on the feral side, more on the gut-wrenching angst side, still Disaster Twins and still super good

In Which Donnie and Leo Make Themselves Everyone Else's Problem in an NYC That Isn't Even Their Own by YukiSkyes [7/? chapters, 18k words] the CLASSIC “the Disaster Twins are unapologetically causing chaos” fic, always a delight to read

The Lemonade Leak by TurtleSoupSwimmer [27/37 chapters, 143k words] I’m being told it’s very true to the theme here, and it’s very angsty, a suspenseful psychological thriller, and will make you scream at your phone. I for one am very intrigued

Eschatology by aenor_llelo, Alderous, ConcoctionsFromHell, izziel_galaxy, Jaybird314, Otakuforlife19, and Rocket999 [17/17 chapters, 344k words] “HEAVY on the boys being biologically engineered to destroy the world, it also delves into so much character building and worldbuilding that we never got in canon, and it gives even super minor characters the chance to shine” Sounds intriguing, AND it’s a BNHA crossover which I am a big fan of :D

The Hunter’s Bible also by TurtleSoupSwimmer [2/2 chapters, 15k words] Rated Mature, contains themes of SA and c@nnibalism so PLEASE keep that in mind!! Not a fic for the faint of heart this is a Dead Dove: Do Not Eat! The SA is only attempted, and never shown, only implied, and it’s only in ch 1, but the other stuff is fairly descriptive and takes place in ch 2. All that being said, flipping UNHINGED, just about lost my mind in ch 2, it was entertaining in a surreal kinda way if you get what I mean. Funky little feral creatures

[kadisiyuswyrd]

MCR GAYLIST MASTERPOST

Hello, gays. I'm in the process of making a video & I'd like some input.

(I blame @cordspaghetti for keeping Alpharetta Gerard in my mind)

As the title implies, the video will rank every MCR song based on how gay it is in chronological order (more or less). Hopefully, it'll be released the first day of the new Black Parade tour (July 11, 2025). No promises, though.

[Edit 6/30/25: Oh man this is not releasing on time...I did not realize how much moving would tire me out. Also Delatrune chps. 3 & 4 took up some time...Me and Google Docs were not on speaking terms for a week.]

At this point in the writing process (just finished Bullets this morning) I think Everyone Hates the Eagles is their gayest song. Prison, Mama, & To the End are up there, though ("he's not around he's always looking at men," I mean...c'mon).

I'm not too good at lyrical analysis, though, nor is my knowledge of MCR as robust as I'd like, so I'm interested to hear different queer readings of their songs.

As unserious as this video concept is, I actually want to approach it from a really earnest lens. Tier lists are already so subjective; gayness is such an arbitrary, amorphous label. I want to play around with the inherent stupidity of this.

There are some fundamental questions that I still haven't really answered but would love to explore:

What does it mean for something to be queer / gay (weird)?

What does it mean for something to be straight (normal)?

I really have no conception of what normality is anymore. I find strange things normal, normal things strange; when I act normally I feel strange, but am called strange when I think I'm acting normally...

3. How does rock music manage to attract both extremely gay and extremely straight fanbases (e.g. Nirvana, Queen, Misfits)?

Nirvana's fanbase always surprises me because the band was so left-leaning and anti-machismo, but because they sounded rough and masculine they attract these really weird, pretentious assholes. The way that rock music oscillates between hypermasculine presentation (leather jackets, jeans, shirtless, hairy) and queer theatricality (David Bowie, early Queen) is really interesting to me in general. It's a genre that's been sexist and feminist, homophobic and relentlessly queer in the same decade.

4. Is there value in deliberately ambiguous queer representation?

This question makes me think of iLLi. She emerged from ambiguity and I think that's part of her appeal. Fanfiction is grasping at straws to make something beautiful and whole. Isn't the ambiguity sometimes preferrable—to allow unique fan interpretation?

Not all of these questions need to be answered in the video, but I want them on my mind while writing. Part of me wants to make a normal tier list video, another part wants to kind of deconstruct it...but. this video is shaping up to be a behemoth as is, so maybe I should avoid scope creep and keep my ambitiousness in check.

We'll see how it goes. I'd love to hear from y'all.

(Also, big shoutout to @angstics who is, by my estimation, the seminal queer MCR scholar. I've been referring to a lot of their writing during the research process.)

Below is a list of the sources I'll be referring to during the script writing process. This is a living document, so expect this list to expand in the coming weeks. Cheers.

—Kay

Research w/Notes:

This article is a fun look at the early days of the band. It features a fun story about a sickly Gerard getting punched by record exec to give him energy to record his vocals. It worked.

Blistein, Jon. (2021). How a Sucker Punch Fueled the Rise of My Chemical Romance. Rolling Stone. https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-news/my-chemical-romance-rise-book-excerpt-sellout-dan-ozzi-1247331/   

One of Gerard's answers during his famous 2014 Reddit AMA. Mainly focused on his answer to question 5 about Drowning Lessons and its status as MCR's "cursed song."

Way, Gerard. (2014). Reddit AMA https://www.reddit.com/r/IAmA/comments/2i1840/comment/ckxylaq/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web3x&utm_name=web3xcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button 

A really thorough video about queer (sub)text in You Know What They Do to Guys Like Us in Prison. A helpful resource. souryogurtgirl. (2024). My Chemical Romance's Gay Anthem? YouTube. https://youtu.be/jDP5_Kl36ms

A TRACK BY TRACK BREAKDOWN OF TBP. Hell yeah.

Great MCR essays. The essay SEX & VIOLENCE is the most interesting to me, at least in relation to this video. Love & suffering is such a deeply queer idea. The "queering of violence" is so central to MCR's lyricism. Love how the essay points out the importance of Gerard's delivery, that's something I want to highlight in my own analysis.

"Honey This Podcast Isn't Big Enough for The Both of Us" is not only a great resource for MCR fan discourse, it is just really entertaining podcasting. Maren & EJ are playful, yet insightful. Their episode on the demo lovers has been helpful to try to parse the storytelling of Bullets and Revenge.

Slowly diving a bit more into queer theory for this project. It's daunting, but interesting! I feel like queer time—the idea (to my understanding) that queer people's life trajectories are distinctly different and possibly even incompatible with the traditional straight narrative of getting married, having a kid, entering the job market, etc.—may prove a helpful concept, especially in relation to TBP.

Writer Kathryn Bond Stockton literally describes queer children as "ghosts" because many of them cannot yet verbalize their queerness and are they given a roadmap for what adult queer life will look like. I mean...that's very Black Parade coded.

Haven't read this read this yet, keeping it here to get back to it! I really want to understand the link between queerness and theater, there's gotta be some historical context that explains that a bit more clearly for me.

A cool talk Gerard did at LA Comic Con just a little bit before the reunion tour was announced. Some good nuggets about how the they approached the band and general insights on his creative process. Also, Gerard talks about how medications helped him manage his depression which was helpful when researching Sister to Sleep which is all about using medication to handle mental health.(The audience is so horny for My Chem...just saying "Frank" or "Ray" or a song title will get screams.)

[with-my-murder-flute]

Re: The Tomb of Dragons ship situation/ending, spoilers for A Companion to Wolves and Angel of the Crows

Like I respect Addison's right to write the stories that feel meaningful to her, she doesn't have to just feed us fanbait, not every author has to do that

but I was white-knuckling up to the very last sentence of the book

I have trust issues ever since A Companion to Wolves, where the first book ends and you're like. I guess they have somehow found a way to survive and be happy in their unusual approach to society's sexual mores! And then the next book begins and it's like "Oh actually the main character is just resigned to permanent unhappiness with this, maybe he will dredge up a thin trickle of joy in life focusing on something totally different." And I'll be honest, I put that book down and never picked it up again, because I did the good girl Catholic thing and thought "Oh well I'll never experience sexual joy or deep enduring love but maybe I'll have like idk a career or some shit" long enough for one lifetime. NO MORE. I just gave up and went back to Every Marine a Wolfbrother.

And then Angel of the Crows was like, "I got shot down every single time I reached for queer joy or relationships and the one relationship that does remain is not really what I want or need and maybe I am a bit fundamentally unlovable, but I'll survive, we get by," and I was, again... I recognize this is not a story for me. It's not what I want from a story. But also, I am so disappointed and tired here.

So with this series I was just so much like... she does not owe us fanbait, I have trained myself to think it's tacky and bad to get upset that an author has not provided the exact kind of representation we want exactly how we want it. I watched the Good Omens fandom explosions and don't want to do that.

But at the same time. We have been hearing about the extreme gay agony of this beautiful muppet for FOUR BOOKS STRAIGHT. He is the world's most sopping wet little meow meow, and quite respectfully, if you do not want your fans to form a frenzy and start burning down uninhabited buildings due to an overload of unrequited textual sexual tension, MAYBE DON'T FOCUS ON IT QUITE SO MUCH.

So I'm here at the end of Tomb of Dragons going, "I guess I'm okay with this? I guess I can live? It's not exactly what I wanted and it's not delivered to the degree I wanted, but I guess we can get by here."

Is this what Stockholm Syndrome feels like? I literally don't believe Stockholm Syndrome is a real thing, I think it's been bunk since the day it was created, but also, this feels like what Stockholm Syndrome would feel like.

I will probably be able to like the new love interest! I can see myself in the future being happy with the way the story ended up going in, once I get over the fact that it went there! This makes sense and I can see it and reconciling all those feelings is what fanfiction's for!

I just also... am not so excited to see what else Addison's working on now. Because this overarching theme or emotional focus on the yearning for warmth and closeness and empathy and touch and desire, and the realization that you will just have to make do with slightly unsatisfying substitutes instead, is just way too similar to the defeatist ways I learned to approach life with when I was a child. It's exactly the mindset I wanted to get away from then and am still learning to let go of now.

I don't want to squash the fandom with my disappointment and negativity, and if fandom does just turn into everyone being angry and bitter that the author personally flipped them the bird and actually everything about these books is proof that they've always been shit, no thanks, not hanging out with that again. If I stick around, it's for Thara getting railed in exactly the way he wants in some happier future, and figuring out what that would look like.

[tryandbehappy]

Why the Conflict Between Nick and June in Season 6 Feels Inevitable

When we talk about Nick’s possible “betrayal,” it’s important to see the truth: it won’t simply be about politics, alliances, or external circumstances. That’s just the surface. The real reason has been building for a long time. It’s emotional. It’s personal. And it’s been quietly growing between them, scene after scene, year after year.

It feels like they are pushing this tension to its maximum point.

I’m not certain, of course I never claim to predict the storylines but based on my observations, especially after rewatching and making videos since Season 1, the patterns are crystal clear.

So no matter what political situation they put around it, that’s just noise. The real story is much deeper.

It seems that soon June will ask Nick to do something wildly reckless.

Something that will cost him too much.

And just before that, there might be a moment of closeness, a moment when he once again feels like she hasn’t fully chosen him. After cheating on his wife

And there, at that tipping point, Nick will have to decide between two impossible choices.

On one side, his need for safety, for survival, for the fragile life he finally built.

On the other, her fire, her recklessness, her need for him to burn everything down for her one more time.

And maybe for the first time, he simply won’t be able to do it.

The First Core Conflict: Different Natures

Nick always chooses safety.

June always chooses risk.

And there’s something that’s important to understand about Nick.

His need for caution, for staying quiet, for keeping his head down it’s not because he’s naturally cold or unfeeling.

In fact, we know Nick can be impulsive.

We saw it in his backstory, when he punched a man without thinking. He has fire. He has emotion.

But Gilead taught him something brutal:

If you stand out, you die.

He learned to survive in a world where any mistake, any rash move, could cost everything.

He’s seen too many people disappear. Too many friends executed.And so he buried that impulsiveness deep down.

He taught himself to live by quiet, invisible rules because that was the only way to stay alive.

And June…

June with her wild spirit, her refusal to bow, her fearless defiance —

She terrified him. Not because he didn’t admire her.

He loved her for it. But because he knew exactly how fragile life was in Gilead.

And every time she risked herself, Nick knew there was a real chance he wouldn’t be able to save her.

And that fear, that helplessness,

is part of what’s been tearing him apart all along.

It’s been there since the beginning.

In Season 1, Nick told her to say what the Eyes wanted to hear, to stay silent and survive.

She didn’t listen and was beaten.

In Season 2, she screamed for the keys to the truck, ready to make a reckless escape alone, and he could only watch in agony.

Or After June’s confrontation with Fred, when she was hurt and her face was bruised, Nick found her.

He immediately realized something terrible had happened. He was so worried and helpless like AGAIN??? Why do you always have to be like this?

“It’s okay” she told softly knowing situations like this piss him off

Again and again, Nick has tried to anchor her.

Again and again, June has followed her fire.

Even in Season 6, when they meet, Nick says, “maybe keep a low profile”

“It’s hard for me sometimes”

“I remember”🫠

It’s not just about strategy.

It’s about the fundamental way they live.

The Second Core Conflict: Different Understandings of Love

June believes she is choosing Nick with her heart.

But Nick feels she is not choosing him at all.

Because Luke is still in her life. Because she stays with him, out of loyalty or guilt.

And Nick — Nick who loves once and fully — cannot be second. Cannot be half-loved and a secret (I can assume he hates cheating)

To him, her hesitation feels like rejection. Even if she doesn’t intend it.

Where It’s Heading

The pressure is reaching its breaking point.

Nick already saved Luke.

Nick already killed two Guardians to protect her. And then had to do dirty work by ending the one in a coma.

Nick already risked his life, his standing, his future all for a woman who, in his heart, he feels has never fully chosen him.

And now, June will probably ask him for something even bigger. Something even more dangerous.

And he will have to say no or whatever.

Not because he doesn’t love her.

But because he cannot keep destroying himself for a love that is killing him.

This is where the real fracture will come. Not from politics. Not from loyalty to Gilead or the Americans.

But from two hearts finally reaching the point where they cannot pretend anymore.

And in the end, we have to remember:

this conflict isn’t being built to destroy them, it’s being built to resolve them.

Yes, the tension between June and Nick will explode.

Yes, it will look, for a moment, like they are losing each other for good.

There will be hurt, betrayal, anger.

There will be a breaking point.

But the real purpose of this storyline isn’t to tear them apart.

It’s to finally bring everything to the surface —

all the buried feelings, all the unspoken pain, all the unfinished choices.

They won’t be able to just walk away and pretend it didn’t happen.

They won’t be able to leave this fracture unresolved.

And the show will have to give us clarity:

What really happened between them.

What they truly feel.

I truly believe that after all the hurt,

after the inevitable collapse,

their real feelings will finally break free.

And only then,

only after everything has been stripped bare,

will we finally get our answers.

[demigod-shenanigans]

Okay but. Hear me out. Platonic m/f soulmates specifically in a heteronormative society.

Soulmates are understood to primarily be a romantic thing by society, because they’re meant to be the most important person in your life, and a lot of the time that person is your partner, but not always.

Reyna who grows up with Jason’s name on her wrist. Who gets through her shitty childhood partially through thinking one day she’ll meet her soulmate and he will love her and things will get better

And then she does meet him and he does love her, but it’s not how she expected it to be. He loves her, but it doesn’t seem to be in the same way she loves him.

And then even the goddess of love tells her she’ll never find love with her soulmate, and Reyna can’t help but wonder if she’s fundamentally broken in some way.

Jason who grows up just wanting to be loved, no matter in what way. Who has Reyna’s name on his wrist and is delighted when he meets her and knows they were meant to be friends. But he’s not sure he loves her in the way he’s supposed to. And he’s overjoyed that he has her, but sometimes he feels sad, because maybe that means there’s something wrong with him.

Leo and Piper who grow up with each other’s names on their wrists. Who find out during the meteor shower and kiss exactly once only for them both to immediately realize this feels off, but if that means they’re broken somehow, at least they can be broken together.

But then something shifts. Hera mixes up their memories and they no longer remember. Leo is stuck thinking his soulmate has a boyfriend, and maybe he’s one of the unlucky few people who is soulmates with someone that has a different soulmate. But then he looks at Jason and Piper together. And sure, he jealous, but it’s not Piper he wants to kiss, and he’s so confused. She’s the one who’s meant to be his soulmate. So then why does he think about what it would be like to brush his fingers through Jason’s hair?

Piper who doesn’t properly remember wilderness school but does realize her love for Leo isn’t what it’s supposed to be. She loves him so much, but she’s not in love with him like she should be. But surely Hera and her mom put her with Jason for a reason. Maybe there was a mistake with her tattoo. Maybe she was supposed to have Jason’s name written on her wrist. Maybe she’s not broken.

Except Jason’s tattoo says Reyna. And it’s clear that he misses whoever Reyna is. He says he doesn’t think he liked her like that, but she’s his soulmate, so surely he does. The name is burnt into Piper’s mind before they ever meet.

And when they do, she wants to hate Reyna. Wants to hate her for what it will mean for her relationship with Jason that Reyna exists. Wants to hate her for being proof that there is something fundamentally wrong with Piper.

But Reyna is beautiful and strong and a natural leader. Jason is lucky to have a soulmate that awesome. (And sometimes Piper kind of wishes Reyna was her soulmate instead of Jason’s.)

Reyna who wants to hate Piper because she’s the girlfriend of the guy who was supposed to be her soulmate. Who might be the reason Aphrodite looked at her and said she wouldn’t find love where she wanted or expected. But Piper is gorgeous and brave and stubborn, and Reyna doesn’t hate her. Sometimes she thinks it might be the opposite. Sometimes she wonders if that’s what her prophecy meant.

Jason who is loved in so many different ways after a lifetime’s worth of feeling unloved. Who is so confused how romantic love is supposed to feel in comparison to platonic love. Who loved Reyna and Piper but never like he was supposed to.

Who holds Leo in his arms and wonders if that’s what home feels like.

It’s Leo who figures it out eventually. He’s venting to Hazel about the whole situation after the incident with Nemesis and Hazel looks at him dumbfounded because “what gave you the idea soulmates had to be romantic??”

“Please tell me one example where it isn’t. You can’t.”

And Hazel just stares at him, then slowly rolls up her sleeve to show Leo the name on her wrist is literally her brother’s (which makes a lot of sense because obviously without Nico she wouldn’t even be alive right now. He changed her life in a way no one else could have)

And. Yeah. That one is kind of hard to argue with

And there’s nothing wrong with the way any of them love each other. They’re not what society expects soulmates to look like. But they’re all so very loved, and being loved platonically isn’t less valuable than being loved romantically just because it’s different. It’s not what they expected looking at the names on their wrists for the first time. But it’s still love, and maybe that’s the only thing that matters.