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aemondsbabe · 1 year ago

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Deliverance

summary: following your nephew's death, you find aemond in need of comfort. as his older sister, who are you to deny him?

pairing: aemond targaryen x sister!reader

warnings: mature/explicit, 18+ (minors dni!), no use of y/n, afab reader, canon typical incest, mentioned canon death, infidelity technically but reader's husband is cool with it and understands that she comes from a weirdo family cough cough incest cough, lactation kink, hurt/comfort, piv sex, unprotected sex, cockwarming, titty sucking, angst but happy ending, otto cameo ew, let me know if i missed anything!

word count: 7.4k

a/n: *slams fist on table* i need for him to suck on my boobie

likes, comments, & reblogs are very appreciated but never required!

gif creds to @feodor-dostoevsky

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“Shall I fetch Maester Orwyle once we return to your chambers, Princess?” Your handmaiden, Edyth, questions as the two of you make your way up one of the many winding staircases in the Red Keep – each step making you wince.

“Yes, please,” you sigh, ever grateful that she had always seemed to have a knack for predicting your requests before you had the chance to voice them, “Perhaps tell him to prepare some of the same soothing balm he gave to Helaena?”

“Of course, Princess,” Edyth nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, ever the optimist, “I believe it should help with your aches, I remember it seemed to help the Queen after…” She trails off, breath hitching in her throat.

A heavy silence seems to fall over the two of you, the same that had been blanketing the entirety of the palace for the past few days. You swallow thickly, battling against the lump suddenly growing at the back of your throat and merely nod your head in simple understanding, offering her a tight-lipped smile, “I’m sure it will be of great help, Edyth, thank you.”

Ever since… it had happened, the Red Keep feels as if it’s made of eggshells, like one small gust of wind could knock it right over. Everyone’s so on edge, terrified of saying too much or too little, the wrong thing at the wrong time. The stress of it all seems nearly suffocating, though you still have a feeling the worst was yet to come.

Suddenly, someone calls your name from behind you and you turn, smiling once you see your grandsire striding toward you.

“A raven arrived earlier from Gwayne,” Otto explains, deep voice carrying down the empty hallway, “He’s reached Oldtown safely, everything seems to be well there.”

“Oh, wonderful,” you nod, grateful for news of your husband.

“Indeed,” he continues, “Daeron seems to be in good spirits, happy to come home; they’re to depart tomorrow, as scheduled… forgive me, I meant to tell you before supper but it seems to have slipped my mind.”

“Everything has been so hectic of late, please don’t trouble yourself. He arrived safely and will be back all the sooner for it, that is what matters.”

“Of course,” Otto nods, glancing out a nearby window, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve been ordered to attend to His Grace,” he says gruffly, a wry smile on his lips, nodding in the direction of Aegon’s chambers.

You nod at the mention of your twin, brows pinching together with worry. “Be… patient with him, grandsire, please,” you beseech, chest heaving with a soft sigh, “I spoke with him earlier this morning, he’s… well, he’s not himself.”

“Are any of us anymore, I wonder,” Otto mutters, fixing you with a tight smile before taking his leave, striding quickly down the hallway. Your brows furrow at that, you can’t help but throw Edyth a questioning look before the two of you continue toward your chambers.

“Seven Hells,” you grumble, quickly bringing a hand to your breast as you climb another, blessedly shorter, set of stairs, “Perhaps check the nursery first, yes? Daena may be stirring still…” You know better, even as the words leave your lips.

Your daughter has finally begun sleeping soundly through the night recently and while that is cause for celebration, you certainly won’t miss the past eight moons of late night feedings, your poor breasts are paying the price – your body not yet caught up with the lessened need for milk.

“Yes, Princess,” Edyth replies with a little nod, walking alongside you.

The two of you are almost at your chambers, finally turning onto the hallway where the family apartments are housed, when you hear it – a muffled, barely there cry. The sound makes you pause in your tracks, head swiveling, unsure of exactly where it came from and it’s then you notice that the door to Aemond’s chambers is ajar.

That in and of itself is strange indeed, your little brother valued privacy above all else, so you stride over only to pause at the entrance, hand poised midair as you reach for the door handle. Your heart clenches when another soft sob pierces the quiet of the hallway – a mournful little noise, one you’d expect more from Aegon.

Turning back to Edyth, you lead her a few feet from the door, knowing Aemond would hate it if he knew someone, anyone aside from you, had overheard him. “Go to the nursery,” you instruct, making sure to keep your voice low, “Make sure Daena is well, then you’re free for the evening.”

“But, princess, what about –”

“Nevermind it,” you murmur with a shake of your head, “I’ll send for the maester later myself.”

With a nod, she scampers off further down the hallway, leaving you alone by your brother’s door. Stepping back over toward the threshold, you bite at your bottom lip, wondering if you should go in at all – if it would be more merciful to simply pretend you hadn’t heard anything at all.

But then it happens again, another pitiful sob sounds from beyond the cracked door and you’re unable to help yourself – Aemond had always come to you with his troubles when he was younger, surely now would be no different. With a little breath, you push the door open just enough to slip through it and thank whichever Gods may be listening when you’re able to press it closed with hardly a sound.

Peeking around the screen your brother has beside the door, it feels as if your heart shatters in your chest. He looks so… small, so fragile, the complete opposite of the towering, formidable man he’d become in recent years. It’s clear he didn’t hear you come in as he stays seated in a chair near the door, his back to you; his shoulders shake with gentle cries while he hunches over, head cradled in his hands.

The disarray of his normally spotless chambers startles you once you let your eyes flit over the space – papers are strewn about all across the low table he keeps in the little sitting area, some scattered across the floor, crumpled up, or ripped to pieces. His bedsheets are halfway ripped from the bed and lie in a pool at its foot, along with the remnants of a candle, now merely a translucent puddle on the dark stone floor.

Taking a step forward, you softly call his name, trying your hardest to keep your voice as low and soft as possible, though you’re hardly able to get the first syllable out before he bolts up from the chair with a strangled gasp and spins toward you.

“Oh, Aem,” the words fall past your lips in a soft sigh, pulled from you by the startled expression on his face – eyes wide with the fear of being caught so vulnerable. His sapphire eye seems to sparkle with just as much emotion as his pale purple one.

“Sister, I –” He starts, hastily wiping his hands over his cheeks, chest heaving while he tries to calm his harsh breaths, but you’ll have none of that.

“Shh, whatever excuses you have, I’ll not hear them,” you murmur, quickly walking the few feet over to him and enveloping him in a tight embrace, just as you used to do when he would come crying to you about the tortures Aegon or your nephews put him through in their youth.

Your brother stays stiff in your arms for a moment, tense and wary, though he slowly relaxes as you rub a hand over his back, smoothing out his long hair. You yourself relax once he finally winds his long arms around you and rests his chin on your shoulder with a soft sigh, the tension in his shoulders finally releasing.

“Tell me what distresses you so?”

“I… Jae– the boy,” he stammers, stumbling over his name. You understand, just saying your little nephew’s name seems to somehow make the pain of the loss even worse. Yet, something in your gut tells you there’s something else going on, that Jaehaerys’s death is not the only thing causing your brother such anguish.

“Aemond…” you gently press, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek as you pull back just enough to meet his gaze, “I cannot help if you won’t tell me–”

“Tell you what?” He counters, tone growing too defensive too quickly, “My nephew’s death brings me sorrow, sister. The loss of a young child is a… distressing thing.”

“You know that’s not what I mean!” You counter, trying desperately to keep your voice calm, even when Aemond backs away from you with an exasperated sigh. You’re no stranger to this game – ever since he lost his eye, your brother has guarded his emotions carefully. Getting him to speak honestly about them was about as hard as keeping a bottle of Dornish wine from Aegon’s grasp.

He gives you a sidelong glance as he paces about the room, lips pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched. Worry only blooms brighter in your chest the longer you watch him; so agitated and so guarded, closed off like an abused animal.

“It… it’s nothing,” he mumbles finally, voice short and clipped, “Nothing important, sister, I assure you.”

Unconsciously, you wring your hands worriedly, heart clenching; you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, yet you know from experience that it was better to let Aemond come to you.

“Well, surely it cannot be nothing if it has upset you so, sweetling.”

His nervous pacing comes to a screeching halt at that and he squeezes his eye shut, fists clenched at his side – his whole body tense like he’s trying desperately to keep some invisible dam within himself closed.

You reach a hand up instinctively when he bites at his bottom lip and turns his head away from you, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “I–,” he croaks, the tightness in his voice makes your breath hitch in your throat; every maternal cell in your body is screaming at you, pleading with you to hold him, “I don’t w-wish to burden you.”

“Baby brother,” you sigh, finally going to him, practically running the few feet over to where he stands. Your arms encircle him instantly, pulling him into a tight embrace – one hand rubs over his back while the other cups the back of his head, holding his face against the crook of your neck, “You could never be a burden to me, never.”

That seems to break him and he gasps, breathing warm against your neck, before he finally lets go and his shoulders heave with sobs while his hands cling to you desperately, fisting into the fabric of your gown like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. A tightness grows at the back of your own throat, not used to seeing him be this raw, this open, in what feels like lifetimes. It breaks your heart to think he’d been holding all of this in, determined to be the strong, silent soldier like everyone expected, while he dealt with such sadness all alone.

“Shh, shh, Aemond, you’re okay,” you murmur gently, eyes widening when he sags against you, his knees giving way only for a second. “Here, come,” you instruct, taking one of his hands in yours and leading him to the small seating area in his chambers. You urge him to sit on the sofa he has there before joining him yourself, a bit surprised when he all but throws himself against you again – practically laying his head in your lap as he sobs, cheek pressed against your chest in a way that makes you wince from the tenderness still there, not that you’d ever scold him for it.

“There, that’s much better, hm? Comfortable?” You ask, simply trying to draw him back to the surface.

He doesn’t reply, something that doesn’t really come as a shock to you given how harsh his cries are, leaving him breathless against you. Deciding to let him get it out, you stay quiet, merely shushing him every so often as you run your fingers through his pearlescent hair.

After a long while, he seems to settle some and tears begin running down his cheeks silently rather than racking his body with savage cries; he lifts his head from your lap and rests it instead against your shoulder, gazing up at you as if you’re an angel sent from the heavens themselves. The intense tenderness with which he looks at you makes you blush, yet your brows furrow slightly at the darkness still there – lingering in the lilac of his eye.

“I have… I have done something terrible.”

Your brother's murmured confession only serves to confuse you further and you shake your head slightly, heart clenching in your chest as you silently wonder what in all the Seven Kingdoms he could possibly mean by that.

“Aemond,” you start, knowing not to pry – to let him tell you, “There is nothing you could ever do that would make me think any less of you.”

He stares up at you for a long moment, eye flicking across your face like he’s checking for even the barest hint of deception, yet he finds none – your words are true.

“You… promise me you will not hate me.”

“I promise, sweet brother,” your brows pinch together at his words, wondering what could possibly be bad enough for all this, yet you can’t stop the corners of your lips from quirking into a sad smile at his request; that uncertain lilt in his voice reminds you so much of when he was younger, “There’s nothing you could do that would make me hate you. Nothing.”

“I…” He starts, pulling away from you as he sits up, sparing you one last glance before staring off into the fireplace, “I am the… the reason Jaehaerys is dead.”

“What?” The word is pressed from you, leaving your lips as little more than a breath. You stare at him as if he’d sprouted a second head, utterly perplexed. How in the Seven Hells could he have ever arrived at that conclusion? Taking one of his hands in yours, you lean a little closer, “Sweetling, what in the world do you mean?”

“They were here for me,” Aemond rasps, wincing as if the words themselves are painful, clawing at his throat on their way out, “They were… Gods, they were sent for me and – and when they couldn’t find me, they… H-He died because I was not here, because they could not f-find me…”

“Oh, my love,” you sigh, the backs of your eyes stinging as he presses himself against you again, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, “Aemond, you couldn’t have known, none of us did. You couldn’t have known…” You repeat, like saying the words again and again will make him believe them.

“I s-should have,” he whimpers, voice breaking over a sob, “I should’ve k-known, I sh–should’ve been here…”

You hold him tightly, practically hauling him onto your lap as his tears leak over your skin, running into the valley of your cleavage like a river, though you pay it no mind. “Shh, sweetling, shh,” you murmur and press a soft kiss to his forehead, “It’s not your fault, dear one, it’s no one’s fault but the vile men who took him and our… our coward of a sister who ordered it done.”

He stays silent for a moment and you can feel the gears in his brain turning, working furiously as he tries to internalize your words, wanting desperately to believe them but unable to let himself. You sigh softly when you feel him shake his head against you, so determined to cling to guilt.

“If… if I had n-not been at the…”

“At the where, brother?” You press, clinging to anything you may be able to use to shift the conversation.

“...The brothel…” he mumbles after a long pause, the words so muffled against the column of your neck that you have to strain to hear them. His words shock you, the complete opposite of anything you’d been expecting. You try your hardest not to let that show, even as a strange sense of jealousy wells up within you – a sense of possessiveness you’ve always felt for your little brother.

“Well, you… you are a man grown, my love,” you heart hammers in your chest, loud enough that you wonder if he can hear it, “If you wish to lay with–”

“I didn’t… I–” He stammers, clinging to you tightly as he shakes his head, an urgency in his voice you can’t quite place, “That’s not what, I… I mean, I–”

“No matter,” you cut him off, aching to see him so distressed, “Whatever you do there, sweet brother, it’s your… right to do it.” You struggle to get the words out, the sense of protectiveness rising viciously in your chest makes your throat feel tight.

He lifts his head from your shoulder again and eyes you for a long moment – for what, you aren’t sure. It’s almost like he’s surprised not to be meant with disgust or contempt; you wish you knew why.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally mumbles, glancing away from you, ashamed, “I should’ve been home… I should’ve been here to protect my family.”

“Aemond, please,” you sigh and sit up slightly, moving to cup his cheeks in your hands, wiping at his tears with your thumb, “It is not your job to protect us, we have guards for a reason… if anything, this atrocity is their fault but it is not yours, do you understand?” Your eyes bore into his as you speak, desperate to make him understand, to rid him of this misplaced guilt.

“Do… do you still love me?” He asks after a long moment, voice so timid, so meek like he’s already preparing himself for your rejection, that it makes your heart twist horribly in your chest.

Still, you cannot help but huff out a little laugh, lips lifting into a sad smile at the utter ridiculousness of the question. “You are my dearest brother,” you murmur, leaning forward to press a kiss against his forehead, letting your lips linger on his skin for a second, “Of course, I still love you, Aemond. I have loved you from the moment you came into this world and I shall never, never stop – the Gods themselves could not make me.”

The two of you are quiet for a moment, save for a small hum from your brother as he nods. His arms encircle you again and selfishly, you enjoy it – being this close to him again, like he was a little boy once more. He’d been all but attached to you at the hip before that dreadful night, following you about the Keep and telling you all sorts of tales about various histories of the Realm in that sweet voice of his.

All of that had stopped that night and, at first, you had assumed that he merely thought himself a man grown afterwards – a man who had finally claimed a dragon, a man who no longer needed comfort from an older sibling. The sadness in his voice when he speaks again, muffled against your shoulder, tells you otherwise.

“Mother doesn’t love me anymore,” his voice is flat and detached as he breathes out the words, like he’s informing you of some tragic, unavoidable accident.

“Aem, of course she does. She loves you very–”

“No,” he cuts you off, sitting up once more and shaking his head, “Ever since that business with Luke, I… she can hardly bring herself to look at me. She won’t speak to me outside of Small Council meetings and even then she tries not to, ‘tis plain to see.”

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes, leaving you to swallow around the lump that grows at the back of your throat once again. What are you to say? He’s… Gods, bless him, he’s right, you’ve seen as much to know.

“You are the only one who has never abandoned me,” he starts, eye sparkling in the candlelight as tears begin welling up within it once more, “Everyone else has left.”

“That’s not…” Your voice fades as you sigh, knowing that arguing with him now will do no good. Instead, you simply hold him tighter and brush a few stray locks of hair from his face. “I can promise that I shall never leave you, sweet brother.”

He grows quiet for a moment, slumping down against you until his head rests in your lap and his body curls up onto the sofa. Silently, you resist the urge to cradle him, to hold him against you as you do Daena when she wakes from a nap with a start, crying out from her cradle.

He is a grown man, you remind yourself, yet it does nothing to stop the strange ache in your heart.

“They all used to taunt me, surely you remember, when we were younger,” he mumbles, eye fixated on the fire crackling in the hearth, even as he clings to you, “First for not having a dragon, then for not having an eye.”

You hum in affirmation – you do remember it, sadly. You remember it all very well; he had slept in your chambers for a week after the incident with the pig, not wanting to be left alone at night with the memories of it. You remember having to hold him back at the table when Aegon had poked fun at his eyepatch during supper, about a month after his eye had been gouged out.

You remember that night too, when he’d come to you with tearful apologies, murmuring sorries again and again for accidentally nicking your hand while trying to brandish a knife against his brother.

“I have always been an outcast.”

A smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite the circumstances and you sigh softly, brushing your fingers through his long strands of hair, “I quite like you being different… perhaps if you weren’t, we wouldn’t be as close, hm?”

Aemond goes quiet at that, stills in your lap with a little sigh before simply burrowing against you even more, curling in on himself tighter.

A soft coo leaves your lips, strands of his long hair passing between your fingers like silk. “What say you stay with me tonight, yes?” You offer, the thought of him in the dark carrying all this alone grief makes you feel ill, “We could even cuddle, if you like? Just as we did when you were younger.”

A short beat of silence later, all you get is a little, “Yes, please,” mumbled against your abdomen.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs later, the two of you finally lying together atop your bed, cuddled closely against one another just as you’d promised. You’d each taken time to get ready for bed and Aemond seems a little better for it, no longer as distressed and teary now that he’s had the time to collect himself.

Your hand carefully cups the side of his face that isn’t pressed against your pillow, that isn’t buried in the crook of your neck, as an astonished huff of laughter escapes your lips as they curve into a sad smile, your brows furrowed. “Why in the world would you think such things?” Even as the question is whispered into the quiet of your chambers, you know the answer – Aemond has always been this way, always one to reject comfort, even when it is so freely given, even when he himself seeks it out.

If only he could see himself as you do.

“I… I have done so many shameful things, sister, I…” His voice breaks when he cuts himself off and you can feel him tense in your hold, “‘Tis the simple truth, I don’t deserve you.”

You hum softly, combing your fingers through his hair while you mull over his words, silently wondering why he has always been like this – why you have always felt so unworthy of softness and kindness and love.

“Well, it is not my truth,” you murmur after a moment, eyes flicking over the long line of his body, hidden by your silken bedsheets. In the time each of you had taken to ready yourselves for bed, you had changed into a nightgown and he into a simple nightshirt, leaving your bare legs to tangle together, “Would you like to know what I think, my love?”

You feel him inhale against the crook of your neck, sucking in air like he’s steeling himself for disappointment, yet he still lifts his head and peers up at you. His lilac eye searches your face for a long moment, looking for even the smallest indication of displeasure in your features, only to find none.

Seemingly satisfied with his assessment, assured that surely whatever you were to say would not hurt him too badly, he nods.

Sitting up just enough to better see his face, you look at him with nothing but adoration as the two of you rest shoulder to shoulder, backs against the headboard. “I believe you deserve every kindness in the world, Aemond. And I believe even that would be too little,” your voice is hardly a whisper when you speak, like this is the deepest of secrets meant only for his ears, “You deserve nothing but happiness, sweet baby brother.”

He stares at you for a long moment, eye wide and glassy while his chest aches as your words seep into him like a soothing balm. You can see his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallows, eye squeezing shut for a moment while he processes your words – so sweet they nearly stung.

A soft coo bubbles from your lips when you see his chest rise and fall rapidly beneath the linen of his nightshirt, and you lean into him all the more when one of his hands reaches out and grabs one of your own, squeezing it like it’s a lifeline.

“Shh,” you soothe, giving him a sad smile when his eye finally opens again, gaze immediately finding yours, “Sweet boy.”

He lets out a shuddering breath before looking away from you once again, mind reeling. Not knowing what to do, overcome with so much emotion his heart feels as if it’s adrift at sea, he brings your hand up and presses a soft kiss against your knuckles before holding it to his cheek and sucking in another little breath as his bottom lip trembles. “Please don’t ever leave me,” he whispers finally, voice tight and hoarse.

Cupping his face, you caress your thumb over the scar beneath his eye softly and lean over just enough to press a soft kiss against his cheek. “I will never leave you, Aemond, I swear it.”

He shudders once more before letting out a shaky breath, eye filled with a wild desperation. Before you can register the movement, his hands are suddenly gripping at your waist and hauling you onto his lap, your legs on either side of his, as he buries his face into the crook of your neck once more, apologies already muffled against your skin. “I-I’m sorry, I – Gwayne will… will hate me but –”

“Shh, sh, sh, sweetling,” you murmur, despite the small, barely audible gasp that leaves you at the sudden movement, so wholly unused to this as half of you tries desperately to comfort you while the other half wonders if you should put a stop to this, “Gwayne knows, my love, he… it’s okay, he knows.”

A sob is wrenched from Aemond’s lips, warm against your neck, but he nods nonetheless, sighing when you begin carding your fingers through his hair once more, smoothing out the long, pale strands. Slowly, he relaxes again, arms wound securely around your waist while his breath evens out.

You’re about to say something else, though your breath hitches in your throat when he begins peppering your neck with soft, chaste little kisses – feather-light down the column of your neck. He stops after a second, noticing you tense up on his lap, eyes wide as a million thoughts swirl in your mind: Is this okay? Should you stop this? This is your precious baby brother, the one who used to cling to your skirts when he was sad, who used to come to you in the night when he woke from a nightmare…

He leans forward once more and nips at your earlobe, making your heart stutter in your chest, “Can… can I try something?”

Your head reels at the sudden change in his touches, needier now, though for an entirely different reason, yet still your mind reels – piqued with curiosity. “What is it you wish to try?” You question after a moment, voice scratchy from the sudden dryness at the back of your throat.

Silently, Aemond relishes this; something about you, you his normally strong and carefree older sister, being this flustered because of him makes his heart flutter in his chest. Dipping his head, he resumes pressing soft kisses against your skin, though they linger now – teeth nipping before he soothes the small bites with a swipe of his tongue, drawing ever closer to the pulse point in your neck that beats so wildly he can feel it beneath your skin.

“Aemond!” You all but wheeze when he suddenly grabs at your hips, his own firmly bucking up against you. A shock goes down your spine at the evidence of his arousal pressing against you, two thin layers of fabric doing precious little to mask the feel of it. Again, you tense up, practically jumping out of your skin as you pull back just enough to gaze down at him, your eyes wide, blinking rapidly, as they search his.

This was the last thing you expected tonight, the last thing you’d expect from him at all. “Wha – I…” You stammer, dumbstruck while worry and uncertainty cloud your mind.

Aemond shushes you now, long fingers squeezing at your bare thighs now that your nightgown has ridden up enough to reveal them. “It’s alright, it’s alright,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumbs soothingly against your skin, “Do you trust me…?”

Your throat bobs as you swallow thickly, heart hammering in your chest. You should be the one comforting him… what in the Seven Hells has happened? Is… is this the comfort he needs now?

Even still, you nod your head at his question; of course you trust him, you’d trust him with anything… even this.

A smile grows on his lips when you acquiesce, a pleased glimmer in his eye when he lifts his hands to your hips again, his grip firmer this time. “Good… good, sweet sister,” he hums lowly, rutting his hips up against you once more, lilac eye watching you with keen interest.

“A-Aem…” You gasp once more, the feel of him against you so intense it sends a shiver down your spine, even when your brows furrow as your eyes flutter, threatening to slip shut. His movements press a small whimper from your lips and you can feel the sting in your cheeks as they flush, chest heaving while your hands grab tightly at his shoulders.

The smug look on his face slowly morphs into one of wonder and his eye flits over your face greedily, like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of seeing you like this – already so strung out over him.

He moves again, the feeling of your soft core pressing against his growing length through the thin linen only serving to drive his urges further. “Gods, you look so beautiful like this…” He murmurs, in awe at having you like this, and all to himself. Unable to help himself, he leans forward yet again and pulls you closer as his lips settle once more against your neck.

Instinctually, your head tilts to the side, giving him room to kiss over your skin. His movements against you cause you to shiver in his grasp, even if a small part of you was still uncertain, hoping this wouldn’t change your relationship with him for the worse.

The slow grind of his hips causes his nightshirt to eventually ride up his legs as well, and you gasp anew, jumping once more when his length suddenly presses against your center, unhindered by fabric.

“Feel what you do to me?” He purrs, letting out a low groan of his own.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, lips parted ever so slightly while your chest heaves, silently wondering if this is truly happening. Almost imperceptibly, you nod your head, shuddering at the feeling of his cock pressed against you, already twitching.

“L-Little brother,” you gasp, breathless already.

Aemond smirks at your response, your whimpers and soft gasps going right to his head. He grabs at your waist still, bucking against you in slow, almost teasing movements. A low, pleased hum vibrates him in his chest when he feels how wet you are against him – the heat radiating from your center nearly stifling.

The longer this goes on, the more you can feel your resolve crumbling, any small bits left of you that wanted to put a stop to this slowly fading away. Distantly, you can’t help wondering if this is how it’s always been meant to be, if this was the only logical conclusion your paths could reach, the outcome of such a close bond. Perhaps, you have always been made for this.

“Aemond,” his name falls from your lips in a soft sigh and you finally lean against him heavily, pressing your chest against his unthinkingly. “Shit!” You gasp only a second later, jolting as if stung by a bee, brought back to reality by the ache in your breasts.

“Sister?” Aemond questions, freezing beneath you while he looks over your face, his hands rising to cup your cheeks protectively.

You start to answer, to explain, when you feel a sudden tingling sensation at your chest and, judging from the look on your brother’s face, an explanation would be a moot point by now anyway.

“Gods grant me mercy,” he sighs, eye wider than you’ve ever seen it as he stares, near open-mouthed, at your chest. Glancing down, your cheeks flush at the sight of milk dampening the linen at your breasts, leaving it all but translucent.

Again, you go to explain, only to stop yourself in your tracks when his tongue darts out, licking over his bottom lip. Your head spins when you notice his chest heaving as he stares at you with a nearly savage hunger, eyes fixed on your breasts like his universe has been narrowed down to a pinpoint.

“Aemond?”

“Please,” he groans, swallowing thickly and licking over his lips once more, practically salivating. His eye flicks up to yours for only the briefest of seconds before zeroing in on your chest once more, “Sweet… sweet sister, please.”

Again, the energy in the room seems to shift, Aemond once again begging you for comfort, bowing to your whims. Quickly, you shush him while one hand threads into his hair once more as you bring his head back against the crook of your neck, settling him there while he groans against your skin, rough hands slowly trailing up your waist before halting at your ribs.

Your other hand busies itself with snaking between the two of you and impatiently batting your clothes away before your fingers finally curl around his length, causing the both of you to let out soft cries.

“Shh, sweetling,” you coo, chest heaving while you position him at your entrance, sighing as he desperately mouths at your neck, “I know what you need, I’ve got you.”

Again, twin moans fill your dimly lit chambers when you slowly sink down on him. Whimpers are punched from your lungs at the feel of him steadily filling you, his chest rumbling against yours as he groans deeply, hips jolting beneath you.

“Gods,” you sigh when your hips are finally pressed tightly against his once more, panting and letting your eyes fall shut while you give yourself a moment to adjust.

The feel of him borders on overwhelming – pressed so tightly inside of you, around you, the very air in your room filled with the heady, herbaceous scent of the bath oils you know he favors. You imagine he must feel the same as he trembles beneath you, fingers and hips twitching with barely contained desire.

Finally, your need to comfort him, to protect him even from himself, rears its head again and you relish the breathy sigh that leaves him as you begin to move your hips. It’s a grinding motion, soft and gentle – what he needs now, to be treated with care. Still, the movements send shockwaves up your spine as the pale hairs at the base of his cock rub perfectly against your pearl, creating a delicious friction to spur you on.

“So good,” he breathes, warm against your shoulder as he leans forward, kissing at your neck, “You feel so good, sister, you… you are s-so good to me…”

“Just as you deserve,” you murmur, combing your fingers through his long hair once more before your hands travel down to the hem of his nightshirt and you begin impatiently tugging at it, pulling it over his head and grinning at the soft, nearly petulant, whine he gives at having to separate from you even for a second.

Still, some instinctual force seems to drive you, a need to feel his skin against your own, and you waste no time before pulling your own nightgown up and over your head as well, leaving nothing to separate the two of you.

The groan that leaves him when your chest presses back against his own once more is like nothing you’ve heard before – a sound of the purest relief, like he’s found some oasis in the desert. His eye opens again and the rhythm of your hips stutters only for a second once it finds yours. The lilac is almost completely overtaken by black and yet, he still regards you as if you are an angel sent from the heavens themselves, stares at you with such reverence that your heart flutters in your chest.

Something clicks for you then as he whimpers beneath you, his own hips beginning to buck up against your own as the lazy tempo you’ve settled into slowly starts to pick up. You understand, now, that this is merely another step, an added turn, in the so carefully balanced dance the two of you have constructed.

And if this is what he needs to be comforted, then you’re more than happy to give it.

“My good boy,” sigh, moving against him with renewed vigor, grinning when he lets out a hitched moan, “Is this what you needed?”

“Yes, y-yes,” he nods, his eye never leaving your own as he ruts beneath you, the choppy movements only adding to the fire slowly building within your veins, “Please, sweet sister, please…”

You don’t need to ask to know what it is he means, nodding before he has time to stutter out another word, “Take what you need, my love.”

Another breathy groan sounds from him as he quickly descends onto your chest, tilting his head down and immediately capturing your sensitive nipple between his lips, one hand coming up to gently cup your breast, holding it steady. The feeling of relief that flows through you when he starts suckling is nearly disorienting, the dull ache in your breast slowly fading away with each mouthful of milk he pulls from you, greedily taking a few mouthfuls from one breast before switching to the other.

Your fingers stay anchored in his hair while your hips work against him, your high building more steadily within you now that your breasts no longer feel ready to burst. You pant as you gaze down at him, eyes half-lidded while you watch his lips move against you, lilac eye still fixated on you.

Below you, Aemond is halfway convinced he’s died and somehow the Gods have seen fit to spare him the Seven Hells. His head spins as he drinks from you, the taste of you by far the sweetest, most decadent thing he could fathom. As the knot in his belly grows ever-tighter, his suckles become more greedy, frantic, not knowing whether you’ll allow him this pleasure ever again.

“Please, f-fuck,” he sighs, the words punched from his lips as he pulls away from you just enough to speak, uncaring as dribbles of milk leak from the corners of his lips, staining your skin. His hips practically move on their own accord as he mindlessly grinds up into you, seeking out the warmth and safety he knows he shall only ever feel within you.

Above him, you nod, swallowing thickly against the dryness at the back of your throat, cheeks flushed while you watch him unravel. Snaking a hand between your bodies once more, your fingers quickly find your sensitive, aching bud and rubbing at it with a practiced precision.

“Gods, sweet little brother,” you breathe out, pleasure zapping down your spine. You frantically nod again, frantic this time, just as your high washes over you, “Come, Aemond… Gods, let go, little one.”

His suckles turn more into little biting nips while he gasps against you, trembling beneath you when he finally lets pleasure overtake him – eye squeezing shut at the feel of your walls clenching tightly around his cock.

The warmth of him filling you only spurs you on more, your breaths ragged against his forehead while you feel yourself tense and relax again and again, grabbing at whatever parts of him you can reach.

You each go still after a few moments, panting against each other. Aemond is practically limp beneath you, lazily nuzzling his face against your chest, satiated smile just barely tugging at the corners of his lips. Chuckling softly, you pepper his forehead in sweet kisses, relishing the contented hum he gives in return.

When you go to get up however, intent on fetching a cloth to clean you both up with, he reaches for you with a small whine as he grabs at your thighs.

“Don’t, please,” he murmurs, brows furrowed when your eyes meet, “Stay…”

“You… you want to stay like this?” You question, your heartbeat quickening as he quickly nods, “You wish to stay –”

“Inside,” he finishes quickly, Adam’s apple bobbing when he swallows bashfully, cheeks flushed, “I… I feel safe like… like this.”

“Then you can stay, silly boy,” you answer with a grin, kissing at his forehead once more, “Here, let’s just…” You murmur, tilting your hips to the side ever so slightly, attempting to pull him with you.

Blessedly, he seems to understand and follows you willingly, allowing you to maneuver the two of you onto your sides. After a moment, you’re comfortable once more, each of you lying on your side and facing the other, one of your legs slung over his narrow hips to keep him pressed tightly within you.

“Good boy,” you sigh softly, smiling when he shivers against you.

The two of you stay like that for a while, your hands gently caressing his soft skin or running through his hair while you hold him against you. After a while, his lilac eye finally flutters closed and you can’t help but marvel at how much younger he looks like this – relaxed and spent while he lies against you, like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders.

After a while, he seems to grow restless again, nosing at your chest until he finds what he desires. You sigh softly as he pulls a nipple into his mouth once more, suckling at it contentedly while he peers up at you sleepily.

“There you go,” you murmur soothingly, coaxing him to lift his head just enough for you to lay an arm beneath it, allowing you to caress his shoulders while your other hand cups gently at the side of his face, thumb sweeping over his soft skin. “Take what you need, sweet one,” you coo, smiling as he quickly returns his lips to your breast, “You’re safe, I’ve got you…”

thank you for taking the time to read! hope you enjoyed! :)

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shiny-jr · 6 months ago

Text

▶ damnation [ the praetorian imp ]

– Summary: When you commit a crime, you receive a punishment. This is especially true in your society. No matter the crime, your punishment is the same: banishment. But to where you will be sent in exile and how miserable will it be? No one knows, because no one has ever returned.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

– Characters: Ortho Shroud, Idia Shroud.

– Note: Here it is. I got lazy and did not check it after reading it multiple times before posting on Quotev. So hopefully there's no mistakes. At least not a lot of them. Now read. Happy reading.

– Pages: 43

– Not satisfied? Try looking here for the quiz to take it yourself and see where you end up banished!

The Raven Retainer | The Praetorian Imp | ???

Cold metal. There was a slight weight on the top of your skull, like the heft of a circlet. Carefully reaching up, your fingers touched thin cold metal, but as you tried to gingerly remove it, it failed to come off. Gentle tugs become harsh pulls, but that only serves to form an ache in your head as if you were pulling on your hair. Was it some sort of deadly contraption placed on prisoners? Was this how they wanted you to die? By crushing your skull with this thing?

“Wh– Where am I…?”

As you stumbled over your own two feet, you stopped yanking on the metal on top of your cranium. Fear took root as you absorbed your surroundings, dark and unfamiliar, those same qualities as the jail cell but this was unlike any prison. There were high walls with columns of gray and silver and gold, arched ceilings that were mixes of blues and grays and blacks which almost looked like painted murals that had been smeared across the surface. The floor was freezing like cement, but it was a smooth polished dark gray. With at least two floors, the second was accessible by some wide curved stairs which lead to more of the unknown. Your voice echoed in the space, leaving you to believe you were completely alone.

Skull-crushing could still be on the list of possible ways to die. Or would your punishment be isolation? Complete solitude was known to drive people insane. It didn’t even seem like a single soul alive was here, leaving only the sound of your heavy breathing in the otherwise unsettling silence. White flowers from large vases wilted, their petals suspended gray and limp like hanged bodies.

On the floors you nearly slip and hit your head, but you manage to grab a nearby column that was as thick and sturdy as an old oak tree. That’s when you caught sight of your reflection in a nearby huge vase coated with a reflective exterior. You were staring wide-eyed at an unfamiliar figure, so odd that it took a moment to register that it was truly you.

A long black cloth with dark blue meander borders acted like a shirt or a robe, wrapping over one shoulder and extending in different directions to act like a small cloak and cover part of your legs. From your hips to your ankles covered by part of the top cloth, were a pair of black pants with more blue meander borders decorating it. They were like modern day sweatpants and an ancient palla all in one outfit, which you might’ve admired if you weren’t currently filled with confusion and dread. That metal object on your head was like a headpiece, with two long thin black protruding pieces slicked back that glowed a slight blue. Like a demon’s horns. Impossible to remove.

You resembled a demon with these horns, a devilish little imp. When your eyes adjusted, the reflective surface of the vase was painted. Painted black and browns, like the famous Athenian ceramic styles with figures of black and brick red. Except, each vase depicted a different scene. A powerful muscled figure standing proudly and holding a bolt of lightning; a baby strangling two large snakes; a young scrawny individual training beside a satyr and a pegasus.

“Get– these off…!”

An imp… you were an imp! Horror spread across your features, and the constant tugging to remove the metallic horn-like objects from your skull served pain stronger than a slap, to let you know that this was no dream. The judges had cast the final verdict, and as soon as you arrived you were destined to live as a miserable little creature to serve a higher being. A god.

A God of the Underworld, that wielded the deadliest of blue flames and kept all souls contained within his land of misery. A being of divinity who envied his family and others who dwelled high in the clouds of Mount Olympus, so he planned meticulously for years to lay siege to the mountain by freeing titans who would wreak havoc across the globe. Just as he sits on the throne where the God of Thunder and King of Gods once dwelled, the human son of that royal god arrived to face the dark god. That gloomy and dreary antagonistic entity had three main underlings, two of which were imps he regularly abused and tormented.

Maiming, wringing their necks, burning them in blue fire, those were just some of the torture those imps faced at the hands of their master. You felt yourself fall to your knees in a heap, like a rag doll, by the overwhelming emotions weighing in your mind and the now new burden of survival on your shoulders. This was hell, literally. So caught up with this newfound revelation, that you didn’t even notice the vases become blank as if by magic, wiping the depicted scenes off their surface. Hallucinations!

These must’ve been hallucinations formed by your unstable mind–– You were especially sure of it when it felt as if the ground vanished beneath your feet and were surrounded by dark mists. The dark and elegant place you had once stood in, was gone, and you plunged into a dark pit. A small plunge, then you fell on rocky uneven earth, leading you to fall flat on your face. There was hardly any light, and the ceiling was low. But, there was a blue flame, a small glow to which you opened your eyes to.

In front of you was a young boy that looked more akin to an android. Surely, another illusion, but your certainty wavered when it blinked at you. It blinked with its wide bright yellow eyes. Its eyes were like a light, as was its hair made of what seemed like real blue flames that was like a torch in this small cave. Its body was dark and metallic, part of those metals extending over the mouth like a mask. “There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you chickened out. Are you ready to put on a show? Remember, we gotta make it believable, the hero won’t be the only one there! We gotta trick all the humans!”

“W-What…?” You watched as the android-like being opened up a hologram in front of him, and on the screen of light were various shapes and figures of numerous creatures and people alike.

Whatever this thing was, its voice became monotone for a brief few seconds as its pointer finger landed on the image of a normal young boy. “Selecting… Loading… Finalizing appearance.” In an instant, a light flashed over him and he became that little boy in the hologram. “What do you think? Pretty convincing, huh? Now, your turn!”

If you squint, it was like peering through glass, because at some angles you could still see the android. However, you had absolutely no time to question it, or the situation at hand, or what he could’ve possibly meant, because the quiet was shattered by the squeal of what sounded like a horse.

Scrambling onto your feet, you approached the thin tiny opening where light filtered in, far too small to squeeze past but just big enough to peer through. It took a few spare seconds for your eyes to adjust to the light of the outside on this cloudy day, but you could make out high rocky cliffs as gray as the sky. And a white horse with wings, a pegasus, several meters away with two people. A young man in purple who looked quite ruffled and a muscular woman with auburn locks. You blanched upon recognizing the location.

The mighty hero was said to have fought his first life-threatening battle in a gorge, just like this one. It was a battle that nearly cost him his life. The human servant, obliged to serve the dark Lord of the Underworld, lured the hero to the gorge under the guise of an accident requiring urgent attention from a savior. The accident involved two children trapped under rubble where nearby the hydra lurked. And those two children? Were the two imps who also served the God of the Dead. One imp, you were one. And the other? Beside you now, which explained his matching metallic horns on his head. Meaning the hydra was near. Each breath you took increased in pace, on the very verge of hyperventilating––

“Help! Hurry! We can’t breathe!” The android boy cried for help, his little eyes peeking out of the same gap you were peering out of. Even his voice sounded different with whatever magic or technology he used to disguise himself. As the hero was running over and a crowd was forming a good distance away, your fellow imp looked at you and whispered in confusion, “Where’s your disguise? You can’t let her see––”

“Get me out…!! Please! Anyone! Someone!” You gasped, suddenly realizing just how small it was underneath this massive boulder. It was a miracle it hadn’t crashed down yet, killing you instantly like rock squishing an ant. But if the boulder didn’t kill you, then the hydra would. And that was what terrified you, causing you to scream for help.

The young boy’s eyes brightened up, looking a bit taken aback at your volume before he grinned. At least, he must’ve been grinning, judging by the way his eyes lit up. Pausing his very loud pleas, he whispered in amazement, “Wow, you’re really good at this acting!”

You were not acting. Especially not when help arrived in the form of the protagonist.

Instead of a man as depicted in the stories, it was a woman. A woman with innocent blue eyes and a kind voice that attempted to ease the worries of what she must’ve thought were two poor victims trapped beneath debris from a rock slide. Her eyes darted from what she saw as a normal little boy, then over to you. “It’s okay, I promise you’ll be alright.” Those eyes like the bright blue sky, softened with a hint of pity, maybe because you just looked that pitiful and on the verge of tears. Because you knew what monster would come lurking from the gorge just moments after you and the small horned being beside you are supposed to be saved.

Incredibly, with only a minimal amount of struggling, the hero heaved the boulder slowly above her head with her strong arms. Even though the rock was easily ten times her size, she raised it up high above her head, allowing you and the boy to scamper out of the pit. Managing a charming smile despite the tons of weight she was holding, she began, “How are you holding up? Are you injured or––”

Running. You were running. There was no way you would waste even a second here, and become a victim to that three-headed beast. It sounded like the hero had shouted something as you fled, and were followed by the android boy still in disguise as he called for you to wait up. Climbing, climbing, you took what looked like a thin path on a narrow cliff’s edge until you reached a hollow cavity hidden by shadows and boulders. By then you were out of breath, heaving, the ache in the back of your legs screaming from all that climbing and your lungs burning.

It seemed as if your torment was far from over. As your gaze traveled up, you stilled like a deer in the headlights. There, engraved within the very surface of the rugged stone walls, was a mausoleum that appeared to be left abandoned. Its smooth columns held up ledges, and at the very mouth of the entrance was a throne of pure stone occupied by a stranger. A stranger that looked eerily similar to the android that had been your company.

A figure who sat looking quite bored upon witnessing a mortal with inhuman strength. There were no words, but just by appearance alone you knew that this was the divine god that ruled the underworld. Fire, blue fire, ran from the top of his head down his spine and over thin shoulders. He was covered from neck to toe, completely in robes of dark blues and dull grays. Long sleeves with meander patterns extended to his wrist, and even his bony fingers were pitch black either due to the fabric of a glove or it was his actual skin, you couldn’t tell. The himation, the cloth that pooled on the floor at his feet, was pinned by a brooch resembling a skull.

Chilling yellow eyes leered down at you, his blue lips pulled back slightly in a grimace to reveal unnaturally sharp teeth on his pale face. Under his judgemental gaze, you felt like a miserable little roach scuttering about underfoot. “This isn’t a theater, and you’re not Dionysus, tryhard. That was major overkill. You screamed so much I heard you loud and clear from all the way up here, pretty sure all those humans heard you.”

In the blink of an eye, the android’s disguise was gone and he floated beside you. Placing a gentle but cold metallic hand on your back, he eagerly piped up, “I think they did really good, brother!” Brother? The god, the villain of this story, was his brother? Certainly the resemblance was there between the god and the being in the role of the imp. “Did you see the look on the hero’s face, Idia? By my estimations, the act fooled all mortal onlookers!”

Brother. But… that couldn’t be possible. Now that you were high up beside the god, Idia is what your partner in crime had called him, you were no longer so fearful of immediately becoming the hydra’s next meal. That wouldn’t happen, especially when according to the story, the lord of the underworld was the one who controlled the hydra. But now you were currently more concerned and fearful of the literal divine being sitting in front of you. The lord’s brothers were only supposed to be other gods from Mount Olympus, not a being that served him. What else was different about the story? More importantly, what would he do to you once he realized that you did not belong?

“Okay, fine. Stirring performance. Gets five stars from me. Definitely better than that uber cringe Oedipus play that came out a while back. Ortho, nice, you really played the cute little kid you gotta feel for, and you…” Idia directed his attention to you, and you froze in place under his gaze as he sized you up. “You actually weren’t that annoying this time. So congrats, I guess.” He added dismissively, apparently bored with this prelude as the crowd of humans down below continued to clap for the protagonist that had just saved two souls from the boulders in the gorge. Then, his gaze traveled over to the shadows, on a small cliff where a figure you hadn’t even noticed had been standing in silence. “And can’t forget you. A thumbs-up for the leading guy. Even a girl like her can’t resist you, huh, Meg? Talk about pretty privilege. It must be nice.”

Startled slightly by the new presence, you glanced over, spotting a slightly familiar face looking over the cliff. It was that man who had been accompanying the protagonist. A fairly handsome looking man with brown wavy hair, in a purple chiton and baggy loose gray pants. Again, there was that modern style mixed with ancient, making you question what time this took place in. But that question was so insignificant compared to the rest of your worries, that it would be pushed to the very back of your mind.

Looking from Meg to Idia, you compare the two faces. The God of the Underworld certainly wasn’t ugly, per say. In fact, he was ethereal in his own unique way. It was more of an acquired taste to appreciate the slight cheekbones, the aquiline nose, and the dim glow his fire blue hair provided in the dark space. He wasn’t exactly the beauty standard that could be compared to a warm summer day, but cold rainy nights could be just as beautiful.

“What are you staring at? Can you not? Seriously, don’t you know that’s rude?” The god muttered in a near sneer, his gaze unable to meet yours. In fact, he appeared to be looking anywhere but at you. Like he was nervous. But what would a god have to be nervous about? “When I leave home, I’d rather not be gawked at like some freak. I don’t need another reminder.”

Embarrassment caused heat to creep up your neck and into your cheeks as you lowered your head swiftly in an apologetic nod. With your eyes now glued to the ground, you didn’t lift your head even an inch. It was a mercy that he didn’t appear to be a wrathful god. Cruel, perhaps, but apparently not quick to violence. If he was the hostile type, the last thing you would probably see was his calming blue fire turn an angry red before your body became nothing but ashes in the wind and your soul joining the countless in the river of the dead. In an effort to appease him so he wouldn’t believe you were staring for the wrong reasons, you began hesitantly, in a nervous tone, “I-I’m sorry–– I was staring because, well, you talk as if y-you didn’t have that specific privilege either.”

Because you kept your head down, you failed to see all three of them, Ortho, Idia, and even Meg whipped his head around to stare with their own forms of shock as you snapped your mouth shut. There was no room to question what was said and done as a tense sort of silence settled in the air.

“Not funny, didn’t laugh. I had no idea the role of jester was just taken up. Last I knew, we still had that position available. Guess I was wrong.” He replied, unamused, and surprisingly not offended. At least he didn’t seem as if he was about to smite you for offending a god. It was jarring how lax he was, but he spoke with bitter sarcasm which actually hurt. “If I wanted a laugh, I’d probably watch you snivel and cry again, but honestly it’s way more pathetic than funny so there’s really no point in it unless I want to remind myself that there’s someone within a ten foot radius who’s giving me a run for my money in the pity department.”

“I don’t think any of you are pathetic or pitiful.” Ortho chimed in, throwing in his two cents on the matter. To which the god only glanced at. “Shall I search our records for the soul of a successful jester? I believe we may have a few that once served kings in past centuries?”

With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the motion while propping up his elbow on the armrest of the stone throne. “Nah, don’t bother, none of them are that funny anyways. It’s not worth the effort of fishing them out of the river of souls. Once we secure our win, then maybe I’ll consider it when the muses run out of jokes to tell.”

The muses? Did he plan to use those divine beings as servants once he conquered Mount Olympus?

“Uh, you can scram now? I know your soul is probably drawn to the company of other mortals like pretty-boy Meg over there and that schlemiel Heraclea.” Idia scoffed, looking a bit bitter. Although, maybe that was his natural expression along with the constant gloom that seemed to permanently linger around the divine being. He rolled his eyes, murmuring the word so it sounded like an insult, “Mortals.”

“T-Then… I’ll talk to Meg.” You kept your head down both out of respect and out of fear. Even if this supposed god was nowhere near as frightening in appearance as you had originally imagined, he was still a god capable of things you could never imagine. Better safe than sorry.

There was no chance to add anymore, since a hiss and the screams of terrified people filled the gorge. The massive serpent slithering out from its hidden den screeched as a storm brewed. The beast was probably more horrifying than any creature from nightmares you’ve dreamt, and thankfully you weren’t one of the many mortals down in the pit where they were within striking distance.

As all this unfolded multiple levels down in the pit, you cautiously made your way to the edge beside the human who served the god, seeing that the Lord of the Underworld had grown bored of the ridicule and decided watching the death match was worth his attention. Of course you knew how the battle would unfold. The hero would struggle against the massive scaled beast, before beheading it, only to be faced with numerous more heads that resulted from each slice. In the end, the warrior would prevail, beaten and bruised, but alive and hailed as a hero by the townsfolk. However, watching it all transpire in real time right before your very eyes, brought a newfound level of anxiety.

That hero attempted to regain her confidence, but her maneuvers were awkward and unsure when faced with her first real threat. Each movement was just barely enough to save her from the snapping jaws of the currently single-headed hydra. Each swing of her blade met its equally sharp fangs, and clashed like two swords. Watching the scene beside you, was that human, the character that was to be the love interest of the hero.

Meg watched with furrowed eyebrows and crossed arms, looking both anxious and displeased. So quiet that it was easy to miss over the sounds of people in chaos and the snarling of the hydra, he murmured, “I don’t know what your angle is, but it won’t work.”

Averting your attention away from the spectacle below, you slowly turned your head to the man. “I’m sorry…?” What was he talking about? Angle? There was no angle. Right now you were just trying to survive, nothing more, nothing less.

“Don’t play stupid, you sleazy imp. Complimenting him? Of all people? Even I’m not desperate enough to sweet-talk him like that. He’d see through the ruse anyways.” He hissed, glaring at you with those odd violet eyes that momentarily stopped at you, then his superior, back to the gorge. “Heraclea should’ve dropped that boulder on you to squish you like the insect you are.”

At that mental image you nearly flinched. When his gaze glanced over at that god and his younger brother, your eyes followed. The android boy was peering down at the gorge, clapping his hands excitedly as if he was spectating some game instead of a deadly match. The god was still on that cold stone throne, grinning as he lounged as if he were at home kicked back on a couch. When those otherworldly yellow eyes met yours and his grin faltered, you tensed up before diverting your attention back to the nail-biting action.

Anxiously you twiddle your thumbs. Heraclea… So that was the protagonist’s name. You shuddered to think of what would become of you should she one day think of you as an enemy and not as an innocent person to be saved. Were you someone to be saved? Yes. Innocent? No, not exactly. Although, if the Lord of the Underworld managed to successfully conquer Mount Olympus, wouldn’t that mean he would bring his servants to that safe haven in the clouds too? All the other gods would be imprisoned, even the mighty God of Thunder who currently ruled over the mountain. Mount Olympus was high in the clouds, it was practically heaven. You would be safe there.

Eventually, Idia would acquire titans, each with astounding elemental powers and then some. Each and every god had fallen in defeat against the titans, all save for the God of Thunder and his son who defeated them, now daughter in this case. And the only reason the hero had regained their strength to defeat the titans, was because his love, Meg, had gotten injured. If Meg was kept safe, then he wouldn’t have ever had his strength returned to him, meaning he never would’ve been able to stop the siege on Mount Olympus. Certainly it would allow you to be safe and alive, perhaps even served by gods and goddesses, so long as you heed Idia’s every word. And a piece of the key to that future, stood right beside you.

Clearing your throat, you nearly felt sick when you watched as Heraclea finally beheaded the beast, and the hydra’s body went limp against the relieved cheers of the townsfolk. The calm before the storm. At that moment, you struggled to find something to say. “Is… Is it because I didn’t compliment you…?” Why was he so harsh towards you? Actually, scratch that. It was obvious there were trust issues there, and he wouldn’t be too fond of one of the two that worked so closely with the god he sold his soul to. “Nevermind, that was stupid thing to ask.”

“Yeah, it was. What a dope.” When he rolled his eyes, that was probably the sign to leave. However, your feet remained firmly planted. Even as he continued his degrading comments, “It seems like every peloponnesian minute, you get more and more pathetic.” With a wave of his hand, he shooed you away with a scowl tugging on his lips. “Why don’t you go join the watch party with them?”

It was quite morbid to see the Lord of the Underworld and his younger brother appear quite enthusiastic when the decapitated beast suddenly started moving and sprouted three heads within a single second. The duo were raving about something you couldn’t hear due to the wind and rain that had picked up. They remained under the hollowed stone, keeping them dry. However, Meg continued to stand beside you on the cliff, getting drenched with each drop.

Part of you considered just extending out your arm and pushing him over the cliff, but there was no use in that. Chances are, Heraclea would save him and Idia might not appreciate the fact that one of his best pawns was gone. And if Meg died from the fall, for what reason would the hero then later have to give up his powers if not to save the love interest? So, refraining, you instead unraveled part of the cloth around yourself to extend over his head like an umbrella.

“... Thanks.” The thank you was hesitant as he eyed you carefully, but at least he had the decency to be grateful. By now, it appeared as if the hydra had been slayed by falling rubble along with the hero, but you knew better. Without even looking at you, Meg repeated, “Like I said before, I don’t know what you're up to, but keep me out of it.”

“I’m just… trying to spare myself is all.” Your response held a much deeper meaning than he, or anyone else in this world, could ever know. To him, it just seemed like you meant standing by him to distance yourself from the god when the hydra lay buried and still while Heraclea emerged bruised but alive to a rapturous applause from the cheering far below.

You swore you saw the god’s blue hair spark red for a moment, the flames appearing to wave a little faster but he didn’t make any motion to grab and burn anything with his bare hands. All he did was stand up and stalk off, and you were in no way tempted to elicit a worser reaction from him. Not when Ortho was unnerving you by how he stood still, his brows furrowed in disappointment with a tilt of his head as he watched the protagonist get showered in praise and thanks. Neither of them would you approach, even as a dark mist surrounding the ledge. When it was gone, you and the others were back in those dark hallowed halls from where you first arrived.

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Staring at the ceiling. It felt as if you had barely slept, and you had no sense of the time as it was so dark in the underworld. All you wanted to do was sleep, sleep and never wake up to avoid this endless nightmare but all you could do was disassociate. And yet, you couldn’t even be granted that small mercy of sleep. A coma would be a blessing right about now. However, all you could do was get lost in the painted and carved shapes and swirls, silently staring up blankly.

When you imagined the possibility of perhaps achieving paradise on Mount Olympus by assisting the Lord of Underworld receive an ending of his own, you had not accounted for just how long that would take. How long each venture and battle would add to each hour, how the days began to bleed together and feel like a blur. Especially with each task done, you came no closer to derailing Heraclea off her fast-speed track towards a good ending.

The Erymanthian Boar was a wild and tameless beast that became the main dish of a feast when it was shot by a bow and promptly cooked on a spit. The Nemean Lion was like a kitten compared to the hero’s strength, even its claws famed for breaking the sharpest sword were no match. The Stymphalian Birds were caught and caged like canaries by the protagonist on her pegasus. Nothing, not a single beast or creature alive stood a chance against Heraclea. You witnessed these defeats firsthand, as you and Ortho were often charged with freeing whatever beast was to be the next challenge in a setting like a city waiting to be saved by the famed woman.

And after each loss, you saw the same thing. Idia would remove a piece off a large board. Each piece was placed strategically, carved to reflect the appearance of each monster he controlled and wished to obtain. You watched as he flicked off the Erymanthian Boar, slapped off the Nemean Lion, melted the Stymphalian Bird to a puddle. You feared meeting a fate like that, at the protagonist or antagonist’s hands––

“Hey!! Guess what?”

You hardly even moved, you didn’t even make a squeak, all you did was flinch when the face of the android appeared above you. After the first dozen or so times he spooked you by just magically appearing like a ghostly apparition, it stopped scaring you so much. Especially because Ortho didn’t want you dead. For whatever reason, he seemed strangely fond of you, perhaps because he thought that you were whoever you replaced as the role of his partner in crime. Besides, the one he wanted dead was the hero, he and his brother have made that much clear.

“No––”

“Meg recruited new pawns for Idia to use! Isn’t that exciting? And these three are super strong! There’s the Minotaur, Miss Stheno, and a Griffin! We think that the reason the hero has been winning all this time is because she’s only faced one enemy at a time. This is a game-changer, trust me!” Ortho took your hands in his cold metallic ones, his eyes shining as he whispered hopefully, “We’re so close, I can feel it…! Soon, we’re gonna be able to repay everything Idia ever did for us, by giving him Mount Olympus. I’ll be able to repay him for creating me, and you’ll be able to repay him for reviving you!”

That… was new. In all your time here, you had never once heard anyone mention a creation and revival. There was no way you could just up and ask. You were supposed to know this, and play the part. While Ortho was cheerful and bright, there was this ominous side of him and glint in his eyes. Along with his mechanical parts that pointed to the obvious, what he had just said might’ve confirmed it, that he was in no shape, way, or form, human.

“Yeah… I’m looking forward to it.” By now you knew the drill. Whenever Idia was plotting to use a new pawn, you and Ortho would have to go over details including where to release the enemies in a setting to wreck the most havoc and somewhere accessible to the protagonist. Sitting up slowly from the bed, you slid your hands out of his and used your palms to support yourself on the mattress. These next words, you would have to choose carefully. “Olympus for all that he’s done for us…”

Ortho paused when he held up your bag, and he slowly tilted his head. He did it in a way that creeped you out, with those wide yellow eyes no longer sparkling so brightly. “Oh, I mean, what he’s done for me. You can do this and I’ll forgive you for lying to me.”

You stopped breathing and your limbs froze in place. You were staring down at the young boy for what felt like a prolonged hour in silence as the air became thick with tension, but it was only a few seconds. It took a few more seconds for you to breathe, to swallow the knot caught in your throat which formed a bubbling pit of dread boiling within your stomach about to make you sick. “W-What…?”

“Your heart rate has increased significantly, more so than usual. Ever since the hydra, I’ve noticed your vitals seem off. Of course, you have always been the nervous one, always panicking, but it seems more extreme now. So I’ve conducted some scans without your notice, and I’ve made an interesting discovery. The details within your current profile do not match the previously saved one.” With each word you could only stare in horror. How long has he known? Has he told anyone else? What would he do with this information now? What would Idia do if he knew? Each and every word was like a brick being added to a scale, tipping the balance further until you felt as if your very heart would stop. “It’s the weirdest thing. It’s almost as if you’re a completely different person.”

At that moment you just wanted to vanish, disappear like gray smoke, because you’re certain that even the Lord of the Underworld’s lackey brother can give you a crueler ending than being swallowed whole by the hydra or seen as a foe in the eyes of the hero.

Ortho remained still, his head still tilted. There was no blinking, he didn’t even breathe. The voice that came from him was serious but quiet, “Do you want to be honest to me now? We were supposed to be a team.”

The horns. Those cursed metallic horns, the one on his head and the matching pair on yours, a telltale sign that you were supposed to be a duo. Somehow your hands found their way to your skull, to the base of the horns. No matter what you did, yanking, sawing, thumping them against the hard floors, nothing ever affected them when you attempted to remove them during lonely nights.

“Breathe.” Ortho whispered, his eyes softening and brows furrowing slightly, as if he were looking at a panicked little beast fearfully curled up in a corner. You hadn’t even noticed you were nearly hyperventilating until he said something. You recognized that look, one of pity. Why was it that you were so familiar and used to that look, but the one time you needed it during the trial, you were shown none? “If I wanted you gone, we wouldn’t be talking right now, you know that, right? You aren’t them, and I don’t understand it, but… you do good work. Help me understand you, and I’ll help you understand us. Okay?”

Broken. You broke, like a dam cracking and crumbling, the bricks swept away in a rushing torrent of words and feeble attempts at explanation. It was clear that he had been expecting some resistance of some kind, but he received none. You recounted everything, from your trial to now, the fear you’ve felt, your nightmares, the desperation to avoid a horrible end that you were destined to receive. Not divulging into the details, not mentioning the fact that this was like a story you knew. And finally, after everything was said, you wiped your teary eyes as you breathed the final words. “Please–– don’t tell anyone. N-No one can know. I’ll do what you want, I’ll help you get your brother to Olympus…! Please, all I want is peace too…”

Your fellow imp finally blinked, surprised and utterly taken aback by your rapid explanation and plea for secrecy. For a long moment, Ortho appears to scrutinize you. Who knew what was going on in that mechanical mind of his, what things he was realizing that were unseen by human eyes? Finally, he sat beside you. Well, almost, since he floated in the air in front of you, sitting on nothing but empty space. “He doesn’t want peace. That’s boring.”

Swinging his legs lightly, he removed the metallic mouthpiece that concealed the lower half of his face. You saw… nothing out of the ordinary. He looked so much like a real boy that it was uncanny, save for the pointed teeth that were very much like Idia’s.

Clearing your throat, you proceeded, “I-I don’t care, as long as I’m safe.”

“I like it better when you’re honest.” Placing the metal mouthpiece on his lap, he continued to observe you before he gave you a smile. A real smile. Somberly he proceeded, “Idia created me with his own two hands, because his biological family alienated him. Every other god lives in those high mountains, where they’re so close to the sun’s warmth and have an abundance of treasures! They never work, never worry… but not my brother. They forced him to live alone in this cold realm, to take on the responsibility of lording over the dead for all of eternity. So, eventually he brought me to life in this metal body. Then he chose a human soul to revive just so I wouldn’t be lonely either. That human soul was you, or my friend before you, at least. But I think I like you better.”

“You… You do?”

“Yeah! I think my brother picked a really bad human soul. The one you replaced was scared all the time, like you, but they never got the job done right. I like you, because even when you’re obviously scared, you do what you have to, and you do it right.” His blunt and casual manner of speaking, combined with the fact that he was still swinging his legs as he floated off the floor, reminded you that he really was a child. Or at least, molded to be like a child. “Don’t worry, I won’t speak a word about it to my brother. This doesn’t affect his plans anyways. As long as you pinky promise you won’t lie to me anymore, and you’ll still help!”

When he held out a little pinky, you blinked slowly. Such a childish thing, a pinky promise, but your life would hang on the balance between two small interlocked bones. Your life, on nothing but a promise. Did you really have a choice in the matter? “You swear you won’t tell anyone…??”

“I swear! We Shrouds always uphold our bargain. Imp’s honor!” His beaming smile could light up this entire dreary realm as you slowly wrapped your pinky around his and shook hands.

“But… imps aren’t very honorable––”

“Yeah, we are! I.M.P.– information management praetorians. We have to be honest, especially to each other, or how else will our team work?” Ortho argued, frowning lightly at the thought of being considered a liar. “At least, we have to be honest to our own. When it comes to mortals that are not you or Meg, who cares?” He placed that metallic mouthpiece back on that covered the lower portion of his face, and he stood up from his chair of air. “Come on, let’s start walking. On the way, you can tell me something interesting that I don’t know. I bet your world is so different! Tell me about it, please?”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

This was your punishment, not from fate or the very hands that brought down the gavel then declared you were to be banished and die, but by Ortho. Ortho’s cruel little hands, who had tricked you into switching responsibilities for the day. Apparently he was still bitter that you had lied to him in previous encounters. What he hadn’t told you was that his main task for the day was to accompany the Lord of the Underworld across the river of souls and to the mortal realm.

So now here you were, seated so awkwardly and stiffly on the small thin boat, nervously watching the grotesque faces of the dead as their souls were carried by the currents. You could only pray that the boat didn’t tip over, because who knew what would happen to your mortal body if it fell in? It was likely mentioned in the story, but you couldn’t recall exactly what it was.

Idia appeared relatively unbothered, standing at the very edge of the boat as a masked being made of metals and dark robes moved mechanically. The mechanical charon rowed the vessel to the other side of the river, and quickly you grew bored of their slow and repetitive movements. So you turned your gaze to Idia. You couldn’t see his face, since his back was to you. All you could see was his glowing mane of blue flames waving lightly with the cold lifeless air. Abruptly, he turned his head and you saw his side profile. Those chilling unnatural yellow eyes glanced at you with a dull expression on his face, possibly sensing your stare, you quickly averted your gaze away. But it was too late, he had seen it.

“What is your deal? You have a major staring problem, imp.”

“N-Nothing, nothing!” Rapidly shaking your head, you looked for an excuse, any excuse. Anything to save you from this embarrassment, or avoid the risk of angering him. You saw his anger in brief sporadic moments, but you did not want to be the source of those frustrations. Not after you saw how he burned those pawns on that beloved board of his. “I was just wondering… what exactly are we going to do in the mortal realm?” And more importantly, how chaotic would things get?

“Tsk. Just monitor that lamebrain hero. Everyone like that has a weak spot. I mean, Prometheus and Epimetheus messed around with Pandora and the box thing, a bunch of the gods on Olympus got too involved in the Trojan War and in the end the Trojans bet on the wrong horse. All we gotta do is find her Achilles’ heel so to speak.”

It was odd how in the original story, The Lord of the Underworld never quite acknowledged most of the gods. Except for the God of Thunder, who he held a clear distaste for. However, Idia spoke as if he knew all of them personally, which would make sense. But whenever he said their names, he frowned and seemed as if he weren’t fond of any of them.

Seeing him roll his eyes, you glance at the charon who moved like a puppet, then back at the god. The silence was only temporary. Tucking your knees to your chest as you remain seated, you watch him as he continues to gaze out over the gray and lifeless realm that seemed to stretch on for miles and miles. Idia seemed like the solitary type, and if what Ortho said was true, than Idia would be alone. Clearing your throat, you inquired softly, “The Trojan War… which gods were involved in that?”

Upon hearing the inquiry, he paused but remained still. How many gods and humans and other beings had he known in his long immortal life? Probably too many to count. Idia remained looking away, as if he hadn’t even heard your question, but he answered, “Not that it really matters, but too many. To call the entire ordeal messy would be a major understatement.”

It sounded like one big trashy reality television show, except much more deadlier and the stakes were high. And yet, if his words were the truth, then he may have not had any part in the conflict. “And you didn’t get involved?”

“Why would I? I have zero interest in the stupid pointless affairs of mortals.” Okay, so he was not a fan of mortals waging war or causing conflicts. That was good to know. “Whenever they start fighting, more of them end up down there, and it’s annoying. The only bright side of it is that I don’t have to listen to all their arguing on Olympus.”

Carefully, you proceeded to ask, “So… you don’t like them? The other gods, I mean. Can you stand them…?”

“I can’t stand any of those self-important deadbeats.” A deep frown dug into his lips, clear hatred shining in those tired eyes. Honestly, you couldn’t even blame him. You would be equally bitter about practically being left to rot, to carry a burden for eternity all while everyone else who was supposed to stand beside you went to live lavishly in the clouds without a single care in the world, while their only worries were which mortals to support and pit against another like watching dogfights.

In a way, it felt like how the judges back in your home cast their judgment from aloft, and you were left alone to suffer for it. Unsure of what possessed you, you managed to ask, “What would you change? I mean, if you could punish them for wronging you, what would you do?”

Leaning against the curved end of the boat, he situated his elbow atop the curve and propped up his head on his cheek. For a long moment he was quiet, gazing at you with those striking yellow eyes. Tired, he looked tired. And after centuries, thousands of years doing his work, who wouldn’t be? “Make them suffer for the rest of eternity, just as they damned me to hell. Chains would be a pretty good start, to make them feel a tiny fraction of how it felt to be trapped. They killed that little smidge of hope I had a long long time ago, so I’ll be fair and return the favor by killing their little hero Heraclea.”

Considering his response, you nod slowly. While morbid, his feelings felt justified. Had anyone else been in his position, they likely would’ve gone insane. Maybe Idia wasn’t completely sane in the first place, considering how alone he had been until the creation of Ortho and supposed revival of the person you replaced. What sane person would create a family and a friend for himself, just to try and end their loneliness?

“You just focus your puny efforts on helping me change the world. When the titans are freed, everything will change. You can take that as gospel, or whatever.”

He returned his sights ahead over the river of souls, you suddenly remember what happens if a mortal falls into the murky depths. Their body is quickly drained of life, draining them like a grape dried to a prune, leaving nothing but a wrinkled corpse if the person stays in for too long. It’s how the protagonist nearly met their end, and where the god before you is supposed to become trapped in complete darkness.

You watched, both intimidated and captivated as a wide toothy grin broke out on his face like he thought of something funny. He scoffed, proceeding with his words in quick succession, almost breaking out into a laugh. “Those unsuspecting dolts have spent so much time up in the clouds that the air pressure must’ve literally dimmed their common sense and cut off the oxygen from their brains. They won’t even see us coming! Ah––” Freezing, his smile dropped instantly as he noticed your shock and he realized that he was allowing himself to speak more freely. Instantly he cut himself off, lowering his volume back down a few notches. Seemingly embarrassed, he partially covered his blue lips with the sleeves of his robes. “Uh… That… What I mean to say is… unlike them, I actually take others into account. One god won’t take up space on that mountain, there’s room for Ortho and a mortal too. To live however you want.”

That expression he had made, was it possible he was becoming more accustomed to you? Wait, no, he was just warming up to the role you played. Ortho had mentioned that you naturally acted just like the imp you had replaced. The Lord of the Underworld was just growing accustomed to the presence of the mortal soul of what he thought was the human he picked to become his lackey. That was all. Nothing more, nothing less. The god would never care for a mortal, not when he used the two humans closest to him, yourself and Meg, as pawns in a game to defeat the human hero, and the result without that hero would be mass casualties. As long as it wasn’t you being tormented by the beasts Idia controlled or even the titans that would soon be free, you didn’t care. Fate was dangling paradise atop a mountain behind golden gates right in front of you, and you just had to survive long enough to make it there. If only it were that easy…

“However I want…”

“However you want,” Idia repeated, as the boat stopped and the charon froze in place at a rickety old pier. Just ahead on land was a cavern with the slightest bit of sunlight flowing through it. A possible path to the mortal realm? “Cause I don’t really care what you do then. Right now, hurry it up.”

Carefully standing, you immediately jumped off the rocking boat, following the ominous divine being who ruled over the dead. Cautious to keep some distance so as to not be burned by his hair, you trail behind him. “... So… what exactly do I have to do this time…?” You prayed for an easy task, wanting to at least be out of a few mile radius distance from the hero.

“You? Oh, nothing. A wimpy little imp like you wouldn’t survive if you got too close to that hero. And really, I don’t feel like going through the effort of finding another mortal to work for me. Not when you’re useful enough, I suppose. At least you’re better than the last imp.” He practically floated across the ground, the smoke following at his heels with every step he took.

At least you’re better than the last imp. When you heard those words, you froze in place, your feet stuck to the stairs. It felt as if your very heart had stopped, and your breathing had even come to a halt. There… weren’t any predecessor imps in the story, were there? No–– you would’ve remembered such a crucial detail. So that could only mean that he knew. Somehow he knew––

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” His voice broke the silence, as he saw your foot inch back, as if wanting to escape back towards the river of souls. Maybe if you hijacked the boat, forced the charon to take you somewhere far far away from here. To another portal you could use to escape into the mortal realm, anywhere but here with him. The god that ruled over the dead could see the fear clear in your eyes. His gaze was cold, and he was frowning. “Thinking of ending it all here?”

Staring into his eyes, gazing right at him, was utterly terrifying now that you didn’t know whether he considered you friend or foe. In the stories The Lord of the Underworld practically tortured his imps for sport, what if he did the same to you? You were no brother to him, you weren’t even the original soul he handpicked! You only moved your head slightly, in the subtlest nod. You didn’t want to die, but a quick and painless death by your own hand would be a mercy when compared to the horrors those pale boney hands of him would wrought.

“Pfft––” A toothy grin spread on his blue lips. The Lord of the Underworld actually smiled, and nearly laughed at your blunt response. He shrugged at your notion, and responded, “You’re not special. Get over it. Don’t even try to kill yourself, because I'll drag you straight out of the river and back here in front of me.”

That was… extremely unnerving. As scary as death was and as much as you wished to avoid it at any costs, it didn’t appear as if it would become some sort of sweet release. Not until he found you useless. You couldn’t help but notice that he spoke much more… curtly than usual, as if ticked off by something.

By some miracle you managed to swallow your fear. Perhaps it was because he found you amusing that he allowed you a few more seconds of life, or maybe it was because he really had some kind of plan in mind for you. Which was worse? Spending your last seconds agonizing over how he would end you, or believe he may kill you only to put you through tasks that would make you long for death. Meekly you murmur, “N-Normal people don’t say that––”

“I’m not a normal person, am I?” When he rolled his head to look at you, you’re reminded once again that he wasn’t like you at all. Far from it. Piercing yellow eyes, blue lips, a mane of fire, these were just the physical traits. Idia was a god, older than you could possibly comprehend, and perhaps wiser than he let on. Despite his blunt and modern way of speaking combined with his lax mannerisms, he was still the Lord of the Underworld. And he could snuff you out with a snap of his fingers.

Whenever he looked at you a certain way, like he was studying you, reading your very soul, it made a chill travel down your spine and formed a sensation in your stomach that caused you to feel like hurling. You swallowed again, forcing yourself to avoid getting sick right then and there. You didn’t know what he was seeing when he looked at you, and frankly, it was probably best not to know. “If you think I’m a poor excuse for a god, you can say it, you know.”

Puzzled by the thought that he believed that was your opinion of him, you furrowed your brows, mentally recalling any recent memories that could’ve prompted him to think so. However, none came to mind. You didn’t know whether to reply, or let him continue. Which would bring about punishment. “I never ever thought that…!”

“Huh…” Standing with his hands at his sides, his shoulders slightly hunched as he faced away from you. There were a few spare moments of a tense awkward silence before he continued, “Or… did you think I was stupid? I knew the whole time. You think I wouldn’t recognize my own imp? Even the one I didn’t really give a damn about?”

All you could do was remain still, as still as a statue. Never had you ever been this frightened before, not when coming so close to the overpowered hero with superhuman strength, or when you were underneath a boulder in the hydra’s gorge, or even when you were tasked with freeing multiple creatures of nightmares beside Ortho. Because yes, while all those beings and myths could’ve caused your demise in various horrendous and grotesque ways, Idia was on a different level. If he so wished, he could revive you and kill you again and again, trapping you in a continuous cycle of death and misery for all time.

Lifting one hand where small whirls of weak smoke swirled at his bony fingertip, the small cloud resembled the gray murky depths of the river of souls where the dead were the waves on the surface. He continued, while brooding, “When I plucked the original out of the river and revived them, I did it for one reason and one reason only. For Ortho, to keep him company. I didn’t need anyone trying to annoy me, and the prototype was no particular help, you’re more like deadweight since Ortho can do your tasks all on his own. But he wanted a friend, and who am I to deny it? I chose the original’s soul for flat and basic little traits. A dim, sorry, subservient little mortal. Except…”

When he glanced over his shoulder at you, his yellow eyes glowed dimly and you couldn’t discern his expression due to how the angle concealed the lower half of his face. Those eyes alone made you want to jump right into the river of souls, but you didn’t want to test the theory if he actually forcefully dragged you out of certain doom. What was fairly certain was that the Lord of Underworld could most definitely create fates worse than anything the judges could’ve conjured up just for you. The only thing you could do was pray that he would be merciful. “Please, believe me, I didn’t want to lie to you––!”

“pLeAsE, bELiEvE mE, i DiDn’T wAnT tO LiE tO yOu.” Idia openly mocked you, even copying the way you would anxiously grip your hands together as if in a thoughtful prayer begging for mercy. “But you did! Lucky for you, I didn’t care for the original. And, it’s a hassle getting a new imp so you got stuck with me, just your luck. Poor sorry little imp, I almost feel bad for you. Almost. Not really though.”

He… didn’t care? Was this mercy? Or some odd form of it? He made no movements to end you right then and there, not seeming to be debating it.

“I’m not stupid.” He clarified with a scowl, and that’s what made you realize that he was cross because you underestimated his intellect. Were gods truly so prideful? Maybe. It seemed so. And in the grand scheme of things, maybe he didn’t care because this didn’t affect his plans in the slightest. Why would a powerful immortal who rules over the dead’s domain, care for a human? “I don’t care who you really are, as long as you stick to the script and make Ortho happy. Got it? If you do what you're told, you’ll live.”

“O-Oh…” That wasn’t even half as much as painful of a punishment as you expected it to be. Just don’t underestimate him for his pride’s sake, and keep a solid friendship with Ortho. Noted. Those you could definitely do. “Um, thank you so so so much for sparing me your, uh… your most lugubriousness…?”

His nose crinkled and he frowned at the horrid attempt at a title. “Ew, stop that, don’t be weird. I’m not gonna kill you, that should be obvious even to someone stupid. And don’t even think of calling me Lord, that’s complete overkill. This isn’t the Dark Ages. Just use my name, it’s not like I’m gonna smite you for it. Just Idia Shroud.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It was said that there were five stages of grief, and you had experienced all five since arriving. From the tiny voice in the back of your mind denying the reality of the situation, to the current state of acceptance to which you had no choice but to arrive at. With each passing night as you watched the planets in the sky like stars grow closer and closer to aligning, it counted down like the doomsday clock to your demise. If Heraclea didn’t lose by then, you would fail. Idia would never claim Mount Olympus, and you’d meet a terrible end.

As you stared up at the planets, seeing they were so close to a perfect straight line, you became lost in thought. It became common now, where you would stare off into space, wondering if death would come to claim you and fearing in what form it may come, only to be forcefully brought back from that eternal slumber should Idia continue to breathe. Going over constant plans and ideas, that led to deadends. Because the hero was destined to win, she had the smarts and strength to do any feat once thought impossible. The only hope brought you back to the original plan, keep Meg safe once Idia struck a deal with Heraclea in which the love interest’s safety hangs in the balance.

That was the only way.

“Are you even listening?” Ortho inquired, slightly annoyed that you had just ignored everything he was saying. Hovering off the ground, he floated upwards a bit to be in your line of vision as your head remained tilted up to the night sky. The artificially generated blue flames on his hair swayed lightly, casting a gentle blue glow and the shadows outlined his metallic horns. Tilting his head, he stared at your eyes filled with despair just staring off into nothingness. “Helloooo? Come on, there’s no time for mental breakdowns!”

When he waved a hand in front of your nose, you blinked, snapping out of that despondent daze as you slowly turned your attention to the young boy in front of you. Seeing his face that looked similar to Idia was not doing anything to help your current state. “H-Huh…?”

How did he even find you at one of Idia’s temples in the human realm? You had no idea. It was the easiest place to get to, considering all of the Lord of the Underworld’s mortal-made temples were accessible through the doors of his abode. Not that there were many of the temples, and the majority of them were abandoned inside the hollow cavities or caverns they were constructed in.

Ortho furrowed his eyebrows, as he floated back down towards the earth, now only hovering a few spare inches off of the ground. Whatever he was talking about before you began paying attention, was clearly no longer the topic of the conversation as he gazed at you quizzically. “What were you thinking about?”

Was it really worth telling him? Ortho had constantly insisted that you were supposed to be working as a team, and for a while, you had. While he was an android boy, he was incredibly dependable. He possessed abilities and skills you couldn’t even dream of achieving, and if anyone could help you while Idia dealt with leading the titans, it would be Ortho. However, who’s to say that you wouldn’t immediately be tossed to the side once you served this greater purpose as a step to assist the Lord of the Underworld in reaching the peak?

Your fellow imp gazed at you, blinking those wide yellow eyes that appeared so innocent. But you knew what Ortho was capable of, what he was willing to do for his elder brother. Lie, cheat, trick, murder–– and that was only scratching the surface. Well, maybe not outright lying, because he seemed so adamantly against it. “You can tell me. We’re friends, right? I’ve never had a real friend before, besides my brother, but friends are supposed to trust each other, right?” Gravity pulled him down, until he was right beside you, seated on a crumbling fallen column that was sideways on the floor. Small fingers reached for your long sleeve, slowly gripping it.

“Right…” You exhaled, still debating whether this was a good idea or not. Part of you worried if he could even detect if you were lying, and so you decided it better not to risk it. At the worst, you’d be discarded and had to survive in an apocalyptic-like world once the titans were freed, but in the best case scenario, you would actually manage to succeed in assisting the antagonist gain a happy ending. The latter of which would effectively grant you a good ending as well. “T-These plans you’ve been making with Idia haven’t exactly been working, but… I think I know how this’ll play out in the end. Everything that’s happening now is almost exactly like a story I knew from my home.”

“It is?” He brightened up, looking downright giddy as he jumped a few inches on nothing but air. Those wide yellow eyes of his that glowed like headlights, peered at you intensely as he exclaimed, “And you never told me! Well, how does it end? We could use this to our advantage in defeating the hero! With your help, we can’t possibly lose! This came at a perfect time, just as we were running out of pawns to use.”

With your hand so close to your mouth, you were debating whether to bite your nails out of pure anxiety or just clamp your fingers over your lips to shut yourself up. Instead, you opted to dig your nails into your palm and forced yourself to open your mouth. The words came out slow, like the painfully laggard pace of dripping water. “We’re supposed to lose…I’ve t-thought of everything to try and stop this story from dragging on for this long, but we keep underestimating Heraclea. That’s the issue. We forget that even though she’s mortal, she still has part of the strength she would have if she were still a goddess. So there’s no beating her, at least not fairly…”

Ortho leaned closer, hanging onto every single word. His little metal hands continued to cling to your sleeves. A silence lingered for a moment as he processed your words. “Okay… so we have to cheat…? I dunno…”

“Not exactly. We’re just… leveling the playing field. Yeah… That’s all we’re doing.” Nodding slowly, as if trying to convince yourself of this. Despite the Lord of the Underworld’s uncaring demeanor and your fellow imp’s rather cruel ways, they were both honest. Idia kept his word, and Ortho told truths. “Right before the titans will be freed, the Lord of the Underworld discovers that the hero’s weakness isn’t a physical one, it’s an emotional one. That… weakness is Meg. So the Lord of the Underworld pretends to kidnap the love interest, and offers a deal to the hero. I-If the hero agrees to give up their strength for twenty-four hours, Meg will be freed.”

Like a lightbulb going off in his head, his blue fire hair sparked for a moment as he straightened up and exclaimed, “That would work! But, wait a minute, if that’s the real story, then what happens so we lost…?”

“I was just getting to that.” You assured him, your voice remaining quiet as if afraid of being overheard by any living creature in the vicinity. The temple was abandoned, and they were the only two living things for miles. “T-The hero agrees to the deal, under one condition. If their loved one is hurt, then the deal is off.”

It clicked in his mind as he nodded in understanding. “Ohhhhhh…” The cogs turned in his mind, weighing the meaning of your words and what was supposed to happen. “You mean Meg dies…? That’s okay!”

Your jaw dropped at the mirth in the android boy’s tone. Wasn’t he supposed to be upset? Saddened? Did he not care at all for the human they occasionally worked with? It was true, half the time he was away on business trying to persuade other beasts to submit to Idia. “W-What? I thought–– I thought you would care!”

“Not really. It’s not really a secret that Meg doesn’t care about me or Idia! He’s kinda mean to me, actually…” He sighed, averting his gaze as he murmured, “Mortals are so complicated. I can’t understand them, and my brother says they’re all the same! Well, almost all of them. I get you, and Idia actually likes your company. Which is saying something, because he can’t stand any of the mortals he’s ever spoken to. It’s actually kinda concerning because all he talks about is you and how sad and miserable you are, but he doesn’t mean it in a hateful way. He just says it’s annoying how you get stuck in people’s heads. But we’re getting off track.”

Wait, wait, no, go back on that track. Why was Idia tolerating your company? Not that it was a bad thing, as it allowed you to live longer than most folk who had ever encountered him. It was a tad worrisome, and you couldn’t help but visibly grimace.

“All we need to do is make sure Meg lives and remains without a scratch for those twenty-four hours, right? That’s easy enough! We can knock him out cold or have Cerberus watch over him. Either way, with us on watch, it won’t really matter! We’ll be free!”

You watch him yell with glee as he jumps high into the air, until he is several stories in the sky as he laughs. What a sight this would have been to any other mortal nearby, who may have had the misfortune of stumbling across two imps at the abandoned shrine of their master. When he began to plummet back to earth instead of gracefully floating back down, you nearly stumbled on your own two feet with your arms automatically outstretched to try and catch him.

Just before you could trip and fall flat on your face, his hands caught your sleeve and prevented you from taking a nasty fall. He remained hovering off the ground, as per usual. Those brilliant blinding eyes gazed at yours as he exclaimed, “We’ll finally be happy! Idia and me, and now you! We can make history, you’ll be the first mortal to ever live on Mount Olympus! Isn’t that great? Of course, if the air pressure becomes an issue affecting your breathing pattern, I’m sure Idia would be glad to come up with a solution. He really liked your company when you two went to observe our target, you know. He won’t admit it, but I think you being there helped him calm down when Heraclea stopped the eruption at the volcano.”

“Uh, well––”

“Oh! You know what I want to do as soon as we get to Olympus?” Times like these when he jumped from topic to topic so eagerly, and remained so high in spirits is what reminded you that he was supposed to be child-like. It was easy to see him as an innocent youth, if you ignored the disturbing things he said every now and then. “I heard that Hermes has some really cool accessories. We should take them! And don’t forget Ares! I’ve always wanted to see his helmet and hold the legendary sword he wields! There’s so many things we can do once we’re up there, and we’ll have all the time in the world! And––”

All you could think of as your fellow imp blabbered on and on about relics he wished to steal from other gods and how he planned to spend his time having fun with his brother and yourself, was that you really just put your entire existence in his little metal hands. Only one sentence ran through your mind as you stared slack-jawed at him.

I’m going to fucking die…

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

They were right on track towards the implosion of destined failure, but all it would take would be one sharp turn, and unexpected change, to send them veering off course. It was surprisingly easy for Ortho to convince Idia to send out Meg on a quest to find Heraclea’s weakness. Although you knew the answer already, and by extension so did Ortho, Idia did not. And you were not about to tell him your whole life story and how you knew details that others should not know of this world and those living in it.

Now it was only a matter of waiting, waiting for the confirmation to arrive that Meg was the key to the hero’s destruction. To occupy the hours, you looked upon a scroll Ortho had brought along to the mortal realm. Seated atop the roofs of grand estates to avoid being seen and questioned, it was the perfect spot as the duo of imps were to await further instruction from the god.

On the scroll you held, were various faces of monstrous beasts. Titans. The ones that stood out the most, were the four at the very bottom, with a fifth not too far behind. Those you recognized, and would be the ones to lay siege on Mount Olympus: Lythos, Hydros, Pyros, Stratos, and Arges. The last of which would be the one to kill the hero while she was in her weakened state.

“This one… This one-eyed freak is the one we send to kill Heraclea.” You point out the image of the cyclops, able to distinguish it from the other titans. Unlike the others composed purely of the four elements, this titan was several tons of pure mass. A creature of unnatural proportions and unrivaled size, which would serve as a worthy opponent to the hero when she didn’t have her superhuman strength to protect her.

Ortho gazed at the scroll, paying no mind to the garden below where Meg was eventually supposed to emerge with knowledge of Heraclea’s weakness. Focusing his optic sensors on the simple painted image of the titan Arges, he was still in thought before nodding in approval. “It’s true that Arges is a worthy titan with the capability of wrecking havoc and killing numerous humans, but why him specifically? If the hero won in the story as you said, wouldn’t we want a different titan? I believe that Pyros would be most effective! His elemental body composed primarily of lava will easily burn through human flesh.”

“Well, yes… That’s a very vivid way of thinking about it.” How in depth was Ortho picturing the death of the hero? It almost seemed as if he wanted to send the most destructive of them all just to cause her more suffering, even if his way of thinking was logical. You shook the image out of your mind as you explained meekly, “Arges comes close to killing the hero. If he had taken things seriously instead of treating it as a game and delaying death, he would’ve won. But he didn’t, because he was toying with his victim… and because the hero’s trainer returned to their aid in those last moments.”

Either way, you were damning a person, a good person, to a horrible death. It wouldn’t be swift or painless, and far from merciful. The titans would have centuries of pent-up rage to release violently, and if miraculously Arges was defeated, Ortho wouldn’t allow the protagonist to slip away with their life. The imp beside you was far from the helpless little devils that appeared in the story, he could be just as lethal as his elder brother. And yet, despite the guilt you could feel slowly building up the more you thought about it, the more often you repeated to yourself: she wasn’t real. If you could fully convince yourself of that, that despite her bright blue eyes and smile as warm as sunshine, she was just a character from a story, then the guilt of her approaching death wouldn’t faze you too much.

The dangers in this world were real, the enemies were real, Ortho was real, Idia was real. She was not. Even if that felt like a lie, it was a lie, it didn’t matter. If you thought of her as a simple pawn in a game, then the burden of your sin wouldn’t be able to permeate throughout your consciousness. It was just like flicking a piece off a board. It was that simple. Because it was either her, or you. The choice was obvious.

As Ortho peered down at you with his big bright eyes, he continued floating in the air as he inquired, “Hey, hey, when we get there, I call dibs on Ares’ helmet and sword. You can have Hermes’ stuff, okay?”

“That’s fine with me…” Frankly, you didn’t care for tinted glasses, legendary swords, or the helmet of a god.

In the midst of their conversation and planning, a swirling cloud of mist like a portal appeared a few feet away. From it, came the familiar voice of the god, “Imps, time’s almost up.”

Going through the cloud was one experience you could never quite get accustomed to. It felt like you couldn’t breathe, like a cold dead wind knocked the air out of your lungs as it transported you to a new location each and every time. This time, the destination was a place directly outside of a largely empty colosseum underneath gray skies that was bound to brew a storm.

“Meg is out of commission, he got too soft. But, he’s there to lure his little hero. Humans are so predictable, so naive, no offense.” Idia’s gaze traveled over to you, only offering a half-hearted shrug and a crooked small grin as a weak apology, if it could even be deemed an apology at all.

To which you nodded, not really affected by his choice of words. “None taken.”

“Ortho, you take care of the pegasus and the satyr. Will you?” The immortal lord’s yellow eyes darted over to his brethren, the young imp straightening in attention upon hearing new commands. “Clip its wings, do whatever you have to, I don’t care what it is. I want them out of the way. Join us whenever you’re done.”

“Understood!” Ortho chirped, watching as his elder brother turned away to slowly walk towards the colosseum. Your fellow imp’s eyes met yours and he must’ve remembered your warning of the impact the satyr could have on the plot, because he used his ability to generate a holographic disguise of the satyr over himself. With one swift slicing motion over his neck, his head rolled to the side in a disgustingly almost realistic spillage of blood before the holographic flickered off. The imp winked at you, far too cheerful for someone planning to commit murder in the next upcoming minutes. In the next moment, he was gone through a cloud of black smog.

The gruesome image was stuck in your mind as you were left to follow the Lord of the Underworld, jogging to catch up with him and walk at his side as he approached the coliseum. The closer and closer you got to the towering arena, the more the thought dwelled at the forefront of your mind. You would be responsible for not one death, not just extinguishing the burning bright protagonist, but others. Not just Meg, or the satyr, or the pegasus, but countless other souls. Who knew how many mortals the titans would crush, freeze, burn, shred to bits and pieces? So many lives all to save yours.

Just remember, it was a story. They were just fictional characters, they didn’t even have any relevance to the plot. Background characters whose faces and voices blurred together, whose names would go unheard. That’s all they were.

“Hey. You nervous or something?”

Immediately you were yanked out of your intense train of thought, as if pulled out from beneath the surface of water. The god seemed to have picked up on the nervous tics and the grimaces on your face.

“You look like you’re gonna puke… Cut it out. I’m the one who should be nervous, seriously.”

Gripping the fabric of your clothing to prevent any unnecessary movement, you swallowed thickly and nodded stiffly. Just walk. All you had to do was walk beside him, act as an escort and keep up with him when approaching the towering open entrances to the largely abandoned coliseum where one could faintly pick up on the sound of clanging metal dumbbells in a steady rhythm.

“Sorry…” You choke out, suppressing any sort of queasy sensation. Think of golden gates and feather-stuffed clouds softer than any tempur-pedic, not the destruction and trail of blood that would lead to paradise at the peak. “Just–– the hero we’re walking towards can probably crush my skull between her biceps without even really trying. And, I kinda prefer my skull intact, you know?”

“No, I don’t know.” Idia rolled his eyes, seemingly not very much in agreement. Then again, he had little to fear when it came to actually being harmed. Yes, Heraclea could do some damage to him, but he couldn’t die. He was immortal.

The pair stopped at the arching entranceway moments before entering the threshold.

“You know what I do know? Rumors.” Of course he knew things. Ortho constantly kept him up to date on the latest happenings, and of course his pawn that fit in best with other mortals, Meg, had kept him informed about anything important in the mortal lands. “A certain little bird told me something interesting before he turned traitor. That a strapping gal, who, I dunno, rides a pegasus and listens to a satyr, has been on the lookout for a small kinda pathetic-looking mortal with horns. Turns out that your crying face made a crying mark on her from that day in the gorge.”

She knew you. You didn’t know whether to cry or scream. What was worse? The hero with the strength of a thousand suns or the god that reigned over the dead?

The god. The god was easily the most frightening one, you decided as you realized that Idia was staring at you intensely again. It caused your breath to stop, your hairs standing on end. The immortal looked as if he just wanted to smite you right then and there, reducing you to nothing but ash. For something that was beyond your control.

“I have got to say, you have this talent, a curse, and it makes me want to literally just––” Idia tightly clenched his fist, pursing his blue lips as he decided against going into detail. To simply put it, words like crush, tear, destroy, or pulverize into atoms would not be able to adequately put his thoughts into words. “Turns out, it’s not just me that notices. You have this strange agonizing little ability to just… worm your way into someone’s mind, and not stop. It festers like an open wound. Infecting it, making the thoughts grow more and more, worse and worse, increasing every day.”

In your seconds of stunned and petrified silence, Idia peered down at you.

His eyes glowed in the shadows under the stone arches. The smoke at his feet brushing against your legs like tendrils of gray wisps. Abruptly he remarked, “I think I finally realized why I find you so annoying.”

“What––”

“You’re used to death and choose the logical routes that are deemed as heartless. Maybe in your previous life you were seen as odd and somewhat of an outcast, like us.”

Previous life. What exactly did he mean by that? How much exactly did he know, but chose not to explicitly state? Was he assuming you had a previous life here in his plane of existence, this story? Or did he somehow know that you once had a life elsewhere, before being damned into this role by trial?

Slowly your eyes traveled over to him, only to see that he was already glancing down at you with those glowing yellow eyes. The eyes of death himself. Unsmiling, unfeeling, unstable. The breath of life was frozen in your throat as he tilted his head slowly to one side, his gaze never leaving yours, not blinking even once. “Do you blame yourself?”

“H-Huh…?”

“Well, it’s common for you simple mortals in this type of situation you’re in to feel a type of guilt, before and after what has been done.” The number of mortal souls he must’ve seen of the damned were immeasurable. The good, the bad, the worst. All of it he had witnessed. Guilt. Was that what you were feeling now, at the thought of sacrificing others for your own survival as you manipulate the story?

The breath lodged in your throat escaped like a short stifled gasp. “I… I don’t––”

“I see it all the time, you’re no exception.” Idia turned to face you fully. The Lord of the Underworld was looking down at you, the smoke at his feet curling around your legs. It was cold lifeless air, sending a chill from your toes all the way to your neck. Those eyes felt like the worst pair of eyes in the entire world–– no, the entire universe. It felt like he could read you inside out, deciphered every bit of your soul like code. “Mortals will invent blame, trying to shove the burden on others and create an excuse. When in reality…”

Reality. This was reality now, at least for you. A reality you had attempted to shape into your will, into a satisfactory ending where things would be carefree in a heavenly paradise above the clouds. And yet… what did it cost? Lives? What did that matter? But a portion of your sanity.

“It’s completely out of your control.”

The Lord of the Underworld returned his sights ahead, to where he would encounter the beloved daughter of the god who damned him to an eternity of drudgery in the most secluded realm in this plane of existence. As he walked, it felt like his fleeting wisps of smoke lingering after each footstep, compelled her forward.

Just before the shadows of the arching columns ended, they stopped on the edge of darkness where they could watch. Straight ahead was Heraclea, her back turned to them. She was lifting a bar with huge thick metal weight plates that likely each weighed about the same as a house, yet she so effortlessly lifted them up and down with the same hands that strangled the most fearsome beasts to death.

Idia stood close at your side, keeping his fingers folded in front of him as he stood slightly slouched, watching the hero with utter disdain before his gaze traveled to you out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t move his head. Instead of that same type of hateful loathing he felt towards the protagonist, he looked at you with something else, something less evil and more gentler but equally as chilling.

In an instant, he was gone in a puff of smoke, his voice seeming to echo all around you and even within the confines of your skull. Low and quiet, but haunting. “You know you were never in control, right?”

You were never in control.

You could only watch almost lifelessly as Idia appeared in front of the protagonist. Everyone, everything, began to sound so far away. The crackling fire of the torches on the wall, the voice of the suspicious immortal and wary mortal in the distance, the low howling of the wind beginning to pick up, each one fell on deaf ears.

That one parting line, just five words, made you question everything that you had worked for thus far. Again, there was the question: how much Idia know? Have you been played for a fool? For all your days here, you had been through hell and back, quite literally, doing his bidding in the hopes to exploit the situation and create an ending that suited your preferences. Had he known this, or was it his choice of words messing with your unstable mind? Just as he insinuated that your presence was permeating throughout his mind, this god was driving you mad!

The plot appeared to be progressing as intended, the Lord of the Underworld attempting to trick the Hero into a deal they could not refuse. When Idia snapped his dark bony fingers, instead of seeing plum colored garbs and wavy brown locks of Meg, you felt that dreadful sensation of the cold dead wind knocking the air out of your lungs as you suddenly found yourself thrust into the spotlight of the center colosseum.

All eyes, the two pairs in the vicinity, were on you. You felt yourself go pale. There was a reason Idia had mentioned the fact that the hero knew you existed, and this was it. It was a warning, a hint to his plans. Somehow, someway, the hero cared, and it should have never happened. Why wasn’t Meg here instead?

The hero’s bright blue eyes sparked to life with familiarity. Any mild irritation she expressed while interacting with the immortal were quickly dashed and replaced by genuine concern. “It’s you––”

Immediately your gaze traveled to the Lord of the Underworld, who appeared irked by the mere presence of the protagonist that has gotten in the way of his every attempt. Idia hardly even looked at you, even as the words came rushing out past your lips, “This wasn’t––”

Those cold wisps of smoke gathered, materializing into a rope-like object that restricted your movements. It binds your wrists together, covering your mouth to prevent any sort of noise from leaving your throat.

This wasn’t the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen! Why was this happening?

Just before you could hit the dirt ground, the hero’s warm hands inches away from your flesh as she extended her arms out to catch you–– snap! The snap of Idia’s fingers caused that dreaded cold lifeless air to hit you like a slap as you were whisked away from strong safe arms.

For a few sparse seconds, you were in complete and utter darkness. It was cold. Just you and your thoughts, with one more prominent than others: Idia had used you. Toying with you like one of the pawns on his board, pinning you against the unbeatable foe he was currently facing. The god utilizing you as if you were the secret ace up his sleeve, but why? What was stopping Heraclea from decimating you just as she had to his other pawns?

Again, you heard the snap, and you were back in the colosseum. Rapidly you scanned your surroundings, growing more and more disorientated with each snap of his fingers that tossed you back and forth from space to space until you couldn’t tell right from left. What you could still detect was the solid surface beneath you, like those uncomfortable rigid stone benches where the audience would spectate the bloody battles.

“–– that’s the trade off. You give up your strength for twenty-four hours, specifically the next twenty-four hours, and the mortal you’ve been looking for is as free as a bird.” Idia prattled on, speaking quite rapidly whether out of habit, out of the jitters, or due to the time-crunch, but it could’ve been all three fueling his fast-talk. “I mean, you do want them safe, don’t you? That’s the mortal you’ve been looking for, isn't it? The one you’ve spotted in multiple cities, right? Sorta small and meek, the distinct horn-things they got going on there, sad little face, kinda hard to miss ‘em.”

Heraclea had been looking for you. The hero had spotted you in cities–– and the only time you were in civilization was when you were tasked to set up the disasters and accidents that the hero would come to face. Were you sloppy and was this accidental, an opportunity the Lord of the Underworld decided to take full advantage of? Or was this always his intention from the very beginning?

How many times had Heraclea spotted you to grow attached, at least enough to the extent that Idia felt he could safely bet on the hero risking her divine strength to spare you? Each moment flashed through your mind, as you dashed through alleyways and backroads, with the help of Ortho, each time setting off a disaster or a beast to challenge the hero. While Ortho had his strange metallic body which levitated and his holograms to disguise himself, you only had your own two legs to run and a cloak to conceal yourself. How many of those times of sneaking past corners, weaving through crowds, disappearing behind buildings, had Heraclea seen? So engrossed in these thoughts, that you practically missed the intense verbal exchange between the two.

While Heraclea was naive, she wasn’t downright stupid, and Idia merely wanted this to hurry along to remain on schedule.

“––What do you owe these mortals, hm? This is the mortal you’ve wanted to save! Them and their sorry eyes.” In one swift movement, Idia was beside you, his thin fingers forcing you to look straight at the protagonist.

You couldn’t scream, you couldn’t yell, you couldn’t cry. How different would this have turned out, if instead, you had risked turning to Heraclea for help in the very beginning?

Those blue eyes, the kindest blue eyes in the world, peered at you from afar. Was that pity in her eyes as she looked at you?

The god pinched your cheeks between your fingers, as he made you look at her. Really look at her, the woman which you were planning to sacrifice to save your own skin. The woman who was currently contemplating on saving you at her own expense, even if she had no idea that you had aided in the countless attempts to kill her thus far. It’s like Idia wanted you to really get a good look of her before she was gone. “Are you for real going to look straight at that miserable little face and say no? I mean, talk about a letdown. I thought you cared for them––”

“Stop it!” Cutting him off, the hero’s soft gaze at you turned to frown once she focused on the pale immortal. It only took one second. Just one second for her to cave, just as what was intended. You feared being labeled as an enemy by her, but apparently, Idia did not feel the same sort of trepidation. “Swear. Swear that they’ll be safe from any harm.”

Finally letting go, Idia shrugged nonchalantly as he slowly approached Heraclea. He didn’t plan on harming them anyways. This worked out even better than what was imagined. Now, there was absolutely no use for Meg, no need to keep him from harm when it was his own imp that had to be shielded. An imp that risked the lives of others to keep themself safe, and an imp that the Lord of the Underworld wouldn’t allow any harm to befall. “Yeah, fine, whatever. This mortal here remains safe, otherwise you get your strength right back. Everyone goes home happy. M’kay, deal?”

As soon as he outstretched his pale hand, his black-tinted fingers reaching forward, Heraclea eyed his appendage with suspicion. As if she half expected the black on his fingertips to be some sort of deadly poison that would infect her as soon as she touched his hand. Her blue eyes glanced at you for a brief moment.

“Hey, you hear me? Look, you wouldn’t get it, but I’m on a schedule. I need an answer, like, now.” For a flash, a quick moment, his normally calm blue mane appeared to spark red and flicker higher and further across his shoulders.

Again, the hero looked at you. For all she knew, you were an innocent soul held hostage by a god. Yet you were far from innocent.

“Going once.”

You were watching the valiant woman practically seal her certain doom.

“Going twice––”

A fate in which you helped form and doing nothing to stop it.

“Alright…!” Heraclea looked at her own calloused hand with apprehension, but thrust it forward before any hesitation could kick in.

As soon as their hands connected, Idia gave an eager toothy grin. You could only watch as the life and energy was practically drained out of the hero as she sank slowly to her knees like being pulled down by intense crushing gravity. As soon as they let go, it was like seeing the color fade from her. Her healthy glowing tan was reduced to an ashy almost-gray hue, her eyes dimmed as they lost their spark of energy, and she could barely even stand on her own two feet.

Idia no longer held any regard for the now simple mortal, not even sparing her so much as a glance as a wave of his fingers caused the hefty weight she had been training with, to float before crashing against her, practically tossing her to the other side of the colosseum.

You had no idea if she were alive or dead, or nearly dead but left just breathing to receive torment from the titans that would be released only momentarily. There wasn’t even any time to ask or to check her pulse, as Idia snapped and suddenly your restraints dissipated into thin air.

“See, didn’t I tell you, you get into people’s heads?” He remarked far too casually. With another snap, there was chariot-like contraption summoned.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from the rubble the hero had landed in. You waited, searching, anticipating some sort of movement. A sign of life.

“Don’t look at her anymore.” Upon seeing this, Idia frowned deeply. The tips of his fiery hair sparked warm hues, the flames growing taller and casting longer shadows. “Why are you still looking at her?” A final movement of his hand had his fingers land on your chin, keeping your head in place so his glowing eyes were peering right down at you. The worst eyes in the world. “Don’t wanna be late now, after all our hard work. If there’s anything left of Heraclea, we’ll have the titans handle the remains so there won’t even be bones to bury. You wanted this, didn’t you? Don’t let the guilt eat you alive now, not when you knew what you were getting into. Usually I’m the downer, but I don’t get why you look so shocked. I’m granting you a front row seat to this cosmic takeover biz, my Puny Little Imp.”

#twst #twisted wonderland #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst #ortho shroud #twst ortho #yandere ortho shroud #idia shroud #twst idia #yandere idia shroud #ignihyde #damnation twst au

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clockwayswrites · 2 months ago

Text

The Haunting of Danny Fenton Chapter 5, Part 2

masterpost (please no editing, still sick and now with migraine!)

“We can’t be stuck,” Danny said. He knew he was pouting, but he didn’t care. They couldn’t be stuck. Maybe his pout wasn’t even that obvious with how he was laying upside down on the couch, his legs flung over the back of it.

“Saying that again won’t solve anything,” Raven said.

“Might stop people from giving up,” Danny muttered.

Next to him, Wally sighed. “No one is giving up, Danny. We’re just… being realistic.”

Danny snorted. “Ah, yes, a carnie, two emissaries of time, a demon witch, and a half ghost sit around a room, trying to be realistic.”

“We’re not ‘emissaries of time’—wait, half ghost?” Barry asked, cutting himself off. “What do you mean half ghost? How are you a half ghost? Wait, why are you a ghost? Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Barry, you’ve worked with Deadman,” Dick pointed out, almost absently. All of his very focused attention was on Danny.

It made Danny want to squirm. “Ah. I have I not mentioned that before? I know I’ve said I died in a lab accident.”

“And that it made you a psychopomp,” Raven said dryly.

“Well, it did. I can talk to ghosts. I’m just also sorta… half one. I came back because I was killed by electricity and revived by ectoplasm at the same time. But because it was ectoplasm, not all of me came back alive. It’s complicated.”

“That… actually explains so much about the way that you feel,” Raven said. She was looking at Danny like he was a whole new puzzle to study. He didn’t like it. Immediately she gave a little shake of her head and the expression cleared. “Sorry. I would never study you without your permission. None of us would.”

“Shit, kid, of course we wouldn’t,” Barry said, sitting up from his slump. “Has… I mean…”

“Your parents are ectobiologists,” Wally said slowly, horror dawning on his face.

Danny sighed and twisted around on the couch to sit up. He rubbed at the back of his neck. “My parents never learned what I am, at least not in this timeline. But they pretty regularly hunted my hero form. I’m human like this, and I’m a ghost when I’m Phantom. There were some close calls. And my godfather, who’s like me, cloned me, so there was that whole mess. And there used to be this government organization, the GIW who were intent on studying ghosts… just it was a whole mess. There’s a reason I moved all the way across the country once I could.”

“Is the GIW gone?” Barry asked, “Because if not, I’ll bring it to the League.”

“And what about the clones? Are they somewhere safe now?” Dick asked.

“And your parents…” Raven started, softly.

Danny held up a hand. “The GIW went defunct; no results, no funding. There might be a few zealots out there still, but they don’t have any real power anymore. My parents and I… look, there’s just a lot that we don’t talk about. And the two clones that are around—the rest… destabilized—they’re actually the responsibility of my godfather. He had a… change of heart, you could say. I don’t love the guy or anything, but I trust him with them. And if he fucks up, I know they won’t just take it. Things are… they’re settled enough. It’s just how they are now.”

“Okay. But if shit hits the fan again, you let the Titans or me know, okay? I’m not kidding, I’ll bring it to the League if you need protecting,” Barry said seriously.

It was warming, really, to have an adult say that. Sure, Danny was an adult now, but like, an adulter adult. He never had that before.

“Thanks,” Danny said, eyes on the ground rather than the group of people who had quickly become his friends. “That means a lot really.”

“Okay,” Wally said after an uncomfortably quiet moment, “but what did you mean about timelines?”

“Oh, one of the Ancients, ah, think of them sort of like god or demigod ghosts, is of time. Clockwork is what he goes by now days. He likes to meddle in stuff, sends me bright green post-it notes about the fate of the world and such. The last one I got was actually warning me about my seizures,” Danny said with a little snort. “I wish I had figured that out before I had the first one.”

“Why?” Wally asked with a tilt of his head. “I’m not exactly fate of the world stuff.”

“You’re my world,” Dick cooed, hands on his heart and batting his eyes.

Wally snorted, but he had a fond look in his eyes.

Danny did his best not to laugh at them. “Dick aside, you are a Titan. You being around could be the fate of the world. Or maybe—oh.”

Everyone else in the room exchanged a look, but Danny hardly noticed. His attention was hung up on a tangle of a thought.

“…oh?” Dick prompted.

“What?” Danny shook his head. “Oh. Just ‘two emissaries of time’. It’s what I called Barry and Wally.”

“Yeah, but I told you that we’re not,” Barry said.

“Yeah, but you don’t eve believe in ghosts and I’m sitting right here,” Danny said with a dismissive wave. He got up with a little stumble and started to pace. It helped to move when he was trying to untangle things. Sure, he was a little lightheaded, but he’d deal. “It makes sense that you don’t see the Speed Force as the entity that it is.”

“He never has,” Raven said.

Danny spun and pointed a finger at her. His world tilted dangerously. “But you know what it is.”

“Danny, honey, why don’t you sit down,” Dick said.

When Danny tried to start pacing again, Dick reached out and snagged Danny by the waist. A simple little tug was enough to unbalance Danny and send him tumbling down into Dick’s lap. Obviously please with his capture, Dick wrapped his arms around Danny and rested his head on Danny’s shoulders. Danny gave a a little huff of air, but leaned back against Dick’s chest.

Raven was smiling, just barely. “I know the Speed Force is something beyond my understanding.”

“Sure, but it is something and that something is related to time,” Danny said. As he talked, he started to lean forward again. “Clockwork’s whole thing is about time! He has rewound time at least twice just for my bullshit! It makes sense that him and the Speed Force have a connection. Which means I’ve had this all wrong!”

“Danny, Danny, don’t fall off my lap,” Dick said with a tightening grip. “You can stay right here and tell us what you had all wrong.”

“This was never about me being a psychopomp!” Danny exclaimed, words slightly breathless. Dick held him a little tighter. “This is all about Clockwork being convinced that I need to be his apprentice! That’s why I can see Wally! It’s not about death, it’s about time!”

“Hey, Danny, hon, take a deep breath for me,” Dick urged. His palm tapped a rhythm against Danny’s sternum. Danny grumpily followed along, but it did help the tightening feeling in his lungs. Once Dick was satisfied with Danny’s breathing, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Danny said, “that Wally isn’t dead.”

Wally just looked bemused. “I’ve been telling you that.”

“I know, but it didn’t make sense. Now it does! Wally’s not dead, and because Wally isn’t dead,” Danny continued, “I’m not his anchor because I’m half ghost and a psychopomp. I’m his anchor because I’ve got one of Clockwork’s medallions inside me!”

Dick’s hand twitched as if he wanted to hold on to Danny’s very being. “Inside you?”

“Ghost thing.” Danny patted Dick’s hand reassuringly. “I have a cellphone in there too. And maybe a fork still? It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it matters,” Dick grumbled.

“What matters,” Danny continued blithely, “is that I know how to unstick us.”

---

AN: Barry: This is my new nephew Danny. If anything happens to him, I'm declaring war on the government and his parents.

Rest of the JL: ???

#dp x dc #thodf #danny/dick/wally #rocket fuel

648 notes · View notes

avengxrz · 6 days ago

Text

call it what it was ⁃ bradley "rooster" bradshaw

pairings: bradley "rooster" bradshaw x rival!reader (callsign: raven) word count: 26k words synopsis: you and bradley bradshaw have been in competition since day one, and you both swore you'd never fall for each other. but rivalry turns to tension, tension turns to touch, and one night changes everything, even if neither of you will admit it. warnings: enemies to lovers, angst, smut, oral sex (f!receiving), soft dom!bradley, breeding kink, unprotected sex, creampie (multiple), praise kink, light choking, semi-public setting (cabin in the woods post-crash), fingering, pussy eating (with come clean-up), rough second round, soft aftercare, emotionally vulnerable sex, cockwarming, swearing, possessive dirty talk, mention of bruises/injuries, crying (emotional not pain), implied subspace, explicit descriptions throughout. flight log: i am so sorry if the writing feels kinda shitty at times okay my brain is currently clogged with jake seresin thoughts and thirst so i had to pull myself together just to finish this lmao 😭 i swear i’ll post a hangman fic soon to get it out of my system but for now… take this messy, angsty enemies-to-lovers smut and pretend i’m not spiraling over two pilots at once 💀💛 disclaimer: my works are not made using ai. every word comes from me, my thoughts, my hands, my time. do not steal, copy, or feed my fics into ai for any reason. fuck ai and what it’s doing to creative spaces. support real writers. ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧ masterlist

You had a rule: never come second to Bradley Bradshaw.

He had one too: never let you forget the one time he did.

Unfortunately for both of you, fate had a wicked sense of humor. You were four years younger, but thanks to Captain Mitchell—callsign Maverick—and his signature stunt of grounding Rooster mid-career, you two ended up on the same cursed timeline. Same college. Same degree. Same flight academy. Same Top Gun class. A cosmic joke, really. No matter where you turned, Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw was there, swagger and all.

The rivalry was instant. Combustible. He walked into your first flight academy briefing like he owned the airspace, broad-shouldered and sun-kissed, legacy stitched into the name on his chest. You? You were the anomaly—young, precise, unnervingly calm, with eyes that didn’t flinch and a brain that ran like a well-oiled turbine. The first time he smirked at you, you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly blacked out. The first time you beat him, he stared at the results board like it had betrayed his entire bloodline.

College had been your playground—you took first place like it was your birthright. You aced every exam, outranked every classmate, including him. But at the Academy, you tied. Somehow. You were both too stubborn, too good, too fueled by the desire to eclipse the other.

The instructors didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified. Then came Top Gun, where he finally pulled ahead—barely. Rooster became top of class. You came second. And for a man who once nearly got benched over a low pass, he never let you forget it. Not for one goddamn second.

Now, at North Island, you made it your mission to fix that mistake. Every flight, every mission sim, every stat—they were yours to dominate. You made sure Rooster would always be just behind you, chasing your contrail like a dog with clipped wings. He might’ve had his moment at Top Gun, but that was history. You were the now.

You were Raven. Unmatched, unshaken, unforgiving in the air. You flew like the night—silent, fast, deadly. He was a rooster. Loud. Proud. Predictable.

But he was also the only one who ever kept up.

And maybe that’s why you hated him most of all.

The briefing room buzzed with chatter, boots scuffing polished floors, flight suits half-zipped and lazy with heat. Then your name was called. Raven. Clear, sharp, no hesitation. You rose, indifferent. A few heads turned—Payback raised a brow, Halo smirked. And then—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Bradley muttered under his breath.

You didn’t even look at him. Just smiled, slow and mean, like a blade being unsheathed.

“Miss me, sunshine?” you asked, sauntering past him, your shoulder nearly brushing his. You didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact, but you could feel his glare burning between your shoulder blades like heat from an afterburner.

He followed you out of the room, jaw clenched, strides long enough to keep pace. The second you rounded the corner into the hall, his voice snapped like tension wire.

“Don’t act like this is a surprise,” he said, tone sharp. “They always bring in the second-best to make the top guy look better.”

You stopped in your tracks, slow and deliberate, then turned on your heel. “Funny,” you said, crossing your arms. “I didn’t realize they needed dead weight to make a mission more impressive.”

Bradley scoffed, stepping closer. “You’ve always had that mouth on you. Maybe if you spent half as much time refining your maneuvers as you do sharpening your insults, you’d actually stay on top.”

Meanwhile, you tilted your head and smiled like it was your favorite game. “Maybe if you didn’t fly like a billboard for daddy issues, you’d stop ending up right behind me.”

He laughed, cold and humorless. “Right. That’s why I was first at Top Gun. Remind me again what that felt like, Raven. Oh wait—you wouldn’t know.”

For a moment, the hallway pulsed with silence. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. You simply leaned in a fraction and said, voice low and lethal, “One time. You got me once. The rest? I’ve owned you. And you know it.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, hands clenched into fists at his sides. There was always this thing with him—this righteous anger, this fury that you existed as proof that he wasn’t untouchable. That someone younger, sharper, hungrier had clawed her way to the same sky he thought belonged to him.

Then, just to twist the knife, you added, “Besides, we both know why you were held back. Daddy’s friend clipped your wings for a reason.”

His face darkened instantly. You saw it happen—like cloud cover swallowing sunlight. For a second, you wondered if he’d say something that couldn’t be unsaid. But instead, he smiled. Wide. Mocking.

“You can keep circling me all you want, Raven,” he said, “but just like every other bird in the sky, you’ll always be in my rearview.”

You leaned back, slow and measured. “Rearview’s a funny word coming from someone who keeps eating my dust.”

Before he could answer, a voice crackled through the overhead comms, summoning you both to the hangar. You turned without waiting for him, boots striking the floor like a countdown. The mission hadn’t even started yet, but the war?

It never ended.

The hangar doors yawned open as you stepped into the sun-bleached space, the scent of jet fuel thick in the air. Mechanics moved like ghosts in the distance, but the tension followed you like a storm. Rooster trailed just a few paces behind, boots heavy, presence louder than it needed to be. You could feel him watching your back, and it made your jaw clench.

“So what’s the play, Raven?” he called, his voice echoing too loud in the hangar. “You gonna try and pull rank again? Talk your way into lead position like you always do?”

You stopped and spun to face him, expression flat but eyes flashing. “I don’t talk my way into shit, Bradshaw. I earn it. Every time. Just because you think walking around with your chest puffed out counts as qualification doesn’t mean the rest of us are buying it.”

He barked a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You really believe your own bullshit, huh? That little fantasy where you’re better than me?”

“I don’t believe it,” you snapped, taking a step closer. “I know it.”

Bradley shook his head, scoffing as he looked away, hands on his hips like he needed somewhere to put all that arrogance. “God, you’re exhausting. Everything’s always a fucking competition with you.”

“Because it is,” you shot back, refusing to give ground. “Because every time I’ve had to prove myself, it’s been with you breathing down my neck, waiting for me to slip.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been coming for me since day one.”

“Because you needed to be taken down a peg!”

His head tilted back, laugh harsh, almost wild. “Right, and you’re the one to do it? Just because you flew cleaner in college? Congrats, you were good at theory and simulations. Try doing it with real pressure.”

“I have, Bradshaw,” you said through clenched teeth. “I’ve done the same shit you’ve done, sometimes better, with less time, less backup, and half the fucking grace you were handed. But I guess it’s easier for you to pretend I’m just riding some lucky streak than admit I might actually be better.”

“Better?” he repeated, scoffing. “You’re a pain in the ass with an attitude problem. You think that makes you elite?”

Meanwhile, your blood boiled, fists clenching at your sides. “You think your fucking legacy makes you better than me? You think Maverick grounding you was the worst thing that ever happened to you? Grow the hell up.”

That one hit—his expression flickered, just for a second. Then he stepped into your space, chest brushing yours, heat rolling off him in waves. His voice dropped, quieter but sharper. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

You didn’t flinch. “I know you’ve been chasing my tail for the last year and pretending it’s the other way around.”

He let out a slow exhale, biting down on the inside of his cheek before replying. “You really are a piece of work.”

“And you really are full of shit,” you said coolly, before turning back toward your jet. “Now get the hell out of my way before I make you look bad. Again.”

You didn’t look back as you walked, but you could feel him seething behind you—burning alive in the wake of your calm. It wasn’t over. It never was.

By the time you reached the rest of the squad, the hangar had started to hum with pre-flight motion. Cyclone’s voice echoed faintly from the tower, and jets glinted under the California sun like loaded promises.

Maverick stood by the briefing screen, arms crossed, aviators on, wearing that smug little expression that made people nervous for reasons they didn’t understand. You’d known him long enough to know he saw everything—especially tension.

Phoenix spotted you first, nudging Bob, who followed her line of sight and visibly tensed when Rooster appeared just a few steps behind you. You didn’t need to see him to feel it—his heat, his scowl, the way his energy invaded whatever space you claimed. It was always like that. He never learned how to stay in his own lane.

Maverick raised an eyebrow behind his shades. “Raven. Rooster. Something I should know about?”

You smiled without warmth. “No, sir. Just friendly conversation.”

Rooster made a noise under his breath. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”

The others exchanged glances. Payback leaned over to Coyote, muttering something with a grin. Fanboy just mouthed yikes behind his coffee cup. Even Phoenix, unbothered as ever, gave you a look that said, Again?

Maverick didn’t react—at least, not outwardly. He gave you both a slow once-over, like he was mentally calculating how much damage this would cause in the air. “Glad to see the team’s spirit is alive and well,” he said dryly, then gestured toward the screen. “Briefing starts now. Save the pissing contest for after wheels-up.”

You and Bradley moved to opposite ends of the lineup like magnets flipped the wrong way. You didn’t speak, but the air between you practically crackled. Meanwhile, Maverick clicked through the tactical overview, the tone of his voice calm, efficient, utterly detached.

You tried to focus on the mission—two-man formation drills, low-altitude flyby over rough terrain, testing out a new maneuver pattern—but you could feel Rooster’s eyes burning holes into the side of your skull.

Then Maverick added, almost casually, “And for this run, Raven’s in lead. Rooster, you’re her wing.”

You turned your head just enough to see Rooster stiffen like someone had just punched him in the ribs. Phoenix let out a soft, almost-silent “oh shit.”

Rooster didn’t say anything. Not at first. But when Maverick moved on to the next slide, he muttered, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Maverick looked up. “Problem, Lieutenant?”

Rooster’s jaw was tight. “No, sir.”

You didn’t gloat. Not outwardly. But your smile curled at the edges as you reached for your helmet. “Try to keep up, Rooster,” you said lightly. “Wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

He met your gaze for half a second. No smile. Just pure defiance.

“I don’t follow birds that don’t know where they’re going,” he said, voice low.

You stepped closer, just enough for only him to hear. “Good thing I always fly straight,” you said, voice cool. “Unlike you.”

Phoenix cleared her throat loudly, dragging both your attentions back to the room. Maverick sighed and looked at the ceiling like he was reconsidering every life choice that brought him to this moment.

“Get suited,” he said. “You’ve got thirty minutes. If one of you ends up on the deck, I swear I’ll ground you both.”

You turned on your heel and headed for the lockers, pulse already spiking. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

The sky over North Island was clear, cloudless, unforgiving. Your F/A-18 roared as it sliced through the open blue, a beast of steel and fire. The mission was textbook—paired formation runs through low-altitude terrain, staying tight through simulated enemy radar zones. Easy. If it weren’t for the jackass flying just behind your six.

“Raven, your spacing’s off,” Rooster’s voice came through the comms, smooth and sharp like the edge of a scalpel. “You banking left on purpose or just showing off again?”

You rolled your eyes behind the visor and adjusted slightly. “I’d rather show off than fly like a damn drunk pelican. Tighten your spread, Rooster. You’re lagging.”

“Instructor’s notes say I fly clean,” he shot back, heat in his tone. “Can’t help it if you’re allergic to standard formation.”

Meanwhile, Phoenix’s voice cut in, low and dry. “Jesus. You two even breathe without arguing?”

Up ahead, Payback and Fanboy were leading the other two jets in the diamond formation, keeping it tight, professional. Phoenix and Bob flew to your right flank. Coyote and Hangman trailed just behind. Everyone could hear everything, and everyone was listening.

“Copy that, Phoenix,” Bob chimed in, soft and painfully neutral. “We’re all just trying to maintain situational awareness... and peace.”

You smirked, then dipped slightly under a thermal draft, riding the shift like it was part of the plan. “Peace is overrated.”

Rooster cursed under his breath, but it still crackled through. “This is why no one likes flying with you.”

“Correction,” you replied smoothly, flipping a switch with practiced ease as the canyon loomed ahead. “No one likes flying behind me. Because it’s hard to keep up.”

He came in tighter behind you, clearly ignoring Maverick’s earlier warning. His jet loomed just under your tail, too close for protocol. You felt it, a breath behind you. He was pushing. Testing. Typical.

“You keep flying that cocky,” he said, “and you’re gonna eat dirt when your ego clips a ridge.”

You grinned, fingers steady on the throttle. “And you keep flying that close, Rooster, and we’ll be making out mid-air.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone kissed your ass,” he muttered.

“Wouldn’t be the first time you wanted to,” you fired back, before switching channels to direct comms with command. “Raven to tower. Approaching waypoint delta. Beginning canyon descent.”

“Copy that, Raven,” came the response. “Maintain current heading and spacing.”

“See that, Goldilocks?” you said, flicking a glance down at your HUD. “Command likes what they see.”

Rooster exhaled a sharp breath. “You always gotta have the last word?”

You banked into the descent, steady and surgical, skimming the canyon’s edge with textbook precision. “Only when I’m right.”

Above, Hangman crackled in. “This banter’s fun and all, but maybe save it for the locker room, lovebirds?”

You and Rooster answered at the same time.

“Shut up, Bagman.”

Hangman laughed. “Damn. Synchronized now. Should we be worried?”

But you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Because Rooster had just slipped too close again—his wing tip flirting with danger.

“Rooster,” you snapped, jaw tight, “back the fuck off. This isn’t a measuring contest.”

He didn’t answer. Just flew tighter. Closer. Like he needed to prove something, even if it got one of you grounded—or worse.

Meanwhile, your heartbeat was steady, trained. But somewhere under that cool surface, your blood ran hot. You weren’t sure if you wanted to punch him, or kill him straight through the cockpit glass.

The canyon narrowed, rock walls rising like jagged fangs on either side. Your jet sliced through the gut of it with surgical grace, the throttles singing under your palms. You kept your altitude steady—ten feet off the deck, your usual. You’d flown this exact run a dozen times. Hell, you could probably do it blindfolded. But what you couldn’t account for was the hot-blooded maniac on your six.

“Rooster, tighten up your line, not your ego,” you said, eyes flicking from the HUD to the terrain ahead. “You’re drifting into my slipstream.”

“I’ve got you,” he replied, voice clipped. “Relax.”

“I am relaxed,” you muttered, adjusting pitch. “You're the one treating this like a dick-measuring contest.”

Then it happened.

A gust slammed down between the walls of the canyon—stronger than forecasted, bouncing turbulence off the stone like a ricochet. You adjusted instantly, compensating with a small bank right. Textbook correction. Nothing unusual.

Except Rooster didn’t bank.

He tried to stay locked on your six, tried to match your move before committing to it. And that half-second of hesitation? That goddamn stubborn pride? It nearly killed you both.

His jet suddenly surged forward, nose rising fast—way too close.

“Rooster, break off!” you barked, voice sharp through the comms.

But it was too late.

You caught the shift in your peripheral as his wingtip skimmed under your tail. A hair’s breadth more and he would’ve ripped off your stabilizer and sent you tumbling into the rock wall. Your entire jet jolted from the force of his jetwash, alarms screaming in your cockpit like banshees.

“Raven’s bird just caught turbulence—she’s banking hard!” Payback’s voice cracked through the channel, panic loud under the surface.

Your heart shot into your throat as your jet dipped, the nose dropping below safety altitude. A rock outcropping loomed ahead, coming up fast.

You reacted without thinking.

“Raven, pull up!” Bob shouted.

“Shit—I know!” you growled back, already wrenching the stick toward you, throttles screaming as your engines strained under the forced climb. G-forces slammed into your chest like a freight train. Vision blurred. You gritted your teeth and pulled.

The jet screamed upward just in time, skimming the ridge by a whisper. Dust and grit splattered across your canopy as your bird barely cleared the stone.

“Holy shit,” Coyote breathed. “She cleared it by, like, five feet—maybe.”

“Raven, report,” Maverick’s voice cut in, all steel and control.

You panted into the comms, throat dry. “Bird’s stable. Nose got pulled. I’m recovering.”

Meanwhile, your hands shook on the controls, but you held them firm. You’d trained for turbulence. You’d trained for emergency pull-ups. What you hadn’t trained for was flying with someone who’d rather risk a mid-air collision than admit he was tailing too close.

“Rooster, what the hell was that?” Phoenix snapped, tone biting.

“She dipped early,” Rooster argued, but his voice lacked conviction now—he’d seen it, felt it too. He knew.

“Bullshit,” Hangman cut in, sharp. “That was your nose in her business. You clipped her wash and threw off her bird. That could’ve been a fucking fireball.”

There was a beat of silence. Even the sky felt quieter.

Maverick’s voice came in next, low and tight. “Both of you—return to base. Now. Rest of you continue the run. Rooster, you’re grounded until further notice. Raven, if your jet checks out, I want you back in the air tomorrow. We’ll debrief when you land.”

You didn’t answer. Not right away. You were too busy breathing like you’d just sprinted through hell. Then, finally, you keyed your mic.

“Copy that, Tower. Raven returning to base.”

You didn’t wait for Rooster’s response. You pulled out of the canyon, climbed until the sky opened up above you again, and pointed your jet back toward the tarmac.

Your chest was still tight. Not from the Gs. From the rage.

And somewhere in your peripheral radar, Bradley Bradshaw followed behind—silent, for once. For now.

The moment your boots hit the tarmac, the squad was on you like flies to a flame. Phoenix was first, jogging over with her helmet still under her arm, eyes wide and sharp. Bob followed close behind, saying your callsign like it was a prayer. Hangman whistled low, muttering something about how you’d threaded a needle no one else could’ve even seen. Payback gave you a once-over like he wasn’t convinced you were whole. They were circling you, their voices overlapping—questions, jokes, concern wrapped in sarcasm—but you barely registered the words.

“I said I’m fine,” you snapped, more sharply than intended. Your voice cut through the noise like a knife, slicing off their momentum. “Back off.”

Phoenix raised her hands and took a step back. “Alright, alright, damn.”

Jake, surprisingly, didn’t say a word. He just fell in beside you, not smirking, not preening. His usual charm was stripped away, replaced with something quieter. Steadier. He kept pace with you all the way into the building, only speaking once the others peeled off toward the locker rooms.

“You scared the shit outta me, Raven,” he said, not teasing—just honest.

You didn’t answer. Your jaw was clenched so tight it felt like your teeth would crack.

The debriefing room was cold with recycled air and tension. You took your usual seat in the front row, closest to the screen. Jake sat beside you without asking, elbows on knees, unusually still. The rest of the team filed in slowly, murmurs low and clipped. Every eye flicked toward the door, waiting for Rooster. He wasn’t there. Not yet. Of course not. Coward.

Then, finally, the door opened.

Maverick stepped in first, posture stiff with restrained disappointment. Behind him came Bradley Bradshaw, helmet tucked under his arm, face unreadable except for the tightness in his jaw and the guilt he couldn’t quite mask.

He didn’t look at you at first. He looked at Maverick. Then the team. Then, finally, at you. His eyes dragged across your face and landed on the bruised pride you wore like armor. And when he rolled his eyes?

You nearly launched across the table and throttled him.

“Sit down,” Maverick ordered, voice cold. Rooster obeyed with a grunt, slumping into the chair across from you and Jake. The tension in the room turned solid. Jake shifted slightly, as if to anchor you, but still didn’t speak. That silence of his said more than a monologue.

Maverick didn’t waste time.

“What happened today was unacceptable. Every single one of you should know better. Formation flying isn’t a suggestion—it’s doctrine. But what I saw out there?” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “Was ego flying your birds, not discipline.”

He turned his gaze directly to you and Rooster, pinning both of you under the weight of his scrutiny. “You two should know better than anyone. You’ve flown long enough. You’ve trained longer than most of the people in this room. And that kind of reckless behavior could’ve gotten someone killed.”

“Oh, what, so now it’s both our faults?” you cut in, voice sharp enough to slice metal. Jake’s head tilted slightly toward you, but he didn’t interrupt.

Maverick’s gaze flicked to you, then back to Rooster. “I’m not here to take sides—”

“No?” you snapped. “Because it kinda sounds like you are. Maybe it’s easier for you to scold me and keep coddling your golden boy.”

Across from you, Rooster let out a harsh breath. “Here we fucking go.”

You didn’t even look at him. “You almost killed me today, Bradshaw.”

“It was turbulence!” he barked.

“It was your damn pride!” you shouted back, finally turning to face him fully. “You pushed too close, flew too tight, ignored protocol—and for what? To prove that you can ride my ass in the air too?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snapped, standing suddenly.

You stood too. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see my bird drop because of you. You nearly sent me into a goddamn mountain!”

“Enough!” Maverick’s voice boomed over both of you, but you weren’t finished. Not even close.

“Oh, what, am I not supposed to yell?” you threw back, arms wide. “Am I supposed to keep my mouth shut while your precious godson puts me in a body bag?”

“He didn’t mean to—”

“Intent doesn’t mean shit when I’m a split-second from crashing,” you bit out.

Rooster’s voice cracked, rough around the edges now. “You think I wanted that to happen?”

“No,” you hissed, leaning over the table, “I think you didn’t care enough not to.”

“You think I didn’t care?” Rooster snapped, his voice pitching just enough to crack under the fury he was barely keeping leashed. “You think I was just joyriding behind you for the hell of it?”

You leaned across the table, heat boiling up your throat, too fast to stop. “You weren’t flying like someone who gives a shit, Bradshaw! You were flying like someone who wanted to prove a point more than he wanted to finish the fucking mission!”

Phoenix stood up, eyes flicking between you both. “Okay, both of you, just—take a second.”

“I don’t need a second,” you barked, shrugging off her voice like static. “I need him to own what he did instead of throwing out excuses like a goddamn child.”

Rooster stood again, pushing the chair back with a screech against the floor. “Excuse me for not rolling over and letting you win like everyone else does. But we all know you love being the only one with teeth.”

“And we all know you love being Maverick’s little shadow,” you spat, unable to stop. “Flying with that name stitched to your chest like it’s supposed to mean something. Like it makes you fucking untouchable.”

“Hey!” Maverick barked from the head of the room, finally standing too. “Watch it.”

You whipped toward him, all the restraint you had left crumbling like ash. “No. You watch it. Because every time he screws up, you’re right there ready to sweep it under the rug like it’s not your own guilt bleeding all over the rest of us.”

“Raven, enough—” Jake said, voice low, hand starting to reach for your arm, but you weren’t hearing anyone anymore.

“Is that what this is, Rooster?” you sneered, turning back to him. “Trying to earn back the ghost of a man who’s never coming back?”

His face changed instantly—color draining, jaw tightening, fists curling so tight his knuckles went white. The silence was deafening. You saw it. You felt it. The moment your words sliced through something far deeper than ego.

“Don’t you dare—” he started, but his voice broke.

But you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? You almost killed me just to hear someone say your name louder than his. You want the legacy so bad, you’re choking on it.”

Rooster’s chair flew back as he stood so fast it clattered to the floor. “Shut the fuck up!”

You stepped forward, fists curled, ready. “Or what, you gonna finish what you started and crash me into a wall on foot this time?”

“Bradshaw, stand down!” Maverick shouted, cutting across the room, but Rooster didn’t budge. His chest was heaving, eyes wild, like he was one second from lunging.

Jake was already on you, stepping in, grabbing your arms, pulling you back hard. “Hey—hey! Raven, stand down. You’ve said enough—”

“Let go of me!” you snarled, trying to wrench out of his grip.

“Not happening,” Jake bit out, arms locked around you like a vise. “You are not throwing hands in a damn debrief.”

Meanwhile, Payback and Coyote had moved toward Rooster, corralling him back toward his chair. He was seething, hands trembling, lips pressed into a line so tight it looked like it hurt to keep them shut. But his eyes never left yours. They burned with something worse than rage.

Betrayal.

“You crossed the fucking line,” Rooster said hoarsely, voice shaking.

You glared right back. “Then draw a new one. One where you don’t almost kill me, maybe.”

Maverick slammed his hand on the desk, making everyone flinch. “That’s enough! Both of you—outside. Now. Separate hangars. I don’t care. I don’t want to see either of your faces until you’ve cooled the hell down.”

But your eyes were still locked with Rooster’s. Your pulse was still thunder. Your lungs were still catching fire.

This wasn’t over.

You didn’t even realize you were moving until the words shot out of your mouth like a bullet.

“Fuck you, Bradshaw. I hope the next time you wanna prove something, you crash into a fucking mirror instead of me.”

And then you were gone—out of the debriefing room, the door slamming behind you with enough force to rattle the hinges. Your boots struck the hallway floor with clipped, sharp steps, each one a punch against the storm still raging in your chest. You didn’t care if they were watching. You didn’t care if Maverick shouted after you. You didn’t care if Rooster burned in that seat until the damn sun exploded.

Somewhere behind you, you heard another pair of footsteps—slower, steadier. Jake.

You didn’t turn around.

“Raven,” he called, voice quieter now, less Hangman and more Jake. “Just—wait.”

You stopped, just outside the locker room, shoulders rising and falling like your body was still inside that cockpit, still gripping the stick, still moments from being scattered across canyon walls. Then you said, without turning around, “Back off, Jake. I swear to God.”

There was a pause. Then silence. He listened. You heard his steps fade away.

You pushed the locker room door open with your shoulder and stepped inside like you were walking into a war zone. No one else was there yet. Good. You didn’t want witnesses.

Then, without hesitation, you slammed your helmet down on the bench, popped open your locker, and hurled your gloves inside with a force that knocked your flight logs to the floor. Your hands were trembling. Not in fear—no, never in fear—but in that tight, brittle way adrenaline bites into your nerves after it’s done keeping you alive. Like your body didn’t know what to do with the leftover electricity.

You leaned forward, bracing both hands on the edge of the open locker door, breathing hard. The metal was cold beneath your fingers. Grounding. Anchoring. It helped. Barely.

Meanwhile, your brain was spinning like your jet had never landed. The flash of canyon walls, the shriek of alarms, the sudden loss of lift—the drop. It had been seconds. Maybe less. But you remembered the exact shape of that ridge. The color of the stone. The moment your bird’s nose dipped and you felt gravity claw at your ribs like it wanted to drag your bones into the dirt. You remembered the way your breath had caught in your throat—not fear, not exactly. Just... reality. The sharp, clear realization that you were seconds from dying. Again.

Because you knew what that felt like. Too well. Once was enough, but it had never just been once. You had survived things people didn’t walk away from. Your body carried it in the twitch of your fingers, in the steel in your spine, in the way you never flinched when the world tilted on its axis.

But this? This one had been close.

You stared into the dark metal of your locker like it might give you answers. Then you blinked. Once. Twice. No tears fell. You wouldn’t let them. Not here. Not for him. Your throat was tight, your chest burning—but you kept your eyes dry, kept your face hard, and forced the storm to stay where it belonged: behind your teeth.

No one would see you break. Especially not him.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, forehead nearly touching the inside of your locker, chest still heaving like you’d run a goddamn marathon with your ribcage on fire. Your gloves were on the floor. Your gear was half-stripped. Your thoughts were a mess of sharp edges you couldn’t dull.

The door creaked open again, and for a second, your body tensed, bracing for Rooster—maybe another round, maybe more yelling, maybe just the final straw that would push you into swinging.

But it wasn’t him.

“Hey,” came the soft voice. Bob.

You didn’t look at him, just let your eyes close for half a second. Then you muttered, “If you’re here to play mediator, don’t.”

“I’m not,” he said simply, like truth was the easiest thing in the world. “I just... wanted to check.”

You sighed, finally turning your head toward him. He looked like he didn’t want to take up space. Like he was trying to shrink himself smaller than usual—which was saying something. In his hands were a water bottle and a small protein bar. Classic Bob move.

You blinked at the offering. “What is this? A bribe to keep me from committing murder?”

“Maybe,” he said, gently stepping forward and placing the items on the bench beside you. “Though if you do murder him, I’ll deny I helped you hydrate first.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding escaped your nose—something half a laugh, half a bitter huff. “God, Bob. I want to kill him. I want to break his nose. Then shove him into an afterburner and salute his crispy ass.”

Bob gave a small shrug. “I mean, I wouldn’t stop you, but we’d definitely lose flight privileges.”

That time, the laugh came easier. Small, tired, but real. You sank down onto the bench and grabbed the water, unscrewing the cap with shaking fingers you hoped he didn’t notice. He didn’t mention it. He just sat beside you, close but not crowding, presence warm and grounding like a campfire on a cold night.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then you took a small bite of the bar, swallowed hard, and said lowly, “He almost killed me, Bob. Like—not just ‘oh no, I might’ve lost the lead’—like dead. Stone-cold, splattered-on-a-rock, body-bag kind of dead.”

Bob nodded slowly, like he understood without needing to say much. “I know.”

“And he just rolled his eyes in the debrief,” you went on, voice rising slightly. “Like I was being dramatic. Like my life is a fucking inconvenience to his ego.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. Then, carefully, he shifted just enough to let your shoulder touch his. You let it. You didn’t lean, not at first. But a few seconds passed, and your body moved on instinct—slowly lowering your head until it rested on his shoulder, the flight suit crinkling under your cheek. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just sat there, letting you exist next to him, like he knew you were holding too much in and didn’t want to make you carry it alone.

“I would’ve pulled you out of that canyon myself if I had to,” Bob said after a long pause, voice low, sincere. “Just so you know. You’re not alone up there. Not with us.”

You blinked once. Twice. The tears didn’t fall, but they were close—burning behind your eyes like smoke after a crash. Still, you didn’t cry. You wouldn’t give the universe that satisfaction.

“Thanks, Bob,” you said eventually, voice quiet. “But next time... just keep a shovel ready. I might need to bury a body.”

He gave a soft chuckle. “Noted. I’ll bring gloves.”

The next morning, the hangar smelled like jet fuel, old coffee, and the kind of silence that followed a storm no one wanted to mention. You walked in with your flight suit already zipped, collar stiff, hair twisted into a no-nonsense knot that screamed do not even try me today. Your helmet dangled from your hand, your boots hit the floor in a rhythm as sharp as your jawline, and no one—not even Hangman—said a damn word.

The squad was already gathered near the whiteboard, Maverick standing at the front with a marker in hand. His expression was unreadable, which was somehow worse than when he looked disappointed. You caught Phoenix’s eye for half a second. She gave a small nod—acknowledgment, maybe apology, maybe just quiet respect—and then looked away. No one mentioned yesterday. Not directly.

Jake glanced your way but said nothing. He was back to his usual lean-against-the-wall posture, arms crossed, chewing on a toothpick like it might keep him from talking too much. But his eyes tracked you, subtle and steady, like he was waiting to see whether you were made of steel or glass today. You didn’t flinch. You were both.

Meanwhile, Bob stood close to Phoenix, but he offered a small smile when you passed by him, a silent reassurance that hadn’t dulled overnight. You took the spot next to him, brushing his sleeve briefly with your shoulder—not on purpose, not for comfort, just a quiet thank-you that didn’t need words.

Rooster was already seated. Of course he was. Head slightly bowed, hands resting on his knees like he thought playing the calm card would earn him moral high ground. You didn’t even glance in his direction. He didn’t deserve your eyes.

Maverick cleared his throat, bringing the squad to attention. “Today we’re running mixed pair maneuvers. You’ll rotate partners mid-air. Simulating damage, loss of communication, change in command. You don’t get to pick who’s in your backseat or on your wing.”

The room shifted slightly—spines straightening, glances darting. A tactical shake-up. You knew what this was. A reset. A forced one.

Then, Maverick looked straight at you. “Raven, you’ll start with Coyote. Rooster, you’re with Payback. We’ll rotate in pairs after two passes. Got it?”

You gave a single nod. Coyote grinned and bumped your shoulder as you walked past. “Try not to show me up too hard, ace.”

“Just try to keep up, cowboy,” you said without smiling.

As the briefing wrapped up, Maverick called after the group. “And Raven—hang back a minute.”

Your stomach tensed, but you didn’t let it show. You waited until the rest had filed out, until it was just you, Maverick, and the weight of yesterday hanging like fog in the room.

He crossed his arms, staring at you like he was searching for the right thread to pull. “You need to get your head back in the cockpit.”

“My head never left the cockpit,” you said sharply. “Ask anyone. My bird’s fine. My flying’s fine.”

“But you’re not fine,” he said, voice firm. “And I’m not gonna pretend like I didn’t hear what you said yesterday.”

You met his gaze, jaw clenched. “What part? The truth?”

Maverick didn’t blink. “I get it. You were pissed. He was reckless. But there’s a line, Raven, and you flirted with the edge of it. Don’t let your anger compromise your control.”

You inhaled deeply, exhaling through your nose. Then you muttered, “I almost died yesterday. You telling me to smile through it now?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m telling you not to let him take more from you than he already almost did.”

You didn’t respond. You just nodded once—sharp, cool, finished. Then you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, already rolling your shoulders back, already bracing for the weight of the sky.

The sun had barely burned through the coastal haze by the time you and Coyote taxied out onto the runway. The sky was wide and blue and blinding. You pulled your oxygen mask into place with a practiced snap, eyes flicking over the instruments with calm, clinical rhythm. Everything read green. No faults. No noise. Just the low hum of your own heartbeat reminding you that this time, you were in control.

“Raven, Coyote—cleared for takeoff. Tower requests altitude cap at twenty-five hundred ‘til cleared past traffic,” the voice crackled in your comms.

“Copy, Tower,” Coyote replied, his tone light despite the stiffness you could hear under it. “Raven, you good?”

“Affirm,” you said, adjusting your throttle. “Wheels up in five.”

You rolled down the tarmac in perfect sync, your jets carving twin shadows over the concrete like two wolves in lockstep. The second your wheels left the ground, you pulled into a clean climb, leveling at twenty-five hundred just as the tower cleared you to push to flight level 180. You and Coyote settled into your holding pattern while Payback and Rooster joined formation from the west, flying tight, their vector steady. The sky was quiet but tense, the kind of hush that makes your skin crawl.

“Alright, team,” Maverick’s voice came over the squadron channel, steady and clear. “You’ll run the switch maneuver on my mark. Raven, you’ll initiate. After break, Rooster’s team takes lead.”

You tapped twice on the yoke, hands steady. “Copy, Raven ready.”

“Coyote, ready.”

“Payback ready.”

There was a long pause before Rooster’s voice cut in. “Rooster. Ready.”

You ignored the way his voice landed in your ear like a knife pressed flat against skin. Not cutting—just reminding you it was still there.

Maverick continued. “At the break, Raven and Rooster trade wingmen. Simulate a failed comms link mid-run. Visual confirmation only.”

You took in a slow breath. Visual confirmation. No radios. Just hand signals and formation cues. You hated that. You hated giving him any reason to get that close again.

“Three. Two. One. Break.”

You peeled hard left as Coyote shot right, engines screaming as the two teams split and crossed, the mid-air ballet executed in a clean, sharp arc. You banked until you saw Payback fall into position behind your jet, his angle crisp, his nose tucked right where it should be. From your peripheral, you caught Rooster sliding in near Coyote, just as planned.

The maneuver was smooth. Technical. Precise. But your hands were still tense on the stick, muscles locked, ready for anything. Rooster’s recklessness lived like a ghost in the back of your skull—no matter how clean the flight looked on radar, you remembered what it felt like to almost not land.

You kept your eyes forward, scanning the terrain below. The simulated enemy radar was mapped across the ridges like invisible tripwires. You adjusted trim slightly and gave a quick flare of your tail fins—a signal to Payback to tighten up. He responded instantly, his jet tucking in.

Meanwhile, the comms remained quiet. Everyone knew the drill. No chatter unless you were shot down or spotted something. The silence felt louder today.

You dove low, cutting through the ravine like you were threading a needle, banking left, right, then pulling into a quick climb that pressed Gs down your spine. The F/A-18 held steady beneath you like a trusted blade. This bird never failed you. Only people did.

Then you glanced up—just for a second—and spotted Coyote and Rooster in a mirrored maneuver above you, their jets banking to intercept the simulated radar arc from the south. You couldn’t hear his voice, but you knew Rooster was barking orders in his cockpit, probably overcorrecting just to feel like he had control. It made your jaw clench.

You turned back to your own run, preparing for the next switch. In ninety seconds, you’d be paired with him. You’d have to fly side by side, nose to nose, wing to wing. No barriers. No separation. Just muscle memory and fury.

Your breathing deepened, steady, mechanical. You could do this. You had to do this

The timer ticked down in your HUD, blinking red: SWITCH IN 00:05:00.

You steadied your grip, knuckles white beneath your gloves. Payback gave a short signal—a flash of his wingtip—then peeled off smoothly to the left, heading toward Coyote to complete the partner rotation. You eased into a right bank, leveling out just in time for Rooster to slide into place beside you.

His jet hovered there, too close for comfort, too perfect to be accidental. He was making a point, probably trying to prove he could fly tight without clipping you this time. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t even twitch. You just locked into formation, spacing at textbook distance, throttle adjusted by instinct.

“Visual confirm,” Maverick’s voice crackled over the channel, watching from above like a hawk. “Raven, Rooster—you’re now a pair. Complete the radar sweep together, then punch vertical for final maneuver.”

You didn’t answer. You just toggled your comms twice—your silent acknowledgment.

Rooster’s jet matched your speed. Matched your pitch. Matched everything. It made your skin crawl.

Meanwhile, the canyon ahead narrowed, and you dipped into it first, leading the dance. Rooster followed, your jet casting a brief shadow across his canopy before the sunlight hit again. You descended quickly, just feet off the deck, your altimeter screaming warnings you ignored out of muscle memory. He stayed close.

Too close.

The bastard was mirroring you exactly, like a reflection you couldn’t shake. You pulled left to test him, dipping toward the ridge. He followed, perfect. Then you spun right, sharp, watching him catch the roll just a millisecond behind.

He was trying to prove something. That he could match you. That yesterday meant nothing.

It made your blood boil.

You flared your speed brakes for a heartbeat, forcing a tiny gap between your jets, then surged forward again. Rooster matched the move again—but this time, a little slower. You caught it. You knew he’d flinched.

“Altitude drop in ten seconds. Hard bank left. I’ll take point,” you finally said, breaking radio silence.

There was a pause. Then his voice cut in—calm, too calm.

“Copy. Following your lead.”

You wanted to scream. That tone. Like he hadn’t almost sent you to your death. Like this was just another drill.

Instead, you dove.

Your jet dropped fast, gravity grabbing you with open arms. You leveled just above the ridge line and sliced through the simulated radar zone like a blade. Rooster followed, sharp and silent.

Then, suddenly, he shot forward—too fast, closing the gap again. Your proximity alarms chirped.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you growled into the comms, forgetting the protocol.

“Helping you finish the run,” he shot back, voice like gravel.

You grit your teeth so hard your molars ached. “You want to help me, Bradshaw? Try not being glued to my goddamn ass.”

“You want distance? Say the word. I’ll give you miles.”

Your hand hovered near the throttle, tempted—so tempted—to punch forward and leave him in the dust. But you couldn’t. Not with Maverick watching. Not with the mission clock ticking down.

So you stayed. Tight. Focused.

The final maneuver was a vertical climb followed by a snap roll, simulating a break from enemy lock. You hit the climb first, engines roaring, Gs pushing down on your spine like a tidal wave. Your stomach dipped, your blood felt like static, and for a split second the sky narrowed to tunnel vision. But your hands never wavered.

Rooster was still with you—slightly off angle now. Probably realizing too late that you were willing to fly higher, faster, and harder just to get away from him.

You broke off after the maneuver, wings leveling above the clouds. Rooster pulled up beside you, but you didn’t turn.

You just stared forward, lips pressed into a thin line, heart hammering like war drums in your chest.

This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Landing procedures were routine—at least, they were supposed to be.

You kept it textbook. Your descent was smooth, airspeed clean, alignment perfect. Rooster was still flying your wing, and you could feel it like a pressure on your neck, like a weight on the back of your helmet that wouldn't lift until the wheels were down and you were clear of him. He said nothing over the comms, and you didn’t even acknowledge his presence. The tower guided you in, and you hit the deck like a damn professional, your bird settling onto the tarmac with grace you didn’t feel.

“Raven, cleared taxi Bravo to North Ramp,” came the controller’s voice. You responded with a clipped, “Copy,” and turned toward the line, watching the ground crew marshal you in with orange batons and dead eyes. The moment your canopy popped, the sound of the engine winding down filled your ears like a slow exhale, but it didn’t help. Not really.

You climbed down without looking at Rooster’s jet. He landed seconds after you and taxied in beside you, as if nothing had happened. You didn’t even spare his aircraft a glance. The second your boots hit the ground, you unclipped your helmet, ripped off your gloves, and started toward the hangar, heat still radiating off your skin like you were burning from the inside out.

Coyote met you halfway, helmet in hand. “You alright?”

You nodded once, jaw locked. “Yeah.”

He looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. “You were clean up there. Even with... that.”

“I know,” you said, already brushing past him. “I always am.”

Bob was waiting by the lockers again, arms folded, back to the wall like he’d been holding the whole place together in your absence. When you walked in, he straightened up immediately.

“I saw the tail cameras,” he said quietly, as you tossed your helmet into the locker with a metallic clang. “You flew perfect.”

You didn’t answer, just started stripping out of your gear. Your zipper caught on your collarbone, and you yanked it harder than you needed to.

“I mean it,” Bob said, taking a step closer. “He was pushing. Too close. You didn’t break formation once.”

You exhaled slowly through your nose. “He was trying to get in my head.”

“And he didn’t,” Bob said, voice firmer now. “That matters.”

You finally looked at him. His gaze was steady, hands in his pockets, stance relaxed but ready—like he knew you were still barely holding it together and wouldn’t let you snap alone.

“I don’t trust him,” you said. “I don’t. Not in the air. Not anywhere near my six.”

Bob nodded. “You don’t have to. You just have to outfly him. Which you did.”

There was a pause. Then you muttered, “I wanted to leave him in the damn sky.”

Bob gave the smallest smile. “Yeah. I figured.”

You sat down on the bench, elbows on knees, still simmering beneath the surface. Bob lowered himself beside you, offering that same steady presence you’d grown to count on more than you’d ever admit.

For a long moment, you just sat there—gear half off, sweat cooling on your back, heart still kicking in your chest like it hadn’t landed with the rest of you. Meanwhile, Bob pulled out another water bottle, cracked it open, and held it out without a word.

You took it.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

“No problem,” he said, his shoulder just barely brushing yours. “I’m always in your corner.”

The locker room door creaked open just as you were pulling your undershirt over your head, hair damp with sweat, flight suit peeled halfway down to your waist. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

You felt him before you saw him.

Rooster.

He stepped in with the kind of slow, careful walk that said he knew he was stepping on a live minefield—but did it anyway. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe out of pride. Maybe just because he was a stubborn, overgrown man-child with the emotional intelligence of a wet sponge.

You didn’t look up. Not at first.

Bob stiffened beside you immediately, shifting subtly like he was ready to put himself between you and Bradley again. You didn’t need protection. You needed blood.

“I came to—” Rooster started.

“Oh, fuck right off, Bradshaw.”

Your voice cracked through the space like a sonic boom. Sharp. Loud. Immediate.

He blinked. Paused in the doorway. You still hadn’t turned to face him, but you heard the silence settle thick around his shoulders. Good. Let him carry some weight for once.

“I’m serious,” you said, standing now, turning slowly, flight suit hanging at your waist, tank top clinging to your spine. “Whatever you're about to say? Shove it. Right up your self-righteous, overhyped, chicken-shit ass.”

Rooster frowned, jaw ticking. “You really want to do this again?”

You stepped forward, water bottle still in hand, grip tight like you were debating whether to throw it at his damn head. “Do what, Bradshaw? Get almost killed by your recklessness and then have to listen to you pretend you were doing me a favor?”

His hands went up in mock surrender, but you saw the edge in his eyes, that infuriating smirk trying to claw its way through his guilt. “I wasn’t trying to outfly you.”

“No,” you snapped, voice rising. “You were just trying to remind everyone that you're still the golden boy—even if you have to drag me into the dirt to prove it.”

“I followed the maneuver.”

“You crowded my tail. You pushed inside my safe zone, and if I’d made one wrong correction, I’d be a splatter on canyon rock. That’s not flying, that’s fucking arrogance.”

Rooster’s voice dropped. Low. Defensive. “I had you covered.”

“Bullshit. You had your ego covered,” you spat. “You had your little redemption arc playing out in your head like some goddamn Top Gun fantasy where everyone claps for you and forgets you almost killed me.”

Bob finally stood between you both, hands raised, voice careful. “Okay. Time out. This isn’t the place.”

“No, Bob, let me.” You shoved your finger toward Rooster’s chest. “You think just because you wear his callsign on your sleeve, you get to fly like him too? Hate to break it to you, rooster-boy, but you don’t have the instincts, and you sure as hell don’t have the discipline.”

Rooster’s brows shot up. That stung. Good.

“You’re really gonna throw that at me?” he asked, voice rising.

“You’re damn right I am,” you hissed. “Because I’m tired of watching you make reckless calls and act like your intentions are enough to clean up the fallout. You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.”

The tension was so thick now it felt like the walls were closing in. Rooster stared at you like he’d never really seen you before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe all he ever saw was competition.

“Say what you really want to say,” he said finally, his voice a low challenge.

You didn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t trust you. And I don’t forgive you. And if it were up to me, you’d be grounded until you grew the hell up.”

You stared at Rooster, chest rising and falling like you were still in the cockpit, like your body hadn’t caught up to the fact that you were back on solid ground. The locker room felt small now, claustrophobic, the kind of space where someone either walked out or a fist got thrown.

Bob glanced between you both, visibly uncomfortable, clearly torn. He opened his mouth, maybe to calm things down again, maybe to step in. But you beat him to it.

“Bob,” you said, your voice low and flat, not cruel, not loud—just final. “Get out.”

His brows furrowed immediately. “Raven…”

You turned to him, sharp. “Please. I need him alone.”

Bob hesitated, glancing at Rooster like he was considering whether it was a good idea to leave you two unsupervised. Like he wasn’t sure Rooster would survive it. He looked at you again, weighing the fire in your eyes.

Then, slowly, he gave a single nod. “I’ll be just outside.”

You didn’t say thank you. You didn’t look back. The moment the door clicked shut behind Bob, the air dropped about ten degrees, even though the heat was still pounding in your chest.

Rooster crossed his arms, leaning back against the row of lockers like he was pretending to be casual, like you hadn’t just ripped into him in front of half the squad. But his jaw was tight, and he couldn’t quite meet your eyes for more than a second.

“You done yet?” he asked.

You took a step closer. “Not even close.”

His eyes flicked to yours, defensive again. “You made your point.”

“Oh, no, Bradshaw,” you snapped. “I made a point. But I haven’t even started making the point.”

Rooster scoffed, looking away like he was trying to summon some patience from the ceiling tiles. “You just love being pissed at me, don’t you?”

That did it.

You stalked closer, boots heavy on the tile. “You almost got me killed, and you think I’m doing this for fun?”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Meaning doesn’t matter up there,” you cut in, voice sharper now, hotter. “Intentions don’t count for shit at Mach 1 when I’m flying with someone I can’t fucking trust.”

Rooster stepped forward now, matching your energy, the cocky smirk finally gone, replaced by something darker—wounded, maybe, but not apologetic. Never that.

“I’m not the only one flying aggressive. You banked us into that canyon.”

“And you didn’t leave me space to recover if it went wrong. That’s the difference between flying aggressive and flying like a goddamn liability.”

“You think you’re so perfect,” he muttered.

“No, I think I’m alive,” you said, breathing hard. “Which is more than I should be, thanks to you.”

He flinched, but you didn’t give him time to come back from it.

“You don’t get to act like the victim here, Bradshaw. You’ve been trying to outfly me since day one. Like my existence is some kind of personal insult to you.”

He threw his hands up. “Because you walk around like you invented Top Gun!”

“No,” you said, stepping closer, fury boiling just beneath your voice. “I walk around like someone who earned it. Like someone who bled for it. Unlike you—who was gifted the legacy and still can’t fly without dragging someone else down to feel tall.”

That hit him. You saw it.

He clenched his jaw again, looked away—then looked right back at you, eyes hard now, fire catching.

“You don’t know shit about what I’ve earned.”

“Bullshit, I don’t,” you said, spitting the word like venom. “I’ve been next to you this whole time. Same academy. Same airspace. Same course. I’ve seen what you do when you’re not the golden boy. You crash. You choke. You fuck up. And then you hide behind your last name like it’s supposed to mean something.”

The silence that followed was different. He didn’t speak. He just stared. Like no one had ever said that to him before. Like it landed somewhere deep. But not deep enough to humble him.

Not yet.

You could see it in his eyes—that flicker of shock, that brief stutter in his breath when your words hit just a little too deep. But you didn’t stop. You didn’t even pause. You saw the crack and you pushed.

“You want to talk about what you’ve earned?” you said, voice low, poisonous. “Fine. Let’s talk about the first time I almost died because of you.”

Rooster stiffened, brow furrowing like he hadn’t expected that direction. Of course he didn’t. Men like him never do.

You took another step forward. You could hear your pulse in your ears now, but your voice stayed level—cold, surgical.

“Flight school. Third year. T-38 Talon. You remember?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I was flying lead. You were supposed to be my goddamn wingman. We were in a mock intercept and you decided to cut the corner, to ‘gain advantage,’ you said. But what you really did was cut me off, broke formation, and forced me into a nose dive to avoid clipping wings. You remember now?”

His mouth opened, closed, like he was trying to fish for the right excuse. You weren’t giving him time.

“I went down. Thirty-two seconds of dead air, no control. Ejected at the last second and fractured two ribs when I slammed back to Earth. And you—you—stayed in the air like nothing happened. Didn’t even check your goddamn radio until it was over.”

“That’s not how I—”

“Don’t you fucking dare try to rewrite it, Bradshaw,” you snarled, finally jabbing a finger into his chest. “I’ve lived every second of that flight. I still wake up in the middle of the night hearing that wind ripping past my canopy as I dropped like a stone. I remember begging my bird to respond while you were busy trying to win a pissing contest that no one was even judging.”

Rooster backed a step, but you followed. You weren’t done. You were finally letting the venom out of your veins.

“And you know what’s worse?” you said, voice quieter now, sharper. “You never apologized. Not once. I got pulled from the flight roster for six weeks while you went on like nothing happened—still grinning, still cocky, still thinking your halo was just a little shinier than everyone else’s.”

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” he muttered, guilt cracking through his words.

“Bullshit you didn’t,” you snapped. “They told you. Maverick told you. The whole damn base was talking about how the ‘hotshot godson almost took out the prodigy.’ You knew, Bradshaw. You knew and you just... moved on. Because it was easier to pretend I bounced.”

He said nothing.

You inhaled sharply, chest rising with the weight of that memory. Then, voice thick with the kind of cold restraint that only comes after years of swallowing fire, you said, “That’s the difference between you and me. I never forget the people I almost killed. You forget the people you almost did.”

Rooster’s jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. The weight of your words landed, but instead of backing down, he finally snapped.

“Jesus Christ, Raven,” he growled. “You act like I meant for any of that to happen. You think I wanted to screw you over? You think I haven’t carried that shit, too?”

You didn’t flinch. You waited, arms crossed, eyes locked on him like crosshairs.

“I made mistakes,” he said, voice rising now. “Yeah, I fucked up in flight school. Yeah, I flew too close yesterday. But I’ve been trying to prove myself every damn day since then, and you—you treat me like I’m the enemy. Like I’m just waiting to take you out.”

“You said it,” you muttered. “Not me.”

He stepped closer. “I’ve owned up to my shit. What about you, huh? You ever think maybe you’re not invincible? That maybe you fly like you’ve got something to prove, too?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

“Why not?” he snapped. “You’ve been carrying this grudge for years. I fucked up once and now I’m the villain in your whole damn narrative.”

You stared at him for a long, breathless second.

Then you said, “Because I know how dangerous this job is, Bradley. I know what I signed up for. But it was my dream. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

The words echoed off the locker walls, cold and soft and breaking.

“But I wasn’t ready to die,” you added, voice quieter now, but sharper, slicing through whatever protest he was about to throw at you. “Not then. Not now.”

Rooster froze. His breath caught. But you kept going. This wasn’t about flying anymore.

“I still want to live. I want to fly until I can’t. I want to grow old without a helmet on my head. I want—fuck—I want a house, Bradshaw. Somewhere in North Island, but not too close to the beach because the salt messes with the hinges. White picket fence. Big-ass windows. A porch swing.”

You laughed again, but it was a hollow, broken thing.

“I want kids. A family. I want to come home to someone who makes me feel safe. You ever think about that? That maybe I didn’t come here just to prove I’m the best—that maybe I came here to build something when I’m done?”

Rooster was still. His expression had shifted—no more anger, no more fire. Just... something raw. Something crumbling.

But you didn’t stop. You weren’t done bleeding.

“I can’t do any of that if I’m dead, Bradley,” you said. “And you? You almost ended all of it before it could even start.”

Bradley didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, rooted to the floor like your words had struck somewhere he didn’t know existed until now. His arms had dropped to his sides, fists unclenched, the fight bleeding out of him.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally, voice low and hoarse. “That you wanted that.”

You shook your head, scoffing bitterly. “Yeah, well, maybe you would’ve known if you ever looked at me as more than your fucking scoreboard.”

“That’s not fair.”

You turned to him fully now, eyes blazing. “No, Bradley. What’s not fair is that I have to plan my life around not dying because of you. What’s not fair is watching everyone treat you like you walk on air while I’m just trying to land with my own damn wings.”

“I see you,” he said, quietly this time. “I’ve always seen you.”

“Then you’re blind,” you snapped. “Because if you did—if you really did—you’d fly like it. You’d have flown with me, not against me. And you sure as hell wouldn’t have nearly killed me. Twice.”

Bradley took a cautious step forward, like he was reaching for something invisible between you. “Look, I’m trying, alright? I know I’ve been a dick. I know I’ve let my pride get in the way. But that wasn’t about you. That was me trying to prove I wasn’t just some legacy pilot riding a dead man’s wake.”

You scoffed again, shaking your head, voice tight. “Don’t you dare make this about your daddy issues.”

“That’s not—”

“I’m serious, Bradshaw. Don’t. You. Dare.”

His jaw flexed. He swallowed hard, but stayed rooted where he was. “I just... I don’t know how to make this right.”

“You can’t.”

The words came out fast, final, like a slammed door.

“You can’t make it right. You can’t go back and undo the times I almost fucking died trying to dodge your shadow. You can’t take back the fact that every time I go up now, I hesitate. I hesitate, and I never did before you.”

His face twisted like you’d slapped him, but you weren’t done.

“You know how dangerous that is? To fly with doubt? To wonder if the guy next to you is gonna screw up again?”

He opened his mouth, and you cut him off before the first word left.

“And I don’t want your guilt, Bradley. I don’t want your puppy-dog eyes and your sad-sack remorse. I want my safety. I want the one thing I’ve earned, which is to not feel like I’m one mistake away from a fucking memorial flyover.”

Bradley looked like he’d been carved down to nothing. But that was his problem now.

You were done holding it in.

The silence after your last words hung heavy—thick and final, like the air after an explosion, where nothing stirs and everything aches.

Bradley didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at the spot where you’d been looking straight through him, his mouth slightly open like he wanted to speak but knew better. His hands hung useless at his sides. No fight left. No defense worth giving.

You blinked slowly, jaw tight, chest still rising and falling like you were back in the jet, like you hadn’t come down at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Then, without another word, you turned.

Boots against tile. Echoes trailing behind you like ghosts.

You passed him without looking. You didn’t want to see his face. Not like this. Not when it was finally registering just how badly he’d fucked it all. You reached for the locker room door, pulled it open with a sharp tug, and stepped out into the hallway where the air felt different—cooler, quieter, distant.

Behind you, he didn’t follow. Good. You didn’t need him to.

You walked steady, shoulders squared, eyes forward. Not because it didn’t hurt—but because you refused to let him see that it did.

You weren’t ready to forgive. And he wasn’t ready to be forgiven. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

And if he had anything left to say, he’d have to say it to your back. Because for now, you were gone. And you weren’t looking back.

- Bradley, Rooster -

The door clicked shut behind you, and the silence hit like Gs in a flat spin.

Bradley didn’t move. Couldn’t. It was like every molecule in the room had frozen with your exit, like the fire you'd lit still lingered in the air, crackling around the lockers and burning under his skin. His jaw was clenched tight, arms stiff at his sides, but it wasn’t anger holding him together now—it was shame.

You’d told him everything. Every brutal, ugly truth he'd been too proud or too stupid to see for himself. He hadn’t just failed you in the sky. He’d failed you years ago. And the worst part? He’d forgotten it. Buried it so deep that it had stopped feeling real to him. But not to you. Not ever to you.

“I wasn’t ready to die.”

The words looped through his head like comms feedback, sharp and constant and impossible to ignore. He thought he could walk in, take the heat, say sorry in that way people like him always said sorry—tight-jawed and low-voiced, a little too late and never loud enough. He thought maybe, just maybe, you’d give him the benefit of the doubt again.

But you’d looked at him like he was a loaded gun pointed at your chest.

And damn it, maybe he was.

He sank down onto the bench, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like it might give him answers. But it didn’t. All it gave him was the image of you, standing there in your half-zipped flight suit, fire in your eyes, telling him you wanted a house. A family. Kids. A white picket fence somewhere on North Island, not too close to the beach, but close enough to feel the breeze. You said it like it hurt to say, like you hadn’t dared believe you were allowed to want things like that.

And he’d almost taken all of it away. Again.

The first time—Jesus, the first time—he remembered now. The Talon. The maneuver. The way you spun out and the ground came up too fast. He’d heard the report. Read it. Knew you walked away with busted ribs and bruises down your spine, and he hadn’t said a damn word. He told himself it was a fluke. A training accident. Nothing he needed to carry.

But you’d carried it.

You always did.

He leaned back against the locker, head hitting the cool metal with a dull thunk. The ceiling swam above him, but all he could see was your face—tight with rage, eyes too bright, voice cracking around the edges but never breaking. You didn’t cry. Of course you didn’t. That would’ve given him something soft to hold onto.

Instead, you gave him the truth.

You don’t get to be both the fuck-up and the hero. Pick a lane.

And the worst part? You were right.

You always fucking were.

He rubbed a hand over his face, the scratch of stubble catching under his palm, like pain might jolt him back to reality. But no. You were still gone. And everything you’d said still rang in his ears like a damn bell he couldn’t unring.

Bradley had always known you were sharp. Known you were faster, colder under pressure, more precise with a stick than anyone else in the room. But he never realized how long you’d been flying with a target on your back—his target. And now? He didn’t know how to separate pride from shame anymore. It all just blurred.

You were four years younger. Everyone knew that. The prodigy. The talk of your class. The one who made instructors blink twice during debriefs and had the rest of the academy scrambling to keep up. And yeah, at first, it was envy. That tight, stomach-clenching envy that burned right behind his ribs when he saw your name climb above his on the board. It wasn’t supposed to bother him, but it did. Every. Damn. Time.

So he’d tried harder. Pushed further. Flew faster. He told himself it wasn’t about you—it was about proving he deserved the callsign. That he wasn’t just a name stapled to a legacy. But deep down? He knew.

It was always about you.

It was about the way you rolled your eyes when he smirked. About the way you flew past him in formation like you didn’t even see him in your six. About the way you made him feel small without ever saying a word.

He hated that. And somehow, he hated that he needed your approval even more.

And now—God—he hated himself for ever thinking this competition was harmless. That you were unshakable. Untouchable. Like you didn’t want the same things he did. A future. A home. A life.

He’d never pictured you wanting all that. Not because he thought you didn’t deserve it—he just... didn’t let himself imagine it. Didn’t want to put soft edges on the one person he needed to keep sharp in his head. But hearing it from you, out loud, in that furious, breaking voice—it gutted him.

He’d flown like an idiot. That much was clear. You were on his wing, and instead of holding formation, instead of watching your six, he dove in like a hero in a movie he wasn’t qualified to star in. And for what? Some imaginary point? To prove he could still be top dog?

You could’ve died. Right there. Mid-air. A flash of fire, a blackout screen, and a headline with your name.

And then what?

What the hell would he have done then?

He exhaled again, this time shakier. His fingers dug into the edge of the bench, gripping it until his knuckles went white. He wished he could go back. Say something different. Fly different. He wished he could stop being the guy who hurt you. Who scared you. Who nearly killed the one goddamn person who could ever meet him head-on and still leave him in the dust.

But wishes didn’t mean shit in the Navy.

And you were gone.

It hadn’t always been like this.

He remembered the first day he met you—flight school orientation, crisp khakis, sun glaring off the tarmac, everyone fresh-faced and hungry. You’d stood a few rows behind him, already with a name people whispered about. “The Raven,” some muttered, not even your callsign yet, just the reputation. The kid prodigy. Top of her undergrad class. The one who flew solo before most people learned how to park a car.

Bradley had looked back and seen you smiling politely at some poor bastard who asked if you were actually here for pilot training. You answered with grace, a little tilt of your head, voice soft and sweet. You didn’t even roll your eyes. And that made him mad.

He didn’t know why. Not then. But it pissed him off—the way you were so damn calm about it. The way you acted like being better than the rest of them didn’t come with weight. Like you weren’t carrying a whole spotlight on your back and somehow making it look effortless.

And when you introduced yourself? All handshakes and "nice to meet you," eyes warm, tone gentle? He shook your hand and said something stupid. Something sharp. Something like, “Well, let’s see if you can keep up, sweetheart.”

You had blinked, just once, like you were weighing whether to clap back or let it slide. But you didn’t. You just gave him a smile so polite it almost stung and said, “Hope you brought your A-game, Bradshaw.”

And then you beat him. Over. And over. And over again.

At first, it was little things—sim scores, formation grades, instructor praise. You never gloated. Never rubbed it in. You offered to study together once, back when you still thought maybe you were on the same side.

He’d scoffed. “I don’t need tutoring.”

You’d nodded, like you expected that answer. Like you were used to boys like him reacting that way. And then you left him alone.

But you never stopped shining. You never stopped rising. And he never stopped resenting the way people gravitated to you like you were gravity itself.

It became muscle memory. Resent you. Compete with you. Cut corners when you were near because losing to you felt worse than losing to anyone else.

And all the while, you just kept flying.

Meanwhile, he tried to tell himself that you weren’t that good. That maybe you were just lucky. Maybe someone up the chain had a soft spot for prodigies. Maybe if he flew riskier, faster, harder, he’d outrun your shadow.

But even now, looking back?

He remembered the day you got your first perfect solo evaluation.

And he remembered how much he hated you for it.

Not because you didn’t deserve it, but because you did.

He still remembered the day the Top Gun scores came out like it had happened this morning. The sun had been brutal, baking the runway, sweat collecting under his collar even before he saw the board. The squad was gathered around it, jostling for space, hearts in throats and egos on the line.

And then someone shouted his name.

“Bradshaw—first. Holy shit.”

It echoed like an explosion in his chest. He didn’t believe it at first. He blinked, stepped closer, read it again. Bradshaw, B. At the top. Number one. Above you.

He turned before he could stop himself, already seeking your face in the crowd. And there you were—calm, composed, unreadable, just like always. Standing a few feet away, arms folded across your chest, your expression neutral. Too neutral.

And for one brief second, he swore he saw it. A flicker of something behind your eyes. Disappointment. Pain. Like you hadn’t expected to lose. Like maybe for the first time, you were struggling to breathe.

You hadn’t said anything. You just gave him a tight nod and walked away.

Meanwhile, everyone else was clapping him on the back, congratulating him like he’d just saved the world instead of barely outscoring someone who usually left him in the dust. They called it a win. They called it proof. But in the pit of his stomach, something soured.

Because deep down? He knew.

You flew better that week.

Your runs were cleaner. Your shots tighter. You pulled out of the low-alt maneuver smoother than he ever had. But you got docked points for something small—a missed comm, a second too late in your roll—and suddenly, that was the margin. That was how he won.

He told himself he deserved it. Told himself he worked harder. That maybe you needed to be knocked down a peg.

But God, he could still see your face. Blank. Distant. Like you were already a hundred miles away from this place. And he hated how empty the win felt without your respect stamped onto it.

He’d joked about it later, played it off like he always did. “Hey, first time for everything,” he’d said with a smirk, leaning on your locker as you stripped off your flight suit. You didn’t even look at him.

“You flew well,” you said, voice flat. “Enjoy it.”

Then you walked away. Again.

And he held onto that one win like it was carved in gold. Because he knew it would probably be the last.

The Hard Deck was loud, like always. Laughter echoed off the walls, music humming from the jukebox, and the familiar clatter of bottles and boots filled the space like static. The others were already halfway into their drinks—Phoenix tossing peanuts into Fanboy’s glass, Coyote nursing a whiskey, Jake leaning smugly against the bar like he owned the damn place. Bradley slid in like a ghost. Quiet. Disconnected.

He didn’t want to be here. Not really. But showing up was easier than sitting in his apartment, staring at the wall, replaying your voice in his head like a damn flight tape on loop.

So he grabbed a beer. Didn’t even taste it. Just held it in his hands like it gave him something to do.

Nobody asked about what happened.

Not directly.

There were glances, sure. Halo caught his eye once and gave him a small nod. Not quite sympathy—more like, you good? He didn’t nod back.

He leaned on the edge of the pool table, watching Payback line up a shot, pretending not to notice how many empty spaces there were in the room. How your spot at the bar, the one two stools down from Phoenix, was vacant. Untouched. Like everyone had the sense not to sit there.

He didn’t ask where you were. Didn’t look around. Didn’t let his eyes scan the room like they wanted to.

But Bob, soft-spoken and way too goddamn perceptive, wandered up beside him and murmured, “She stepped out. Took a call ten minutes ago.”

Bradley’s jaw clenched. He didn’t look at him.

“I didn’t ask,” he muttered, more to himself than anything.

“I know,” Bob said, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like he wasn’t dropping a depth charge in the middle of Bradley’s already fraying nerves. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

Bradley took a sip of his beer. Still didn’t taste it.

Ten minutes. That meant you were probably gone. Maybe pacing outside. Maybe already halfway home. Maybe you just needed space—which was fair, considering how close he’d come to ruining your entire future twenty-four hours ago.

He should’ve apologized.

He should’ve chased after you when you left that locker room.

But what the hell was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I nearly got you killed again, and also sorry that I made your dream feel like a death sentence instead of a calling? There weren’t words big enough to patch that kind of damage.

So instead, he stood there, shoulder pressed against the table, pretending he wasn’t scanning the door every few seconds.

And pretending that ten minutes didn’t feel like a goddamn eternity.

Bradley slid his beer onto the bar, half-finished and sweating. No one noticed. Or at least, that’s what he told himself as he eased away from the table and headed toward the door. The jukebox kicked into a Tom Petty track just as he slipped out, the air outside cooler, quieter, sharp with salt and sea.

Only one person noticed—Bob. Sitting near the window with a seltzer and his usual unreadable expression. Their eyes met for a split second. Bradley gave him a nod, subtle. Bob didn’t say anything. He just went back to his drink.

Outside, the wind was soft, brushing past like a whisper. The night had a haze to it, moonlight bleeding across the sand. And there you were.

Down near the shoreline, pacing slow, bare feet sinking into the damp sand. Your flight suit was tied at your waist, tank top catching the sea breeze, and your voice—light, polite, controlled—drifted through the dark like a radio signal.

He stopped a few yards back, just behind a dune, out of sight. He wasn’t proud of it. But something about the curve of your shoulders, the way you weren’t pacing fast or frantic, but with this eerie kind of calm—that had him frozen.

“Yes, I’m fine,” you were saying. Your voice was low but clear, just loud enough for the waves not to drown it out. “No, I just needed to step out for a bit. Long day.”

Bradley felt something squeeze in his chest. He couldn’t tell if you were talking to a boyfriend, family, someone back home. He didn’t know if he wanted to know. But there was a warmth in your voice that he’d never heard aimed at him. Not once.

You stopped, turned toward the water, and exhaled. “Yeah… I still think about it. Sometimes. The house. The stupid fence. I know it’s dumb.”

Bradley’s breath caught. Your voice had shifted—smaller, quieter, like you were pulling the edges of yourself in.

“I just thought, maybe someday. You know? Somewhere off-base. Near town but not too far. One of those little ones with the blue shutters and a fence so white it hurts your eyes. Not a big place. Just something that’s… mine.”

There was a pause. A silence so thick it muffled even the waves. Then you said, almost too quietly:

“Guess it’s not really realistic anymore.”

Bradley’s stomach dropped.

You weren’t angry now. You weren’t screaming or glaring or spitting fire. You were disappointed. And somehow, that hurt worse.

You shifted the phone to your other ear. “No, I’m okay. Really, Mom. Just tired. I’ll be back soon.”

He backed away then. Slowly. Like he’d intruded on something sacred. Because that version of you—the soft one, the dreaming one, the one who still believed in white fences and front porches and safety—that wasn’t meant for him.

And maybe it never had been.

It had been three weeks since you last yelled at him. Three weeks since your voice had laced through the Ready Room like razor wire. Since you told him—told the whole damn room—that you weren’t ready to die. That you wanted a house. A fence. A life.

And you hadn’t said a word to him since.

No snarling. No cursing. No storming out of locker rooms. No fire, no fight. Just silence. Cold and clean, like the distance between two aircraft flying the same path but refusing to sync up. You sat on the far side of the room now, same row as him, but two chairs over. Always two chairs over. Just far enough to make it clear that whatever fragile thing had cracked open between you was now buried.

He looked at you now—just a glance. Your arms were crossed, jaw set tight, eyes forward as Maverick stepped into the room, flight suit half-zipped and clipboard in hand. The tension in the air shifted as everyone straightened up.

“All right,” Maverick said, voice firm. “Mission brief starts now. Eyes up.”

The screen behind him flickered on, showing a grainy aerial map with tight, looping canyons stretching across a hostile zone overseas. Words blinked in red: OPERATION IRON DAGGER.

“We’ve been tapped for a coordinated strike package—high-risk, high-payoff,” Maverick said, clicking the remote. “Our objective is a hardened weapons facility buried within this canyon system, located in disputed territory. Intel confirms it’s manufacturing advanced ballistic systems outside international regulations. The brass wants it gone.”

He pointed to a choke point on the map, a narrow zig-zag of cliffs and blind corners. “The airspace is saturated with radar. SAM sites along the ridge lines, anti-aircraft guns in fixed bunkers, and a rotating patrol of enemy fighters—likely fourth-gen models, MiG-29s or Su-35s. That means we stay low, fast, and quiet.”

Phoenix let out a soft breath. “So it’s another sneak-in-sneak-out scenario?”

“Exactly,” Maverick said. “You’ll be flying below radar detection. Altitude will stay at or below 300 feet AGL for most of the route. That’s less than a football field. One mistake, one overcorrected pitch, and the SAMs light you up like a Christmas tree.”

Bradley shifted in his seat, glancing at the others. Payback was leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin. Fanboy scribbled something in his notebook. Bob was stone still. And you—of course—you didn’t flinch.

“The target itself is buried in reinforced concrete,” Maverick continued. “You’ll need to hit it with precision. Double payloads. Two rounds of tandem penetrators. One pass only. There’s no second shot.”

Hangman raised an eyebrow. “And what about air patrols?”

“Two enemy patrols confirmed,” Maverick said. “One operating south of the ridge, one on the far east flank. You will be seen on exit. That’s a guarantee. Which means your egress window is tight. Rooster, Raven, you’re team lead. You’ll fly point, drop first, and punch the gap.”

Bradley blinked. He looked toward you. You didn’t even glance at him.

“Seriously?” Hangman scoffed. “Them? Flying lead? Together?”

“It’s not up for debate,” Maverick said flatly. “They’ve both logged more canyon-flight hours than the rest of you combined. They’re our best shot.”

Bradley’s mouth was dry. The silence was crushing. Still, you said nothing.

Phoenix cleared her throat. “What’s our comms protocol post-bomb drop? In case we get separated.”

Maverick clicked again. A new slide appeared: CALL SIGN FREQ CHART.

“You’ll be split into pairs. Phoenix and Bob, Hangman and Coyote, Payback and Fanboy. Comms will be encrypted. After drop, you switch to alt-freq Zulu-3 to rejoin at Rally Point Echo. Time from target to extraction is under three minutes. If you’re not at RP Echo by then, exfil will proceed without you.”

Bradley swallowed hard. He could feel the weight settling across his shoulders. The same creeping dread he felt before every mission that went just a little too real.

Then your voice broke the silence.

“What’s the eject threshold altitude post-impact?” you asked, tone razor-sharp. “Assuming a hit during egress. Jet compromised. No time to climb.”

Maverick didn’t blink. “Two-fifty AGL minimum. Any lower, and the chute might not fully deploy. But you already know that.”

You nodded once. Your expression didn’t change.

Bradley felt the chill then. The clinical way you asked it. Like you weren’t afraid to die—just prepared.

He hated that it came from him. That silence between you had taught you how to be this detached.

Maverick scanned the room, pausing just long enough to let your question settle. Then he clicked again, switching to a diagram of the canyon run. Every inch of the terrain was unforgiving—jagged ridgelines, sudden drops, hairpin turns. One screw-up, and you'd be scraping metal off the walls.

“You’ll hit your ingress point at oh-four-hundred,” Maverick continued. “Weather forecast shows minimal cloud cover, wind from the north at twelve knots. Good visibility, but that means the enemy’s got it too. We can’t guarantee a clean in-and-out.”

Bradley caught the shift in Bob’s posture—rigid, focused. Next to him, Phoenix gave a quiet nod. Hangman leaned back with his arms crossed, trying to play it cool, but his jaw was locked. Even Payback had stopped chewing his gum.

“Raven and Rooster will lead the first strike pair,” Maverick said, like it was already carved in stone. “Phoenix and Bob, you’ll follow. Hangman and Coyote, you’re on air cover once the payloads are dropped. Payback and Fanboy, standby team—watch our six.”

Bradley could feel it now. The weight pressing down on everyone. But none of it hit harder than the fact that you hadn’t even twitched when Maverick said his name next to yours. Three weeks ago, you would’ve rolled your eyes. Scoffed. Bit out a sarcastic “figures.” Now? You didn’t even blink.

He hated this version of you. Not because you were cold—but because he’d made you cold.

Maverick took a step toward the screen again, tapping a highlighted route. “This section here—Bravo to Delta—is your most dangerous leg. It’s a ninety-degree turn at speed with less than 250 feet of vertical clearance. That’s where the last drone strike attempt failed. They clipped the wall and never made the drop.”

Bradley’s pulse kicked up. He’d flown turns like that before. Once. In training. And even then, it damn near made him black out.

Hangman whistled low. “So we’re supposed to make a laser-precise drop at Mach 1 while threading a needle at canyon depth. Nice.”

“You’ve done worse,” Maverick replied dryly. “And I’m still here to remind you.”

That pulled a small chuckle from Payback, but it didn’t last long.

“What about alternate evac?” you asked suddenly. “If RP Echo’s compromised. We get pinned down by enemy patrols—what’s plan B?”

Bradley turned slightly, trying not to be obvious about it, but he looked at you. You were sitting forward now, elbows on your knees, focused in that lethal, surgical way you always were when things got real. No trace of fear. No hesitation. Just mission mode.

Maverick clicked once more. A backup route appeared—longer, more exposed. “Evac option B is RP Whiskey. Takes you thirty klicks off the canyon system, but it’s out of the radar net. If you’re forced to break formation, that’s your window. You get there, you get out.”

“And if we don’t?” Phoenix asked quietly.

Maverick looked her dead in the eye. “Then you better hope to hell your chute opens.”

A heavy silence followed. The kind where nobody moved. Nobody even breathed. Just the dull hum of the projector and the distant whine of jets on the tarmac outside.

Bradley’s hand twitched against the armrest. He wanted to say something—ask something—but he didn’t even know what. All he could think about was the last time he saw a jet go down. The smoke. The screaming. The sick, twisting silence afterward.

And now you were flying point with him, because of course you were.

Maverick let the silence breathe for just a beat longer, then set down the clicker and folded his arms across his chest. “I won’t sugarcoat it. This mission’s tight, dangerous, and one misstep away from turning into a goddamn funeral procession. You’re the best we’ve got. That’s why you’re here. But this isn’t about glory—it’s about precision. About trust.”

At that last word, Bradley felt his stomach tighten.

Trust.

Right.

He chanced another glance toward you. Still silent. Still composed. But he knew better now. Knew that silence was never blank—it was armor. And you were wearing it like a second skin.

Hangman leaned forward, tongue in his cheek. “Sir, with all due respect—if we’re pulling Mach 1 through canyon turns and going against SAMs and fourth-gen fighters, we should at least be equipped with newer countermeasures. These birds are running old-gen flares. We flying or praying out there?”

Maverick didn’t flinch. “New systems are en route. You’ll be flying with upgraded ECM pods—jamming capabilities, enhanced decoys, everything short of invisibility. And praying doesn’t hurt either.”

Coyote chuckled under his breath. “Guess it’s time to hit church.”

Payback nudged Fanboy. “You still carry that lucky coin?”

Fanboy patted his chest pocket solemnly. “Always.”

Bradley let the chatter roll for a second, but his focus was still zeroed in on you. You hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken again since your evac question. You were watching Maverick, your expression unreadable.

Then you leaned back in your chair, voice low and measured. “Do we know if the enemy’s updated their radar since the last recon pass?”

Maverick looked straight at you. “Not confirmed. Last sweep was two weeks ago. Intel says no. But you plan like they have.”

You gave a single nod, that sharp, exact motion you always used when you were filing something away. Not agreement. Just acknowledgment. Cold. Calculated.

Phoenix shifted beside Bob, who was scribbling notes with his usual quiet intensity. “And how long do we have on target?”

“Fourteen seconds,” Maverick said. “From entry point to payload drop, max. You get in, you stay steady, you release. Raven, Rooster—you’ll have to mirror each other’s flight paths exactly. No deviation. If one of you pulls off-axis, you’ll both miss.”

That landed like a lead weight in the room. Bradley didn’t need to look to feel it. You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

Because three weeks ago, you would’ve called him reckless. Said he couldn’t hold a formation if his life depended on it. But now? You weren’t even wasting the breath. You’d just fly the damn line and pretend he wasn’t there.

Maverick grabbed the last slide, a table of call signs and order of operations, then set the clipboard down. “We launch at 0400. You’ll be wheels-up before first light. Flight briefings and aircraft assignments go out in thirty. Dismissed—unless you’ve got questions.”

Bradley sat still. Part of him hoped you’d say something else. Start a fight. Call him out. Anything to break this cold front between you.

But you just stood up, straightened your flight suit, and walked out.

He caught you outside the hangar thirty minutes later, just as the squad began to scatter across the tarmac, filtering toward lockers, briefing rooms, and checklists. The sun had started to dip, casting long shadows across the concrete, throwing gold over everything but you.

You stood near the fence, arms crossed, posture tense like a coil ready to snap. He hesitated for a beat—long enough to consider backing out—but then he forced himself to move.

“Hey,” he said quietly, like testing the wind before a hurricane. “Can we talk?”

You didn’t look at him. For a moment, he thought you’d ignore him entirely. But then you gave the smallest nod, turned halfway toward him, and muttered, “Five minutes. That’s all.”

Bradley stepped in, suddenly aware of how loud his boots sounded against the pavement. Everything about you looked like a wall—rigid spine, clenched jaw, eyes locked on some distant point just past him.

“I just… I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he started, voice already shaking. “For what happened. That flight—three weeks ago. I wasn’t looking. I got reckless. I thought I had the shot—”

“You didn’t,” you cut in sharply, still not looking at him. “You didn’t have the shot, Bradshaw. And I almost paid for it with my fucking life.”

“I know,” he said quickly, stepping closer, voice low and raw. “I know that. I live with that every day, and I hate myself for it. I keep going over it in my head—I should’ve peeled left, should’ve watched the damn six, but I—”

“But you what?” you snapped, finally turning toward him with fire in your eyes. “But you thought you knew better? You always think you know better. You’re so goddamn obsessed with proving yourself that you never stop to think about the people flying next to you.”

Bradley flinched. Your voice cut deeper than he expected, not because it was harsh, but because it was true. You had always known how to find the soft spot beneath the armor.

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he said, but the words felt hollow. “I just—I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You weren’t,” you said, and your voice cracked just a little. Not in volume, but in restraint. “You don’t get to nearly kill me and call it a mistake.”

He felt his breath catch. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did.” You stepped in now, just barely, but enough for him to see how tightly your fists were clenched. “You always do, whether it’s the air or the ground. You can’t stand it when I’m ahead of you. You hate it. You’d rather burn the whole damn sky down than see me beat you.”

“That’s not true,” he argued, voice rising. “That’s not—God, that’s not fair.”

“No?” Your laugh was bitter, humorless. “Tell me then. Tell me why every time I pull ahead, every time I get recognition or lead the squad, you act like I stole something from you.”

Bradley shook his head, jaw tight, trying to keep the emotion from cracking wide open. “Because I respect you. Because you push me. Because when I see your name ahead of mine, I want to be better.”

You scoffed, stepping back. “That’s a lie you tell yourself to sleep at night. The truth is, you hated me from the moment I showed up. You couldn’t stand that the ‘golden boy’ wasn’t always number one.”

“Jesus Christ, you think I give a shit about rank?” he snapped.

“Yes!” You shouted it now, full volume, no restraint. “Because you always did. Because the one time you beat me—Top Gun, remember?—you never let me fucking forget it. You carry that one win around like it’s your damn dog tags.”

Bradley looked down. Swallowed hard.

You stepped forward again, voice lower now, but far more dangerous. “You almost got me killed, and I’ve spent the last three weeks trying to figure out if I hate you more for that, or for how easy it was for you to walk away from it.”

He looked up at you, eyes bloodshot. “I didn’t walk away from it.”

“You sure as hell didn’t face it either.”

The silence between you burned hotter than the shouting ever could. Wind from the airfield swept past, kicking up the scent of oil and smoke and sun-baked concrete.

You glanced at your watch. “Time’s up.”

He wanted to say something—anything—but nothing came. You turned on your heel, walking back toward the hangar without a single look back.

And Bradley just stood there, the sunset throwing his shadow long across the asphalt, knowing he’d fucked it up again.

The hangar felt colder than usual that morning, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. The sky outside was still bleeding from night to morning—hints of gray and violet brushing the horizon, the sun nowhere in sight. Inside, the air was thick with silence, only broken by the occasional zip of a flight suit or the metallic clink of gear being prepped.

Bradley sat on the bench beside his locker, boots planted, elbows on his knees, helmet between his hands. He stared at the same floor tile for what felt like ten minutes, but time wasn’t real anymore. Not today. Not when every tick brought them closer to wheels-up.

Around him, the squad moved like ghosts. Phoenix didn’t crack jokes. Hangman wasn’t strutting. Payback and Fanboy spoke in hushed tones, and even Coyote—usually the first to throw sarcasm into the air like confetti—was quiet. And Bob... Bob looked like he hadn’t slept at all. He kept checking his watch, then his checklist, then your empty locker across the aisle.

You hadn’t shown up yet. Not late. Just... not there yet. And it made something twist in Bradley’s chest, tight and sharp.

This mission felt different.

And not just because of the SAMs or the canyon or the fact that the egress window was barely wide enough to squeeze through without brushing death. No, it was you. It was knowing you’d be flying beside him again, trusting him again—whether you wanted to or not. And after everything he said, everything he did or didn’t say... the idea of that trust made him feel even sicker than the mission itself.

“Hey.”

Bradley looked up. Maverick stood there, arms crossed, flight suit zipped, expression unreadable. Just the same calm he always wore when the storm was about to hit.

“Got a second?”

Bradley stood, nodding, following Maverick a few steps down the corridor where the others couldn’t hear. It felt like walking into a confessional.

“I know what this mission is,” Maverick said, voice low. “I know how it looks on paper. I know how it feels in your gut. I’ve flown enough of them to know when someone’s not just afraid of dying—they’re afraid of watching someone else not come back.”

Bradley didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just stared past Maverick, eyes fixed on a vending machine that had been broken since last winter.

Maverick stepped closer. “You’re not afraid for yourself, Bradshaw. You’re afraid for her.”

Bradley finally looked at him. His throat was dry. “She won’t even look at me.”

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t matter.”

“I screwed it up,” he muttered. “I almost got her killed. And I—God—I haven’t even said what I should’ve said. Not really. And now we’re flying this death trap together and she’s acting like I’m invisible and maybe I deserve that, but if something happens—if I lose her today—”

Maverick shook his head. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” Maverick admitted. “But I know her. And I know you. And I know what it looks like when someone’s in love and too damn proud to admit it.”

Bradley let out a humorless laugh. “I don’t think she wants to hear that from me.”

“Maybe not,” Maverick said, voice softer now. “But it doesn’t mean you don’t owe it to her. If this is the last mission you ever fly together, don’t let it end with silence.”

Bradley nodded, slowly. Then faster. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to say. Or how. But he knew one thing with terrifying clarity—

He couldn’t lose you today.

And when he turned back down the hall and saw you finally walking in, flight bag slung over your shoulder, eyes sharp and distant as ever, his heart damn near stopped.

You were here.

And he had one last chance not to fuck it up.

The call came over the PA—crisp, no-nonsense, final. “All pilots, suit up. We launch in fifteen.”

That was it. No more waiting. No more chances. Whatever Bradley thought he might say to you before takeoff dissolved in the roar of movement—flight suits zipping, lockers slamming, helmets in hand. Everyone moved with quiet urgency, the weight of what they were about to do keeping the usual pre-mission chatter at bay.

He watched you from across the room as you tied your hair back, methodical and cold. Your expression hadn’t changed since you walked in, jaw locked tight and eyes unreadable behind that icy shield you’d perfected. You didn’t look at him once—not while you strapped on your vest, not when you checked your gloves, not even when you passed within three feet of him heading to the tarmac. Just silence.

And honestly, that hurt more than yelling ever could.

Meanwhile, Phoenix gave Bradley a short nod as she slid her gloves on beside Bob, who looked like he wanted to say something comforting but couldn’t find the words. Hangman was unusually quiet, flexing his hands and staring down at his boots as he walked. Coyote gave him a quick pat on the back, unspoken support in the gesture, while Payback and Fanboy jogged ahead, already in full pre-flight focus mode.

Out on the tarmac, the jets sat like beasts in cages, lined up and gleaming under the rising sun. Ground crew moved like clockwork around them—last checks, fuel lines, engine calibrations. There was no more time to think, no time to doubt. Just action.

Bradley pulled on his helmet, adjusted the chin strap, and walked toward his bird—his legs heavy but sure. As he passed your jet, he caught sight of you climbing the ladder, moving with absolute precision. Not a hitch, not a tremble. You were in it. Mission mode. And the fact that you were flying lead with him again, after everything, made his stomach twist with something close to guilt—and fear.

He climbed into his cockpit, settled into the seat, and began flipping switches with muscle memory as his only guide. The radio check crackled in his ears, Phoenix calling out her confirmation, Bob’s voice clear behind hers, then the rest of the squad checking in one by one.

Then your voice cut through the comms.

“Raven, checking in. Let’s get this done.”

Bradley exhaled slowly. That was the only time you said his name—or rather, his call sign. But it was something. It meant you were still here. Still fighting. And for now, that had to be enough.

The engines roared to life one by one, the ground vibrating under the jets as they powered up. Canopies lowered, cockpits sealed. The tower gave them the go.

“Dagger Team, you are cleared for launch. Wind is calm. You are green for runway zero-nine.”

Bradley’s heart pounded as he taxied forward. The jet responded to his touch like it had been waiting for this, eager to rise. He glanced to his left as your aircraft pulled up beside his. Even with the helmets on, he knew your eyes were forward, unflinching.

Then the tower crackled again.

“Dagger One, Raven. Dagger Two, Rooster. You’re up.”

He pushed the throttle, wheels beginning to roll. The runway stretched out before him, long and narrow, like a fuse waiting to be lit.

Behind him, the rest of the team lined up. Bob. Phoenix. Coyote. Hangman. Payback. Fanboy.

But it all came down to you and him.

And God help him—he wasn’t ready.

The nose of his Super Hornet surged forward, and Bradley felt the familiar pressure slam into his chest as the jet took off—wheels leaving the ground, gravity falling away beneath him. Beside him, your jet matched speed perfectly, sleek and steady, climbing into formation like you’d done it a thousand times. And you had. But not like this.

Not after everything.

The early light turned the clouds amber and gold, washing the squad in something almost holy as they rose through it, punching toward altitude. One by one, the rest of Dagger team joined them, locking into formation with practiced grace. The comms stayed clean—just call signs, coordinates, altitude reads. No jokes. No distractions.

“Dagger One, leveling at Angels twenty. Adjust heading one-eight-zero,” Maverick’s voice came through clear in the comms. “Maintain visual. Prep for descent in thirty.”

“Copy,” you said, your tone sharp as a blade.

Bradley echoed, “Copy.”

And that was it.

Meanwhile, Phoenix and Bob pulled into place behind them. Hangman and Coyote took high cover. Payback and Fanboy trailed the rear, scanners running hot. It was tight, controlled, and tense as hell. Every second they flew deeper into enemy airspace, every knot they pushed, brought the danger closer.

Bradley adjusted his throttle, eyeing his instruments, stealing a glance at your bird. You were holding formation with surgical precision, every move by the book, every turn crisp. But he knew you. Knew the way you flew when you weren’t on fire with anger. This was different. You weren’t just sharp—you were locked down. Like you’d built a cockpit inside your cockpit and sealed yourself in.

He wanted to say something. Hell, he almost keyed his mic. But the words jammed in his throat. What was he supposed to say? Hey, sorry I shattered whatever was left of your trust—now let’s go dodge missiles together?

Right.

Ahead, the canyon yawned open beneath them, jagged and waiting. The target zone lay past its edge, buried deep in shadow and surrounded by SAM installations that could shred a jet in seconds. It was beautiful in that terrifying, cruel way war always was.

Maverick’s voice cut back in. “Approaching descent marker. Final checks. This is it.”

Bradley ran his eyes over the console one last time. Fuel: green. Weapons armed. ECM online. Heart rate—fuck, he didn’t want to look. Then he flipped the intercom to your channel, hesitated, and finally spoke.

“Raven… you good?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“Stay in your lane, Bradshaw. That’s all you need to worry about.”

It stung. Even through the helmet. But he swallowed it, flicked the switch back to squad comms, and nodded to no one.

“Dagger Two ready.”

Below, the canyon loomed.

And there was no turning back now.

The ridge line appeared on the horizon like the edge of the world. Steep, jagged, dusted with shadow, and unforgiving. Below it, the narrow canyon path curved like a blade, waiting to slice them in half if they dared to hesitate.

“Dagger team,” Maverick called out, voice cool but firm in the comms, “committing to canyon run. Adjust altitude to Angels 2.5. Weapons hot. Keep spacing tight.”

One by one, call signs answered, low and focused. “Copy that.” “Dagger Three committing.” “Dagger Four on your six.” “Dagger Five locked in.”

Bradley’s jet dipped low, throttle steady beneath his palm. The descent pressed into his ribs like a second heartbeat. He saw your bird sliding into place ahead of him, crisp and deadly in your movements. No hesitation. No overcorrection. Just pure, cold skill.

You always made it look easy.

He tightened his grip on the stick. “Rooster, committing. On Raven’s six.”

The canyon swallowed them whole.

Instantly, the sky disappeared. Walls rose up around them, tight and jagged, like flying through the ribs of some ancient beast. Every turn required perfect alignment. Every twitch of the wrist had to be calculated. There was no margin for ego here—only instinct, only execution.

Sweat rolled down the back of his neck. The Gs started to kick harder with every turn. And yet, through the chaos of motion and comms, all Bradley could focus on was the distance between his nose and your tail.

You flew like you didn’t care about him at all.

And maybe you didn’t.

“Two klicks to primary target,” Bob’s voice broke through, cool and sharp.

“Radar’s still clean,” Fanboy added. “No bandits yet.”

“Jinx it one more time and I’m ejecting you myself,” Phoenix muttered under her breath.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed again. Maverick’s voice snapped through. “Coming up on choke point. Two-hundred-foot clearance. Watch your damn wings.”

Bradley dropped just beneath the turn, matching your movement, feeling the canyon press closer, like the world was trying to squeeze them into vapor. Dust kicked up along the walls. The sound of wind grew sharper. His HUD flickered slightly—but steadied again.

And still, you didn’t say a word.

He swallowed. “Raven, you copy?”

You finally replied, clipped and cold. “Focus on flying, Rooster. Don’t get sentimental on my six.”

The bite in your voice was acid. He wanted to curse back. He wanted to defend himself. But instead, he took a breath and locked into formation tighter. Because there was no room for anything else now—not anger, not guilt, not regret. Only the mission.

“Coming up on target marker in one klick,” Maverick called out. “Get ready. We only get one shot at this.”

Bradley checked his systems again. Everything lit green. His pulse was a metronome in his ears. His eyes never left you.

You led them forward like death couldn’t touch you. And all he could do was follow.

The target marker lit up on his HUD like a warning flare. Thirty seconds to drop. The canyon veered sharply left, then cut back to the right, narrowing so tight he could feel the pressure in his teeth. Maverick’s voice crackled through, taut with command.

“Approaching strike point. Line it up, Raven.”

Your voice was steady, almost too calm. “On it.”

Bradley fell into perfect sync with your path, his breath shallow behind the mask. You leveled the jet, armed your payload, and held that line like your bones were carved from steel. He barely blinked.

And then—you released.

The target erupted in a flash of light and smoke, the bunker collapsing beneath the strike with a thunderous boom. The canyon walls shook. Dust exploded upward, choking visibility. Static hissed in the comms.

But it wasn’t over.

“Missile lock! Two o’clock high!” Fanboy’s voice snapped through, panicked.

Bradley’s HUD screamed red—enemy radar pinging like mad. “Break! Break! Break!”

Jets scattered in all directions, peeling out of formation. Bradley turned hard, pulling Gs sharp enough to crush breath from his lungs. “Shit—shit!”

But you didn’t break.

You turned late. Just a second too late. He caught a glimpse of your bird banking upward to dodge, trying to shake the lock, and for a heartbeat—he thought you were going to make it.

Then everything went white.

A missile slammed into your jet’s undercarriage with a deafening explosion. The fireball was instant, blooming like a sunburst just feet in front of him. Debris spun out wildly—metal, smoke, parts of your tail—and the shockwave slammed into his jet so hard it rattled the entire frame.

“Raven’s hit!” Phoenix yelled. “She’s hit!”

“I’ve got no visual—shit! Shit—there’s no chute!” Hangman barked, voice rising.

“Raven, do you copy?” Maverick called, but it was dead air.

Bradley’s throat closed. He was spinning, trying to level out, scanning every inch of sky through the haze and static. Nothing. No chute. No signal. Your aircraft plummeted below the canyon line, and there was nothing.

“Do we have eyes on her?” Bob shouted.

“I—I saw the hit, but I didn’t see an ejection!” Payback said, his voice cracking.

“Raven, come in! Come in!” Bradley was yelling now, his voice wrecked with panic. “Eject, eject—fuck—do you copy?!”

But there was nothing but static.

“Abort,” Maverick barked. “All Daggers, abort! Pull out and RTB—now!”

“No—no, we can’t—” Bradley’s grip shook. His eyes were still searching, darting across every corner of the sky. “She might be down there—she might’ve made it out, we didn’t see—”

“Rooster, that's an order. Fall back!” Maverick snapped.

But Bradley was already banking his jet, against every protocol, against every rule. His hands moved on instinct, shoving the throttle forward. He wasn’t leaving you down there. Not again.

And then—

“Missile lock!”

Another tone. Another beep. And he knew he was out of time. He pulled the handle. The ejection sequence ripped him from the cockpit in a violent jolt, the sky turning end over end as he shot upward. Then—silence.

His jet exploded behind him. And all he could think was—Please let her be alive. Please.

The first thing he felt was cold.

Not the kind that prickled the skin—but the kind that punched straight through to the bone, hollow and unrelenting. Snow crunched beneath his back. His body ached. His head was pounding like someone had dropped an engine block on it. The second thing he felt was pain—a burning, sharp throb in his left shoulder and ribs.

Bradley opened his eyes slowly, blinking against flakes of snow drifting down from a gray, heavy sky. The forest around him was quiet, like death was holding its breath. Tall, naked trees stretched upward like spears, their branches coated in frost. The wind whispered low through them, a ghost with teeth.

He groaned, trying to sit up, but his limbs felt like they’d been filled with cement. His parachute was tangled behind him, half-buried in the snow, torn on a branch above. He reached up and unhooked the harness with trembling fingers, gritting his teeth when a bolt of agony shot through his shoulder.

“Shit…”

His voice was hoarse. He coughed, and blood slicked the corner of his mouth. Great. Internal bruising, maybe a cracked rib or two. But he was alive. Barely.

And then the memory came flooding back.

The canyon. The hit. The explosion. You.

He pushed himself upright, ignoring the ice that stung every exposed inch of skin. His helmet was gone. His gloves were torn. He had no radio—just the emergency beacon strapped to his vest, blinking red like it knew help wasn’t coming fast enough.

Bradley looked around. The snow was fresh, but something about it felt… wrong. It wasn’t just cold. It was unfriendly. The kind of terrain that didn’t want visitors. The kind that made sure you stayed lost. Visibility was low, and the forest twisted in every direction like a maze designed by God on a bad day.

But none of that mattered.

You might be down here.

He forced himself to his feet, staggering at first, but managing a few slow steps forward. He scanned the treetops, the sky, the snow-crusted floor. No smoke. No wreckage in sight. But he’d seen where your jet went down. Somewhere east—maybe northeast, judging by the angle before he punched out.

He turned that way. Started walking.

Every breath he took turned white in the air. Every step sent a fresh bolt of pain up his spine. But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

“C’mon, Raven,” he muttered under his breath. “Be out here. Be alive.”

Branches cracked under his boots as he moved through the trees. He passed a shattered piece of metal—a chunk of his own jet, scorched and half-buried. No sign of yours. No sign of you.

He kept going. Snow began to fall harder. And somewhere, beneath the aching cold and the rising dread, was a single thought echoing in his skull:

I can’t lose her. Not like this.

The snow was falling harder now, thick wet flakes that clung to his lashes and blurred his vision. The forest didn’t end—it just kept going, tree after tree, shadow after shadow, like a cruel joke. Bradley’s boots dragged through knee-deep powder, legs stiff, back screaming. His left arm had gone mostly numb, pain radiating from his shoulder with every step like a lit fuse.

He should’ve stopped. Sat down. Waited for pickup, assuming the beacon was even working through the storm.

But he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

What if you were more hurt than he was? What if you hadn’t ejected in time? What if you were lying somewhere alone, freezing, bleeding, maybe already—

No. He wouldn’t let his brain finish that sentence. So he kept moving.

Then his foot caught on something—maybe a root, maybe nothing—and he pitched forward into the snow hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The impact jarred his ribs. He let out a strangled groan and stayed there for a second, cheek pressed into the cold, white ground.

He closed his eyes. His body begged him to stay down. Just for a minute. Maybe five. Maybe forever. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, faster and louder than the wind in the trees. His breath came in short, sharp gasps.

But then, he saw your face.

Not in front of him. In his head. That glare. That fire. The way you rolled your eyes when he made a joke. The way you bit out his name like it offended you just to say it. The way you screamed at him in the locker room. The sound of your voice on the comms today—steady, unflinching, strong.

If you were down... if you were out here...You’d never forgive him for stopping.

Bradley forced himself up. Hands shaking. Chest tight. Snow stuck to the bruises on his face, but he didn’t care. He used a tree to steady himself and pushed forward again, limping harder now. He wasn’t even sure which direction he was going anymore—just that it felt right.

Then he saw something in the snow ahead. Black against white.

He stumbled faster. Closer. It was a panel. Torn metal. Jagged edges. Burned black. From your jet. His heart kicked hard in his chest. He scanned the area, breath catching, and—there. Tracks. They weren’t clean. They were shallow, staggered, like someone dragging their feet through the snow. Like someone hurt. Bradley broke into a limping run. You were out here. Alive. And he was going to find you if it killed him.

The trail of blood in the snow was faint but unmistakable—small dots at first, then streaks, smeared like someone had stumbled and tried to crawl. Bradley followed it with panic rising in his throat, the cold forgotten, his injuries numbed by pure adrenaline. His breath came in ragged clouds. His shoulder burned. But his eyes were locked ahead.

Then he saw it.

Your body—curled up against the base of a tree, half-covered by windblown snow. You were slumped sideways, limp, pale, your helmet off but your flight suit zipped tight. One arm was tucked beneath you at a strange angle, the other loosely draped over a pack marked with a red cross. Your emergency bag. Your boots were scraped and muddy, your lips slightly parted. You weren’t moving.

“Jesus—no, no, no, no—” Bradley dropped to his knees beside you, his hands clumsy and frantic as he reached out. “Hey—hey, come on. Come on, Raven, don’t fuckin’ do this to me.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck.

A pulse. Weak. But there.

He nearly collapsed with the relief.

“You stubborn little shit,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your frozen forehead. “Goddamn you, you better wake up and scream at me. You better.”

Meanwhile, the wind cut sharper, and the snowfall thickened. Bradley knew this was a race now—not just against the dark, or the cold, but against time. You were alive, but you wouldn’t be for long out here. Neither of you would. Not without shelter. Not without heat.

He hoisted your emergency bag over his shoulder, then maneuvered your unconscious body slowly onto his back. The pain that tore through his ribs was blinding—he bit down on a shout, staggering under the weight. You were bleeding. Heavy. And your suit was soaked through from the snow.

“Hang in there,” he muttered, his voice barely audible through gritted teeth. “I swear to God, you better wake up and punch me in the face for this.”

Step by step, he pushed through the forest, following the only path he could see—the one that looked like it might go anywhere but here. Time blurred. His legs trembled with every stride. His boots slipped on ice. At one point, he fell to one knee and stayed there for a moment too long, snow creeping under his collar, exhaustion clawing at his spine. But the weight on his back kept him grounded.

Then—like some goddamn miracle—he saw it.

A cabin. Nestled between trees like it had been waiting for someone to come back. The windows were fogged over. The front steps were buried in drift. But the door was intact.

He stumbled to it, kicked it open with the last of his strength, and nearly collapsed onto the wooden floor. Inside, it smelled like old pine and dust. The furniture was rustic, untouched for months. A single bed sat near a stone fireplace. Firewood stacked in a basket nearby. A metal kettle on the stove. Someone’s vacation home. Abandoned.

Thank God.

He gently set you down on the bed, heart in his throat the entire time. You didn’t stir. Your breathing was shallow, uneven, but there. He grabbed a blanket off a nearby chair and threw it over you, then tore through the emergency bag—gauze, trauma scissors, a pressure bandage, thermal wraps, adrenaline injectors. Enough to stabilize you.

He worked quickly, cutting away the worst of the blood-soaked gear and dressing your shoulder, your ribs, your side. He moved like a man possessed. Meanwhile, he stripped off his own vest and outer jacket, hanging them near the fireplace as he loaded logs and struck a match with shaking fingers. The flame caught. Heat finally breathed into the room.

And through it all, he kept glancing back at you.

Still out. Still too quiet.

He sank down next to you, resting his forearm on his knee, staring at your face like it might flicker back to life if he willed it hard enough.

“You better wake up soon,” he murmured. “You better scream at me, or throw something, or tell me I fly like shit. Because if you die after all that yelling... I swear I’ll never forgive you.”

The wind howled outside. The fire popped gently. You didn’t move.

Bradley sat back against the side of the bed, exhaustion crashing into him like a wave. But he didn’t close his eyes. He just watched you. Waiting.

The fire crackled softly now, casting golden light that danced across the wooden walls of the cabin. The heat finally pushed back against the cold that had sunk into his bones. Bradley sat on the floor beside the bed, arms crossed tight over his chest, eyes locked on your motionless form. He couldn’t feel his left shoulder anymore. His ribs throbbed with every breath. But none of that mattered.

You were still breathing.

He glanced down at the emergency bag you’d somehow managed to drag out of the wreckage with you. Classic you—organized, stubborn, always prepared for shit to go sideways. Inside, tucked neatly in plastic compartments, was everything they should’ve packed in his kit. Mylar blankets, antibiotics, tourniquets, even a collapsible kettle and water purifiers. Hell, you had caffeine gum and glucose tabs.

He exhaled, almost laughed. “Always the overachiever, huh?”

Then, suddenly, you twitched.

Not much—just a wince, a shift of your hand—but Bradley shot upright so fast the pain nearly knocked him over again. You let out a soft, cracked sound, low and pained, like your body was waking up before your mind could catch up.

“Hey,” he said quickly, moving to the side of the bed. “Hey—easy. It’s okay, you’re alright. Don’t move.”

You groaned again, brows tightening, mouth parting in discomfort.

He reached for the bag, pulling out a bottle of saline and a clean cloth. He soaked it and carefully dabbed it against the shallow gash on your temple, wincing at how cold your skin still was. You flinched, just barely.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know. I’m trying to go easy, okay?”

Then he checked the dressing on your ribs, peeled the edge of the gauze back slowly to make sure the bleeding hadn’t started up again. Still clean. Still holding. He replaced it gently, then adjusted the blanket to cover more of your shoulder.

Meanwhile, he grabbed one of the emergency mylar wraps, shook it open, and tucked it over your body, tucking it under your chin like some kind of broken-winged nursemaid. His hands shook the entire time.

You shifted again, your lips forming a faint grimace.

“Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now. “You're in a cabin. You crashed. I found you. You're safe.”

No answer. Just more stillness, more shallow breaths. But at least you were reacting now.

Bradley rose slowly, ignoring the sharp jab in his side, and returned to the fireplace. He fed in another log, using the lighter from your bag to ignite one of the long-burning starter cubes. The flames snapped higher, dancing shadows across the wall.

He sat back again, arms resting on his knees, glancing between you and the fire. You hadn’t screamed at him yet. He wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. You’d probably say bad.

“I meant it, you know,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “You better fucking wake up. I didn’t drag you through the snow just for you to lie there looking peaceful like some angel who never called me a cocky dipshit.”

Your head tilted slightly. Another soft breath escaped your lips. Still no words. But it was something.

So he stayed by the fire. Tending it. Tending you. Waiting for the storm to pass.

The fire cracked beside him, throwing long shadows across the cabin walls, but all Bradley could hear was the slowing beat of your breathing. Shallow. Uneven. Too slow.

He moved to your side in a flash, heart leaping into his throat. His hands hovered over your chest, over your wrist, over the fragile pulse that fluttered there like it was threatening to disappear.

“Shit,” he muttered. “No, no, no—not now. Come on, Raven, don’t fucking do this.”

He pressed two fingers to your neck again. The pulse was faint. Too faint.

His chest caved. All the tension, all the fury, all the sharp-edged pride cracked right down the middle. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to your shoulder, gripping your arm like it might anchor you to this world.

“Don’t you fucking die on me, do you hear me?” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to go out like this—not after everything, not after all the shit we’ve been through.”

His breath hitched, and suddenly it was like all the air in his lungs turned into water. He clenched his jaw, trying to stop it, but the tears came fast and hot anyway, burning tracks down his dirt-streaked cheeks. His shoulders shook.

“I should’ve been faster,” he choked. “I should’ve stayed closer—I should’ve been there before that missile—before the goddamn canyon even curved—” He paused, gasping, eyes red, lashes wet. “This is my fault. Again.”

Outside, the storm had turned brutal. The wind screamed against the walls. Snow clawed at the windows like it wanted to bury the whole fucking world.

“I know you hate me,” he whispered. “I know you think I’m a reckless, selfish asshole. You were right. I’ve been a goddamn coward. And you—you’re the best fucking pilot I’ve ever seen. And the strongest person I know. And I swear to God, if you wake up, I’ll stop trying to one-up you, I’ll stop acting like I’ve got something to prove. I’ll shut up for once. I’ll listen. I’ll—hell, I’ll slam my head into the wall like you told me to that one time if that’s what it takes.”

His hand slid into yours, desperate, pleading.

“You always said I couldn’t handle you, right?” His voice cracked again. “But the truth is I need you. I—I need you more than I ever wanted to admit. And if you die out here before I get to say that to your goddamn face—”

You moved.

Not much. A flicker. A twitch. A low groan from deep in your throat.

He froze.

Your lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before your eyes slitted open—just a fraction. Your mouth barely moved, lips cracked and voice dry as sandpaper.

“God,” you rasped, low and croaky. “You really are an idiot.”

Bradley’s breath caught hard—somewhere between a sob and a laugh. He dropped to his knees at your side again, grabbing your hand in both of his, knuckles white.

“Jesus Christ—you’re awake.”

You didn’t even look at him. Just kept that same, tired smirk. That barely-there, half-dead glint in your eye. Your voice barely rose above a whisper.

“Crying over me like a little bitch.”

Bradley let out a breath like he’d just broken the surface after nearly drowning.

“Don’t you ever fucking do that again,” he whispered, voice shaking, eyes bright. He squeezed your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him now. “I swear, if you pull this dying shit one more time—”

“Then what?” you mumbled, one eye cracking open a little more, lazy and unimpressed. “You gonna propose?”

He blinked at you. You blinked back. Slow. Exhausted. Still very much bleeding.

And then—despite himself—he laughed. It was breathless. Shaky. Like something had snapped loose in his chest. Like he didn’t know whether to kiss you or strangle you or collapse right there on the goddamn floor.

“You are the worst,” he murmured, brushing your hair gently back from your face.

You groaned faintly, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at your mouth. “Takes one to know one.”

Bradley stood slowly, his knees cracking as he rose from the floor beside you. His body felt like a crumpled aircraft schematic—nothing where it should be, everything either bruised, strained, or screaming. He held his side as he moved to the emergency bag again, pulling out one of the compact medical kits and a pair of trauma shears. With a grimace, he peeled off his flight suit from the waist up, revealing the deep, dark purple bruising that ran across his ribs and shoulder like spilled oil beneath the skin.

He muttered a soft curse as he cleaned the abrasions on his side, gritting his teeth while wrapping the gauze tightly. The adhesive tape tugged at his skin, and the burn of antiseptic made him suck in a breath. Still, he worked methodically, like going through the motions might keep his brain from short-circuiting again. Then he checked his arm—nothing broken, just swelling and stiffness. Probably sprained. Maybe worse. He didn’t care.

When the bleeding was managed and the trembling in his hands eased just enough, he pushed himself toward the small propane stove tucked in the corner of the cabin’s kitchenette. He pulled one of the ration packs from your emergency bag—of course it was alphabetized and vacuum-sealed in perfect, obsessive order—and set it to heat in the small metal pot. The smell of chicken and rice rose with the steam. It wasn’t gourmet, but right now, it was goddamn salvation.

He glanced back at you.

You were still in bed, eyes barely open, your breathing raspy but steadier now. Your fingers twitched slightly under the mylar blanket, adjusting it more snugly against your chest. You watched him with the same kind of look you used to throw across briefing rooms and cockpit huddles—half amused, half daring him to say something stupid.

He turned back to the food.

“Y’know,” he said, voice hoarse but casual, “this emergency bag of yours might’ve actually saved our asses.”

You didn’t miss a beat, even with your voice still ragged. “God forbid a woman be prepared.”

Bradley let out a short, huffed laugh. He shook his head, stirring the rations with a spoon you’d also somehow managed to pack.

“Guess I owe you one.”

“You owe me five,” you croaked, eyes narrowed slightly. “One for the canyon, one for the crash, one for dragging me through a forest like a sack of potatoes, one for sobbing like a rom-com lead, and one in advance for whatever dumbass thing you’re gonna do next.”

Bradley looked over his shoulder at you, lips tugging upward despite the exhaustion heavy in his bones. He didn’t argue. You were right.

He finished heating the meal, split it between two reusable plastic bowls from the pack, and limped over to your side. He sat down carefully at the edge of the bed, handing you one of them.

“Don’t spill it,” he warned. “I’m not cleaning shit up tonight.”

You took the bowl with a shaky grip, staring down at the steaming food. Then you raised an eyebrow at him.

“You heated it wrong.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

But you were both smiling now. Just barely. Just enough. The cabin groaned quietly as the storm raged on outside, but inside—there was warmth. A little silence. A little breathing room. And for once, you weren’t yelling. Yet.

The food sat warm between them, mostly untouched now. The first few bites had been out of necessity, but after that, neither of them had the appetite to keep going. The adrenaline was gone. The cold was gone. What remained was silence—slow, fragile, and heavy. The kind that settled into your bones when there was no more screaming left. No more fire to throw.

Bradley sat beside you, hunched forward slightly, his bruised ribs flaring with every breath. His bowl rested on his knee, cooling fast. He hadn’t looked at you in a minute. Not really. Just stolen glances, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed.

The fire crackled gently behind them.

Then, without warning, he spoke.

“I’m sorry.”

The words were soft. Barely more than breath. But they landed with the weight of an avalanche. You didn’t look at him at first, your eyes fixed on the dancing flames. Your hands gripped the edges of the blanket, fingers tight and white.

“I mean it,” he continued, his voice cracking around the edges. “For everything. For Top Gun. For pushing too hard. For flying like I had something to prove. For the canyon. For the first time I almost got you killed. And for the second.”

You still didn’t say anything, but your jaw clenched. Your throat bobbed like you were trying to swallow down something sharp.

Bradley exhaled shakily, rubbing a hand down his face.

“I thought if I was first, it would matter more. That it would mean something. But all it did was piss you off. And hurt both of us. And I just—I didn’t know how to stop. You made everything harder. You always have.” His laugh was bitter, self-deprecating, hopeless. “And easier. At the same time.”

Finally, you turned to look at him.

Your face was pale, streaked with dried blood, your eyes bloodshot and half-lidded from exhaustion. But when you looked at him, really looked at him, it made him feel like the floor had dropped out.

“I’m sorry too,” you whispered, voice gravelled and tight. “For never letting up. For fighting you on everything. For...for that day in the hangar. For what I said.”

He shook his head, quick and pained. “No. You had every right. I was reckless. I almost got you killed.”

“And I was scared,” you admitted, the confession like glass dragging across your throat. “I knew what this job meant. I knew it could end like that. But I—I didn’t think it would almost end like that. Not with you.”

Your voice cracked, and you looked away. The tears started quietly, slipping down your cheeks without warning. You didn’t bother to wipe them away. You were too tired. Too done pretending it didn’t matter.

Bradley set his bowl aside. Then he turned toward you fully, his good hand reaching for yours again. He didn’t take it, not yet. He just let it hover there.

“I couldn’t breathe when I saw your jet go down,” he said, voice raw and trembling. “I thought—I thought I lost you. And I realized I would’ve traded every ‘first,’ every top score, every kill, just to get you back. Just to hear you insult me again.”

You let out a choked laugh that sounded like a sob. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I know.”

Then you slid your hand into his, and it was the gentlest thing either of you had done in years. He gripped it like it meant everything—because it did.

And finally, you both cried. Together.

The fire kept burning. The storm kept raging. But in that little cabin, two stubborn hearts started to thaw—slowly, painfully, and with everything they’d never been able to say before now.

The silence between you stretched, no longer bitter, no longer cold—just full. Full of everything left unsaid and everything that had already been spoken in ways neither of you were ever brave enough to admit. The air felt thick, like it had shifted from smoke and frost to something warmer. Denser. And when your fingers curled around his, it wasn’t just forgiveness. It was surrender.

Bradley looked at your hand in his, then up to your face. Your lips were chapped, bruised in places, dried blood at the corner. Your cheek was swollen from where your helmet hadn’t caught the brunt of the crash. You looked like hell.

You looked perfect.

Your eyes met his, and something unspoken passed between you like a pulse—hot, aching, and inevitable. Maybe it had always been coming to this. Maybe all the insults and shouting matches had been foreplay in disguise. Maybe somewhere between trying to outfly each other, you'd started orbiting too close. And now here you were. Burned. Broken. Breathing.

He leaned in slowly, not to test the waters—but to let you stop him if you wanted.

You didn’t.

Instead, your breath hitched just once. Then your eyes flicked down to his mouth. And that was all it took.

Bradley closed the distance, his mouth crashing into yours like it had been fighting gravity for years. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was raw—like a gasp, like a scream, like everything they hadn’t been allowed to feel until now. Your hands tangled in his flight suit collar, dragging him closer with a desperation that nearly unmade him. He felt the sting of your busted lip against his, the scrape of a healing cut across his cheek as your palm slid up to cup his jaw. He didn’t care. He leaned into it.

Meanwhile, the fire flared behind you both, casting long, molten shadows that flickered across your faces. The heat didn’t come from the flames anymore.

Bradley groaned softly against your lips, like he’d been holding it in for years, like he’d just let go of something heavy that had been dragging behind him. Your fingers curled tighter, and he felt your body arch slightly, broken ribs be damned. He caught you with one arm around your back, mindful but firm, grounding you in his hold.

Then, finally, you broke the kiss. Barely. Just enough to breathe. Just enough to let your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling.

“I fucking hate you,” you whispered, but your voice was trembling and your mouth brushed his when you said it.

Bradley smiled, eyes still closed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I know.”

You leaned in again, slower this time, lips pressing to his with something more like reverence now. The heat was still there, simmering just beneath the surface—but it wasn’t fury anymore. It was fear. Relief. Longing.

Maybe even love. He didn’t ask. You didn’t offer. But in the space between breath and burn, you both knew something had changed.

The kiss didn’t end so much as dissolve—like it had melted into your mouths, slow and heavy, as heat curled low in your belly. The fire crackled lazily in the hearth, throwing shadows across the walls, but the burn between your thighs was hotter. Bradley didn’t pull back. He didn’t stop to ask again. He just held you tighter when your breath hitched and your fingers slipped beneath the collar of his flight suit, your touch gentle but need begging just beneath it.

He moved like it hurt—because it did. He winced as he knelt beside the bed, his body aching from impact, scraped raw from the crash. But that pain barely registered when your eyes flicked up to meet his, half-lidded and dark, when you whispered “Are you sure?” with a voice that already knew the answer. And he nodded, chest rising and falling like he was winded just from looking at you. “Yeah,” he said. “I just… I need to be inside you. That’s all I want right now.”

You pulled at his shirt with trembling fingers, tugging it off like unwrapping something sacred and ruined. His skin was mottled with bruises, dirt still smudged across his collarbones, but your hands didn’t hesitate. You ran your palms down his chest, your thighs pressing together as arousal coiled tight in your gut. Bradley watched your pupils blow wide as he stripped, your gaze raking down his body like you were already picturing how it’d feel when he finally filled you up.

He slid into bed beside you, and you rolled to meet him, teeth clenched against the soreness in your ribs. But the ache of your injuries couldn’t drown out the ache between your legs. Your hand drifted down his stomach, brushing over the trail of hair below his navel, fingers curling around the thick length already straining against his boxers. He hissed at the contact, hips twitching. “Jesus,” he whispered, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’ve got no idea what you do to me.”

Your thumb teased the head, already leaking, slick and hot against your skin. You stroked him slowly, deliberately, watching the muscles in his stomach tighten with each pass. “You’re shaking,” you whispered. He smirked, breath ragged. “So are you.”

His hand slipped beneath the blanket and cupped your heat—no preamble, no teasing—just his fingers pressing into your soaked panties and groaning when he felt how wet you already were. “Fuck,” he muttered, voice gone low and rough. “You’re dripping for me. All that from a kiss?”

You nodded, breath hitching, thighs parting for him. “I’ve been wet since you touched my waist.”

That made something snap in him. He shoved the blanket down and yanked your underwear aside with one hand, baring you to the cool air. His fingers slid through your folds, slick and messy, before two plunged inside without hesitation. You gasped, back arching, hand still wrapped around his cock. He curled his fingers expertly, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl. “That’s it, baby,” he whispered. “Let me hear you.”

You moaned, louder this time, grinding down against his hand. Your grip on him tightened, pumping his cock harder now, your wrist flicking with every stroke. The bed creaked under the weight of your need, the scent of sex already thick in the air.

“Condom?” you breathed.

He leaned in, kissed your neck, your jaw, your lips. “No. Need to feel you. Need to be raw with you. Please.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not with the way he was finger-fucking you, not with the way your orgasm was already building—tight and hot and ready to blow. You pulled him on top of you, whispering, “Then do it. Fuck me, Bradley. I want to feel you come inside.”

He growled at that—an honest-to-God growl—and lined himself up with trembling hands. He pushed in slow, agonizingly slow, watching every second of your face as his cock sank into your dripping heat. You were soaked, and still it stretched—thick and overwhelming, making you bite down a whimper as he bottomed out inside you.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, forehead resting against yours. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good.”

He pulled back and thrust again—slow, deep, filthy. The wet slap of skin echoed in the cabin, joined by your gasps, your curses, his ragged breaths. He fucked you with reverence and hunger, hips grinding in a rhythm that was somehow both tender and obscene.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, forcing him deeper. His pelvis ground against your clit every time he bottomed out, and your moans turned to whines, breathless and needy. “Don’t stop,” you gasped. “Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I won’t,” he panted, his voice wrecked. “I’m gonna fill you up. You want that? Want me to come inside you, leave you dripping full of me?”

You nodded frantically, nails raking down his back. “Yes. Fuck, yes, Bradley. Please.”

He started thrusting harder, faster, but still holding himself back enough not to hurt you. Your bodies moved like you were built for this—like you were made to survive and then fuck each other back to life. He kissed you through it, tongue sliding into your mouth, catching your moans and swallowing your cries. You were close—so fucking close—and he felt it in the way you clenched down around him, fluttering with every stroke.

“Come for me,” he begged, voice raw. “Want to feel you come on my cock. Come, baby.”

You shattered. Loud, messy, back arching and hips jerking as you came around him, gushing slick down his thighs. He didn’t even make it a full thrust after that—he plunged deep, groaning loud into your shoulder as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, filling you until it dripped back out around him.

Neither of you moved for a while.

Bradley collapsed onto you, still inside, still pulsing weakly. You were shaking. He was shaking. His face buried in your neck, your fingers in his hair, both of you panting like you’d just run miles.

He kissed your temple. “Still hate me?”

You laughed, breathless, sated, ruined. “Ask me again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll let you do that again.”

His laugh was broken and full of wonder. The fire popped, the world outside frozen, but inside that bed you were burning alive.

And finally—finally—he let himself sleep. Still buried in you. Still holding on.

Bradley didn’t sleep for long. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe twenty. Just long enough for the sweat to dry on your skin, just long enough for the fire to settle into a low, pulsing warmth around you both. He stirred against you, brow furrowed like his body refused to believe it was over. You were already awake, eyes half-closed, thighs sticky where his release had started to seep out of you and onto the sheets.

You shifted slightly, and that tiny movement—just the drag of your bare thigh over his hip—made him groan low in his throat. His cock twitched where it still rested, soft but thick, pressed against your inner thigh. You weren’t sure who moved first, but soon enough his mouth was at your neck again, slow kisses turned wet and open-mouthed, his hand creeping down to your ass to pull you closer.

“Fuck,” he rasped against your skin. “I’m still hard for you. Didn’t even mean to be.”

You smirked, pressing your hips forward just enough that his length slipped against your slit, catching in the mess he’d left inside you. “You didn’t pull out,” you whispered. “I’m still full of you.”

That made him groan—deep and broken—and he pulled back to look at you, eyes blown wide and dark. “Say that again.”

You leaned up and licked the corner of his mouth, voice all silk and sin. “You came so deep inside me, Bradley. I can feel it dripping out every time I move. You gonna fix that?”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your hips, rolled you onto your stomach, and pulled your ass up into the air like it was instinct. You gasped as your cheek pressed into the pillow, arms tucked beneath you, body still sore but aching in a whole new way now. He slid behind you, spreading your thighs with rough hands, and let out a choked moan when he saw the slick mess between your legs—his come still leaking from your swollen pussy, glistening in the firelight.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “Look at that. Look at what I did to you.”

You tried to lift your head, but he pushed it gently back down. “Stay just like that, baby. Let me clean it up.”

You expected his fingers. You got his tongue.

Bradley dove in without warning, mouth sealing over your cunt as he licked his own cum out of you with slow, filthy precision. His tongue lapped through your folds, circling your clit before dipping back in, tongue-fucking you while groaning into your pussy like it was his last meal. You cried out, hips bucking, hands clutching the sheets as your body lit up all over again.

“You taste like us,” he muttered between licks. “So fucking sweet and dirty. Bet you’d let me keep you like this, wouldn’t you? Keep you leaking for days.”

You whined, breathless, wrecked. “Bradley, please—fuck, please, I need you again.”

He pulled back, spit-slick and shameless, and stroked his cock—already fully hard again, glistening at the tip with fresh pre-come. “Yeah?” he panted. “You need me to fuck it back in? Fill you up again until it’s running down your thighs?”

You nodded, dizzy with it. “Yes—God, yes, do it, don’t be gentle this time, just fuck me—”

He didn’t hesitate. He lined up and shoved back in with one deep, brutal thrust that had you crying out into the pillow. The sound he made—guttural, lost—was pure filth. You were already so wet, so open, he slid in to the hilt in one stroke, and then he started moving.

No slow build-up this time. No worship. This was raw and carnal, fast and mean. His hips slapped against your ass as he pounded into you from behind, one hand wrapped tight around your throat, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. You were babbling now, words slurring into moans, your pussy fluttering around him with every thrust.

“You wanted this,” he growled, leaning down to bite at your shoulder. “Wanted me to ruin you. Wanted me to fuck my come back into you like you’re mine.”

“I am,” you gasped. “I’m yours—fuck—I’m so yours, Bradley.”

He snapped his hips harder, angle brutal, tip hitting your cervix with every thrust. “Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“You gonna let me breed you?” he snarled against your ear. “Let me fuck you full until it takes?”

You came so hard your vision went white.

Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as your pussy clenched down hard, milking him with wet, obscene sounds. Your scream was muffled by the pillow, and Bradley wasn’t far behind.

“Shit—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—I’m gonna—”

He slammed in one last time, burying himself to the base and spilling inside you again. Hot, thick, endless. His cock twitched deep in your cunt, pumping rope after rope of come into your already-filled pussy, and neither of you could breathe.

When he finally collapsed, it was on top of you, still deep, both of you sticky and shaking. His lips brushed your ear.

“That’s twice,” he muttered. “You really want me to ask you again in the morning?”

You groaned, completely fucked-out. “Ask me before breakfast. I might be ready for round three.”

And in the faint, smoky light of the dying fire, Bradley laughed—low and satisfied—and kissed your spine like you were the only thing left in the world worth surviving for.

The fire had burned down to embers by the time you both stopped shaking. The room smelled like sex and smoke, like sweat and survival, like the kind of love that doesn’t ask for forgiveness because it never needed to. You stayed tangled together, his cock still nestled deep inside you, warmth spilling from between your thighs with every breath.

His chest rose against your back, one hand splayed over your stomach, the other curled protectively around your thigh like he didn’t trust the night not to steal you. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Because whatever this was—this wreckage, this worship, this filthy, fevered clinging to each other in the middle of nowhere, you didn’t bother pretending it was anything else.

Call it what it was: raw, relentless, and real. And maybe a little ruined, but it was yours.

#bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #rooster x reader #top gun fandom #jake seresin #pete maverick mitchell #top gun maverick #bob floyd #jake seresin x reader #glen powell #lewis pullman #miles teller #avengxrz

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ochacoca · 6 months ago

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구원

word count: 2,297

ft. kageyama, tsukishima, akaashi, suna, kuroo, & iwaizumi

IN WHICH you experience your first kiss w/ haikyuu boys

small a/n: this is pretty old i posted this on my old account (that's now deleted) so i might re-upload some of my fics <3

KAGEYAMA TOBIO

▪︎ kageyama would be so awkward.

▪︎ i feel like he'd be the type of person to put so much thought into it to make sure it's absolutely perfect and make it somewhat unforgettable. he's a very determined person, on and off court, so i think he'd approach the first kiss in the same manner.

▪︎ but then again, he's awkward. the days he spent planning to get it right going to complete waste due to his nerves, and he's barely able to mutter out a complete sentence.

the sun set long ago, and the sound of cicadas and screeching of sneakers from inside the gym were the noises y/n heard. it was almost a daily routine for the freshly new couple to walk home together. y/n would wait outside with a couple of snacks for the both of them, he'd take his share and walk them home while occasionally rubbing his hand against their own, then they'd go their separate ways for the night.

usually they'd engage in a casual conversation discussing their day, but kageyama had been oddly silent throughout most of the walk. “are you okay?” they questioned after a long time of awkward silence. kageyama simply nodded while continuing to look at his feet as they walked. y/n thought maybe he was stressed about practice or an upcoming tournament, his face looked like he was going to hurl.

they finally arrived at y/n's residence and turned to face each other to say their final goodbyes for the night, but kageyama still couldn't keep eye contact. he fiddled with his hands as his eyes darted everywhere but them. “are you sure you're okay?” they questioned again, a look of pure concern now stitched onto their face. kageyama had spent days planning this, weeks even, but now that the moment has come every detail of his well-prepared plan slipped his mind.

all he could think of was just how beautiful y/n looked with the shine of the moonlight slightly glistening on them.

“i- uh..” he started, but anything he wanted to say couldn't leave his mouth. deciding not to waste anymore time, kageyama grabs onto their shoulders and pulls them in, pressing his lips on the soft plush of theirs. he didn't even give them a second to respond before pulling away and running his way back home, leaving y/n in a utter state of shock.

“.. i'll see you tomorrow?!” she yelled. but it didn't seem to reach the ears of the raven-haired boy who'd already turned the corner.

TSUKISHIMA KEI

▪︎ tsukishima would attempt, keyword: attempt, to be nonchalant about it… but the blush on his face says otherwise!

▪︎ tsukki is known for being relatively emotionally distant and tends to use sarcastic humor as a way to hide it. (?)

▪︎ i think that'd he would use this humor during the kiss to deter away from the fact that he's showing his more soft/vulnerable side.

“oi, pay attention,” tsukishima teased as he lightly tapped y/n's head with the pen he held in his hand. “the answer is practically right in front of you.” the two sat on the floor of tsukishima's bedroom, studying for an upcoming exam in the subject y/n struggled in the most: math.

y/n groaned and leaned all the way back until their back hit the floor, running their hands all over their face is agony. “i hate this! i don't wanna do it anymore!” they complained once more for what tsukishima felt was the hundredth time. he rolled his eyes at his partner's behavior, grabbing their hand and lifting them to make them sit back up.

“it's not that bad, you're just not trying.” he retorted. y/n pouted at their boyfriend's words and slouched as he continued to go on and on about the lesson in front of them. but as he kept talking, the sound of his words were completely drowned out and all they could think about was how pretty he looked right now.

he was wearing a hoodie (that y/n finally returned to him), sweatpants, and talking about whatever blah blah blah nonsense he was saying. they always did find intelligent men attractive. the thought was sudden, but now that they thought about kissing him, it wouldn't leave their mind.

tsukishima was still distracted from explaining the lesson to them to notice that they were crawling towards him until he felt a hand touch his cheek. he looked up with a raised brow, and before he could even react y/n was pressing their lips against his.

tsukishima stared at them almost wide-eyed after they pulled away. “tuh, what was that?” he muttered before looking down at the papers sprawled on the ground. it may have sounded like he didn't care, but the redness on his face and the tips of his ears gave it away.

AKAASHI KEIJI

▪︎ the calmest of them all honestly. (internally freaking out though)

▪︎ i don't think he'd pre-plan like kageyama, but he would choose the perfect setting and it'd turn out amazingly. i think he'd be the type of partner to read his s/o's body language perfectly.

▪︎ akaashi would make it a comfortable situation for both him and his partner while never being too brash nor too nervous.

the serene, dimly lit surrounding followed by the soft blue hue of the water provided for an instant relaxation upon y/n and akaashi. the two walked hand in hand as they explored the aquarium, looking at all the cute fishies and rest of the sea animals. y/n always had a keen interest in these type of exhibits. the ocean was always intriguing to them and they made this well known.

akaashi took this opportunity to bring them to a nice aquarium in tokyo. it was small, but that didn't matter. akaashi was okay with anything as long as they were there too. “are you having fun?” he asked them softly. their eyes were practically stars as they continued to observe every corner of the aquarium, and he couldn't fight the small smile that stretched onto his face.

his question goes unheard as y/n takes in the view of everything, running to the fish eye tank she spotted feets away. akaashi chuckled slightly as he followed closely behind them and eventually taking a seat beside them. “it's pretty, isn't it?” they murmured as they stared off into the tank, but akaashi's eyes never left their figure. “it's gorgeous.”

y/n turned to face him, and his cerulean eyes bore into theirs as he gazed at them lovingly. “what?” they asked. but akaashi said nothing and shook his head. he softly cupped their face and pulled them in as he leaned in to meet in a kiss. it was tender and slow but it was enough to show how much akaashi truly cared for them.

SUNA RINTARŌ

▪︎ another one that is extremely calm.

▪︎ similar to akaashi, i don't think he'd pre-plan. however, he'd do it more spontaneously. maybe his body reacts before his mind does while he presses his lips against yours.

▪︎ i think he'd also tease similarly to tsukishima, but a bit more dialed down.

suna crashed onto his bed as he kicked his shoes off and rested his forearm on his forehead, y/n also kicking off their shoes and crashing next to him. the pair had an extremely long and tiring day at school, and a nap was very much needed. they both turned on their sides to face each other, their eyes threatening to close.

“i'm so tired..” y/n mumbled. suna couldn't even utter a sentence, he simply nodded while his blinks slowly got longer and longer. he grabbed y/n by the waist and pulled them into his chest, tucking his face away in the crook of their neck. his hold on them tightens as he feels their small exhales on his neck. “so am i.” he finally spoke.

suna and y/n would always take naps together. but today was different. the stress suna had from volleyball practice and the one y/n had from studies, the two could go into hibernation right now and not wake up for months if they could. but it was impossible, so for now they just enjoyed the warm embrace of one another.

they both stretched and entangled their limbs together as they got ready to take a nap. y/n closed their eyes and was on the verge of slipping into slumber before they felt a small press against their lips. opening their eyes abruptly, they see suna staring back at them with a sly smirk on his face. “.. what was that?” they uttered with their eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.

“a kiss silly,” suna teased. “you looked so cute i couldn't help myself.” the two just stared at each other, blinking slowly waiting for the other to say something. “why?” they asked confused. it was such a random place to have their first kiss. but suna simply shrugged. “i don't know.” he answered.

“..wanna do it again?”

“sure.”

IWAIZUMI HAJIME

▪︎ this man will be straight up and not hesitate.

▪︎ i think iwa would be more abrupt. like you guys would just be talking and all of a sudden he's smashing his lips onto yours. he wouldn't doing it harshly though. in a very firm but gentle way.

▪︎ he'd do it based on his gus instinct. if he felt that it was the right place and time to have your guys’ first kiss, then it's right.

(pretend they won to go to nationals lol)

the gymnasium boomed with thunderous cheers and claps as the final blow of the whistle sounded. aoba johsai had made it to nationals. as the team came to embrace each other on the court, iwaizumi scanned the crowd, looking for that one familiar face. as they made eye contact, he could see y/n standing there looking down at him with a bright smile on their face as they screamed joyously.

5 minutes later, the team exits through the doors of the gym to the hallway, and iwazumi is met with the sight of his partner standing right in front of him with open arms. he rushed over to them, grabbing them by their thighs and lifting them in the air as y/n squealed in surprise. “i'm so proud of you!” they praised.

iwaizumi put them down and hugged them tightly while breathing heavily, still out of breath from the intense match not long ago. his face was tucked securely into the crook of their neck as he swayed them both side to side. “thank you.” he murmured into the skin. y/n couldn't fight the tears welling up in their eyes as the amount of pride they held in their boyfriend was too much.

but before they could react, iwaizumi was pulling away and smashing his lips into theirs, y/n letting out a surprised squeal before melting away in the kiss. his calloused hands caressed their face as he poured all of his passion into it.

KUROO TETSURŌ

▪︎ he would be extremely confident during the first kiss.

▪︎ kuroo is calculated. this helps with his self-assurance and the way he initiates/reacts during the kiss. he would start off by lightly teasing his partner before initiating the kiss.

▪︎ he is also highly observant, and is able to read his s/o's body language in the same way akaashi does.

a first date at the science museum seemed like an odd pick. but for kuroo and y/n there couldn't be anything more perfect. as the two walk hand in hand, they both drag each other to different parts of the exhibit and list off random facts that weren't listed on the descriptions.

“it's fascinating, isn't it?” kuroo said. he was intrigued with the 3D model of kinetic energy that was presented in front of him. y/n couldn't help but admire how eager their boyfriend was. both of them had an interest in science, but kuroo's beat hers by a long shot.

they couldn't help but trail their eyes over his face, taking in the smaller details. like the wrinkles in the corner of his eyes, the way his eyes sparkled when he was doing something he liked, everything was admirable. and his lips slightly glistened and they couldn't help but wonder what his lips would feel like on theirs.

kuroo noticed this, of course. how could he not? he couldn't ignore the feeling of their eyes on the side of his face and the way they'd fiddle with their fingers as they continued to observe every inch of his face except for the views in front of them. if it was anyone else, he would've been annoyed. but y/n? he found it endearing. kuroo turned to her and chuckled as they tensed when he caught them staring. “do you want to kiss me?” he asked abruptly, teasing them softly.

their eyes widen as their muscles tense up, stuttering out mutters explaining how they weren't staring but kuroo didn't buy it. he continued to tease them as he stepped closer, grabbing the back of their softly without them even noticing. kuroo connected their lips, blurring out their surroundings. in his mind, it was just him and his lover sharing their first of many more.

©lookingforuravity 2024 | please do not copy, translate, or repost my work onto other

#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #kageyama tobio #kageyama x reader #tsukishima x reader #suna x reader #iwaizumi x reader #akaashi keiji #akaashi x reader #kuroo x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyu fluff #rea writes !

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tomboy014 · 8 months ago

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Tamaranean Siblings, Part 2!

After the Body Swap incident, Phantom and Starfire get close. Really close. Turns out swapping bodies breaks down a lot of boundaries, and unlike Raven, the two have bonded. Starfire has always been a hugger, and she’s taken to carrying Phantom around like a teddy bear. Phantom is used to having a red-headed big sister, and ever since his parents worked the ecto-deflectors into their jumpsuits, he might maybe be a teensy bit touch starved. He loves to sprawl over Starfire whenever they hang out together.

It’s driving Robin up the wall. Phantom knows he’s been crushing on Starfire for a while, and he goes and does this?! He can’t help but get more brusque with Phantom, to the point it starts to interfere with group dynamics, and it prompts even Starfire to tell him off for it.

Danny confronts Dick privately to tell him off for being a total dingus. As far as the two of them are concerned, Kor’i and Danny are basically siblings now. He’s knows Dick has a crush on her; that’s why Danny has been trying to talk him up to Kor’i so she’ll give him a chance, and his attitude is not helping. Dick needs to CHILL OUT!

Robin: … Who?

Phantom: You live with her for pete’s sake! How do you not know her first name?!

This is also where it comes to light that Robin/Dick doesn’t actually have any dating experience.

Robin is a super popular super hero, leader of his team, and supposedly smooth and charismatic. Dick Grayson is the adopted son of Bruce frickin’ Wayne and beloved by the public. Danny’s at the bottom of the social ladder and he still got a date with the most popular girl in school. Twice! How are you this bad at girls?

Either way, things with Robin start to calm down and the group dynamic returns to normal (though Danny will never let him live down his lack of love life). But things in the training room start to heat up.

Starfire and Phantom now have a much better understanding of each other’s limits, and the gloves are off. The whole tower shakes whenever the two of them spar together, and they’re both experimenting with new ways to use their energy powers after seeing how the other uses theirs. Phantom even manages to give Starfire a black eye for the first time, and she’s ecstatic! It’s a Tamaranean thing. In their culture, it’s an accomplishment when a younger sibling to visibly injures the elder sibling for the first time. It shows how much the younger has grown and how well the elder has taught them. Starfire is super proud and posts it all over SpaceBook.

But Phantom has ulterior motives for pushing Starfire the way he has been. No one knows his strengths like Starfire does. More importantly, no one knows his weaknesses the way she does. If there’s anyone who’d know how to stop him…

Phantom asks Starfire to be his contingency plan, and explains everything that happened in The Ultimate Enemy, about his future self, what he did, and how terrified he is if he one day becomes that. If that ever happens, he wants her to be the one to take him out.

Don’t try to talk him out of it. He already gets it enough from his friends and sister that it won’t happen. That he’s a good person. He doesn’t need to worry about that, etc. He’s heard it all before, but… None of them have actually agreed or promised to end him if it does happen. And if it does… his friends are only human, and they couldn’t stop him before.

Starfire agrees. She can see how important this is to him, and she won’t lose Danny to a dark path the same way she lost her sister. The wave of relief that washes over him breaks Starfire’s heart. These must be the horrible feelings that led him to develop the Ghostly Wail.

Still, she is confident that this future won’t come to pass because he chooses not to let it happen. She, too, has been flung forward into a bleak future, but she knows nothing in the past, present or future is set in stone. She fought and changed the future with her own two hands. She’s knows Phantom is strong enough to do the same.

While Dick and Danny were never really good at staying in contact with each other, Kor’i is and keeps up her relationship with Danny even after he “retires.” She knew months before Dick of Jason did that he took the job at Arkham and is happy for him. It may not be the career path he wanted, but he found a good job and a way to still help people without his powers.

<<Prev

#dpxdc #danny phantom #starfire #arkham guard au #arkham guard backstory #long post #but we aren't done yet!

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pupkashi · 4 months ago

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a/n: happy belated solo saturday !! meant to post this yesterday but got busy w other things </3 i hope u guys like it !!!

thinking about jinwoo who has a tendency of making mountains out of mole hills when it comes to you, the love of his life.

you have a slight cough? should he give you a potion? take you to the doctor? where’s the thermometer? he wants to make sure you aren’t running a fever. you have a small cut on you? he’s healing you up the moment it happens or the moment he’s aware of it.

“jin you know im not gonna die from a paper cut right?” you tease, watching your raven haired lovers eyes flicker a pale blue color for a second. “right?” you repeat, giggling when you see a small pout on his face.

“don’t want you hurt, not when i can heal you” his voice is a bit heavy for the lighthearted joke you were making, causing your eyes to soften as you let out a small sigh.

your fingers find themselves in his hair, pushing it back and exposing his forehead. you press a light kiss to his forehead, holding him a bit close for a second before pulling away. “and i love you for it, but i don’t need you worrying about me and putting pressure on yourself when im not even in danger” you reason, a small smile on your face as your eyes catch his.

jinwoo blushes a bit, mind wandering to all the times he’d panicked more over your minor injuries than you did. “I’ll try not to” he sighs, smiling softly when you give him a kiss on his nose, “promise me you’ll come to me when you are hurt.” the serious look on his face is enough to send chills down your spine, making you giggle and nod.

“you know I’ll always call you first.”

your words are enough to ease your lovers worries, his fingers ghosting over your skin before pulling you into his chest and letting himself melt into you.

two days later you’re calling for your lover from across the house, he’s at your side in an instant. “yes?” he asks, his chin resting your shoulder as he looks at the papers on your desk.

“i got a paper cut” you pout, holding your finger up for him to see. the beat of silence makes you turn your head to the side, a confused look on your face when jinwoo doesn’t heal it.

“what?” he asks, a teasing smirk on his face that makes you let out a huff. “oh did you want me to heal it? but you aren’t gonna die from it, and it’s not even bleeding” he states, gently grabbing your finger and pulling it closer to inspect it. “I think you’ll live, my love.”

you smack his shoulder, a playful scoff leaving your lips as you tear your hand from his grasp. “whatever i didn’t want you help anyway” you mumble, going back to what you were doing.

jinwoo grabs your hand again, healing your small paper cut before pressing a sloppy wet kiss to your cheek. you feign disgust, a smile on your face as you grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him in for a kiss on his lips. jinwoo can’t help but smile as your lips meet, letting out a satisfied hum.

“does this mean i can keep fussing over you?” he asks when you pull away, you can’t help but roll your eyes at him.

“as long as you don’t stress yourself out over it” you reply, jinwoo opens his mouth to reply but you cut him off, “and i get to do the same over you.” the latter makes him huff, his bottom lip sticking out as he looks to the side before looking back at you.

“I’ll tone it down” he replies, “now cmon.” jinwoo wastes no time in picking you up and carrying you to the couch, there’s no point in arguing, instead you let yourself nuzzle into your boyfriends side. jinwoo pulls you in closer, kissing the top of your head and smiling down at you fondly.

maybe he does fuss over you too much, but he didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon.

#not proofread #didn’t know how to end it sawry #sung jinwoo x reader #sung jinwoo fluff #sung jinwoo imagine #sung jinwoo fanfic #sung jinwoo x you #sung jinwoo x y/n #sung jinwoo x reader fluff #jinwoo sung x reader #jinwoo sung x you #jinwoo sung fluff #solo leveling imagine #solo leveling fluff

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cosmicties · 3 months ago

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. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

LADS pheromones/scents ↬ how i think they would smell like

. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

a/n: me and @inkytoru where screaming about hybrid and omegaverse au's in the lads server i run and i felt the need to do this. that's it. that's the post. if you don't care for omegaverse you can just take it as how i think their colognes smell! the small blurbs are pretty much omegaverse coded tho

no tw's! unless you count pheromones as a tw.

. ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ .

Xavier ↬ Cotton Musk, Tonka Bean, Marshmallow | Sweet, airy, deceptive | A cloud of innocent softness with a golden, toasted core; the cozy sweetness blooms into something heavier and stickier beneath its clean exterior.

Xavier smells clean and airy, sweet in a way that sticks to your nose and makes you smile and tease him how worried you are that you'll get cavities just from smelling it. And then the scent lingers, and slowly but surely you can feel the heavier smoky tones of it. He apologizes for the scent always clinging to you, all soft expressions and apologetic gazes, somehow you don't believe him.

Zayne ↬ Spearmint, Sage, Nutmeg | Fresh, herbal, warm | A cooling green brightness softens into spiced earthiness; crisp leaves and sharp air folding into a subtle, comforting warmth beneath.

Most times you can't actually smell Zayne. Hidden deep beneath the scent of disinfectant that clings to him and the scent suppressors that he wears because of his work. But on the days that he is off, rare as they are, when he can allow his skin to breathe... His scent reminds you of a forest during a snowfall, earthy and cool, breathing against your frame and keeping you grounded at the same time. And then it's like coming home, warm and comforting like a cup of hot cocoa in front of the fireplace.

Rafayel ↬ Sea Salt, Caramel, Cedarwood | Salty, sweet, woody | A rich, velvety sweetness mingles with a coastal breeze, while warm, earthy woods ground the scent in a cozy, indulgent embrace.

Rafayel smells like the sea in the most indulgent way. Salty caramel that tastes even sweeter than it smells, with that sharp edge to offset it all. Those two notes are always very sharp, almost dominant in their intensity, it hides the cedarwood, that woodsy warmth that foretells of being adrift at sea but knowing you have a home to come to. It speaks of trips with an end game, of promises and indulgences and new discoveries.

Sylus ↬ Musk, Black Orchid, Dark Chocolate | Rich, sensual, decadent | A luxurious, animalic warmth envelops the deep, velvety orchid, while the bitter sweetness of dark chocolate adds an indulgent, seductive finish.

Sylus smells expensive. Like his scent could be sold for thousands before a pack of ravenous fans. Manly in a way that isn't overt, luxurious without being tacky and sweet without being overly so. It's a balance that he manages with an effortlessness that leaves you more breathless than anything else. It's seductive in a way that makes it seem made just for you. Lingering not on your person as you want it to, but everywhere in your home. As if he wants you to get used to it, to crave it.

Caleb ↬ Dark Musk, Amber, Dark Chocolate | Rich, sensual, intense | The deep, animalic warmth of dark musk mingles with the resinous richness of amber, while the bittersweet intensity of dark chocolate adds an indulgent and luxurious edge to the fragrance.

Before the explosion, there was no bitterness to the chocolate that was Caleb's scent. There was always richness and something sharper in his scent, but they were drowned by the sweet chocolate that coated your tongue and clung to your clothes and skin. You could equate it to eating a very rich milk chocolate, that coating of caramel-y sweetness that stayed in your tongue as you continued through your day. This new Caleb still smells like chocolate, but it is not the main note now, and it has become dark chocolate instead of the sweet milk one you remembered. It still coats your tongue in that same indulgent way, but it is now something of a side dish to the main notes of his scent - that masculine musk and richness that is still Caleb in a different but still plesant way.

#lads caleb #lads sylus #lads xavier #lads zayne #love and deepspace #lads rafayel #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #sylus x reader #caleb x reader #lads x reader

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mrs-delaney · 30 days ago

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Behind The Lens | Joe's POV | Part Two

gif by @burrowstyles5

📸 behind the lens ✨ the full story — before joe’s side of things 👀 click here to catch up

📝 want more stories? check out my masterlist to see everything I’ve written ✨

📬 want to be the first to know when i post? join my taglist here 💌

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 21.6k

📩 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: I’m nervous about this one, y’all. The original was so long and it was difficult to work side by side with Y/N’s POV to get everything totally right and accurate. I really hope the work reflects how much time this took—making sure Joe’s internal thoughts matched up with what Y/N was experiencing, keeping timelines straight, and capturing his voice authentically while showing a different perspective on the same events. Thank you for your patience while I figured out how to make this work! Please send me messages, comments, talk to me—I’m in 😭

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

December 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe stared at his phone, Y/N's last text still unanswered from three days ago. It had been about the upcoming playoff content strategy—completely professional, the kind of message that used to lead to longer conversations but now just sat there, marked as read.

The house felt different with Ellie visiting for the week. She'd been understanding about his game preparation, setting up her work station in the guest room to film content while he focused on film study. Her schedule was flexible enough that she could work from anywhere, which made these longer visits possible.

"How's the playoff prep going?" Ellie asked, appearing in the doorway of his media room with a bottle of water. She was dressed for one of her morning routine videos—athleisure that looked effortless but Joe knew was carefully chosen.

"Good," Joe said, pausing the defensive film he'd been studying. "Ravens are going to be tough, but we're ready."

Ellie nodded, though Joe could tell she was already mentally moving on to her next task. She supported his career without needing to understand the specifics, which was actually refreshing after years of people wanting detailed breakdowns of every play call.

"I'm going to film some content about supporting someone during playoff season," she said, settling her coffee on his desk. "Nothing with you in it, obviously. Just my perspective on the intensity of this time of year."

Joe appreciated that she understood his boundaries about appearing in her content. Their relationship was public now, but he kept his participation in her social media to a minimum. She got great engagement from her football girlfriend content without needing him to perform for her camera.

"That'll be good," Joe said. "Your followers seem to like the behind-the-scenes stuff."

"They do," Ellie agreed, already moving toward the door. "I'll be quiet while you finish up."

After she left, Joe returned to his film study, but found his attention drifting. The house was peaceful—Ellie working in her space, him working in his. It was comfortable, uncomplicated.

So why did he keep thinking about Y/N's unanswered text?

He pulled up his phone again, looking at the text thread with Y/N. His message about playoff content strategy from three days ago was still there, marked as read but unanswered. A simple work question that would have gotten an immediate response a year ago. Now, radio silence.

Joe set his phone aside, telling himself he was reading too much into it. Y/N was busy, playoffs were intense, everyone was focused. The slight distance he'd been sensing was probably just professional efficiency under pressure.

But something nagged at him as he tried to refocus on film. Y/N had been different since Thanksgiving, since news of his relationship with Ellie had become public. Not unprofessional—never that. But contained in a way that felt deliberate.

Ellie was upstairs in the guest room, probably filming content about playoff season or her morning routine. She was good at what she did, professional in her content creation, understanding about the demands of his schedule.

It was exactly what he needed right now—someone who supported his career without adding complications or demanding emotional energy he didn't have to spare.

Joe returned to his film study, pushing aside the nagging feeling that something had shifted in his world without him noticing when or why.

* * *

December 2024 - Three Days Later

Joe's phone buzzed with a team notification as he finished his morning workout. Group message from Y/N about updated practice schedules for the week. Professional, efficient, sent to the entire offensive unit.

He'd noticed she'd been handling most communications through group messages lately rather than direct texts. Made sense from an organizational standpoint, but it felt impersonal compared to their usual dynamic.

Ellie was in the kitchen when he came upstairs, phone propped on the counter as she filmed herself making what she called her "playoff week smoothie"—something green and instagram-worthy that she'd promote for one of her wellness sponsors.

"Morning, babe," she said, glancing up from her filming setup. "How was the workout?"

"Good," Joe said, grabbing water from the fridge. "Feeling ready for practice today."

"That's great," Ellie replied, returning her attention to the camera. "As I was saying, maintaining routine during high-stress periods is so important for mental health..."

Joe listened with half attention as Ellie wrapped up her content, marveling at how naturally she could shift between conversation with him and her professional presenter voice. She'd built an impressive following by being authentic about her life while still maintaining the polish that brands wanted to work with.

After she finished filming, Ellie settled beside him at the counter. "I'm thinking of flying back to LA tomorrow instead of Thursday. Give you more space to focus before the game."

Joe felt a flash of something—relief? guilt?—at the suggestion. "You don't have to do that. This is your routine too now."

"I know," Ellie said, bumping his shoulder gently. "But I can tell when you need full game mode. I've got meetings I could move up anyway."

The considerate gesture was typical Ellie—understanding his needs without making him feel guilty for having them. She'd adapted to the rhythms of his career without trying to change them or demanding more attention than he could give during intense periods.

"If you're sure," Joe said. "I appreciate how flexible you are with all this."

"It's part of dating you," Ellie replied matter-of-factly. "I knew what I was signing up for."

Later, as Joe drove to the facility, he found himself thinking about Ellie's easy acceptance of his career demands. She never pushed for more time or attention than he could give, never made him feel guilty for being unavailable during crucial weeks.

It was exactly what he should want—a partner who understood professional obligations and didn't create additional stress during already intense periods.

But arriving at the facility, Joe felt that familiar anticipation about seeing Y/N that he'd been trying to ignore. Not for any specific reason—just the comfortable rhythm of their collaboration, the way she understood the nuances of game preparation in ways that made his media obligations feel manageable rather than burdensome.

Walking through the halls, Joe realized he was looking forward to their usual pre-practice check-in about content needs, about his comfort level with different interview approaches, about the small collaborative details that made working with her effortless.

He just hoped whatever distance he'd been sensing lately was temporary, a function of playoff stress rather than something more permanent.

The thought that Y/N might be pulling back deliberately—Joe didn’t like that thought.

* * *

Three weeks after Y/N's return from Louisville

Joe had been watching Y/N for weeks now, cataloging the subtle changes in her behavior like he studied defensive formations. The way she'd started taking different routes through the facility. How she'd position herself in meetings to avoid direct eye contact. The careful timing of her arrivals and departures to minimize their overlap.

It wasn't random. It was strategic. And Joe was tired of pretending he didn't notice.

He found her outside the edit room, tablet in hand, completely absorbed in reviewing footage. For a moment, Joe just watched her work—the focused intensity that had always characterized her approach to everything, the way she'd unconsciously tuck her hair behind her ear when concentrating.

"Coffee this week?" The question came out more loaded than he'd intended, but Joe was past caring about subtlety. "We haven't really caught up since you got back from Louisville."

Y/N didn't look up from her tablet, her attention seemingly fixed on whatever footage she was reviewing. "Crazy schedule right now. Maybe next time."

The deflection came easily. Joe realized this wasn’t the first time she’d used that exact response.

"That's what you said last week," he said, letting frustration color his voice. "And the week before."

"End of season push," Y/N replied without missing a beat. "You know how it is."

Joe studied her face, noting the careful way she kept her eyes on the screen, the slight tension in her shoulders that suggested she was working to maintain composure. This wasn't busy—this was avoidance.

"Y/N." He let her name hang in the air, dropping his voice to get her attention. "I know something's going on. This isn't just about workload."

For a split second, Y/N's mask slipped. Joe caught the flicker of something—vulnerability, maybe, or recognition that he'd seen through her careful performance. But it was gone quickly, replaced by that same professional neutrality.

"Nothing's going on," she said, finally looking up with a smile that belonged in a press conference. "Just managing workflow. Speaking of which, I need to get these edits to the team."

The polite dismissal stung worse than anger would have. This was how Y/N dealt with difficult players, with media members she didn’t trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around steel boundaries.

Joe decided to abandon subtlety entirely.

"You've been avoiding me since Louisville," he said, not letting her step away. "Since the Ellie thing hit the news."

Y/N went very still, and Joe felt a grim satisfaction that he'd finally cut through her careful deflections. Her heart rate had picked up—he could see it in the slight acceleration of her breathing.

"I'm not avoiding anyone," she replied, but her voice had lost some of its steadiness. "I'm re-prioritizing assignments based on team needs."

Joe’s eyes narrowed. That was bullshit and they both knew it.

"If you say so," he said, stepping aside to let her pass. But he wasn't done. "We'll talk again soon."

Joe watched her walk away. She was trying to look unaffected, but he could tell his words had hit home.

He knew Y/N well enough to see through the professional act. She was protecting herself from something.

From what? From him?

Joe knew what was wrong. Deep down, he knew why Y/N's behavior had shifted right after news of his relationship with Ellie broke. The timing wasn't coincidental.

He'd been telling himself it was about professionalism, about Y/N maintaining appropriate boundaries. But that was bullshit. Joe thought about their easy conversations over the years, the way Y/N had been present for his most vulnerable moments during recovery, the connection that had been building between them before he'd gotten scared and chosen Ellie instead.

Because that's what he'd done, wasn't it? Chosen the safe option when what he felt for Y/N had started to feel too real, too complicated. He'd seen the way she looked at him sometimes, felt the charge in the air between them, and instead of dealing with it, he'd found someone else.

Y/N wasn't just maintaining professional distance. She was protecting herself from the guy who'd basically told her she wasn't worth the risk. The guy who'd picked someone else when things started to feel real.

He'd known this was coming. Had maybe even known it when he'd started dating Ellie in the first place.

* * *

Staff Meeting

Joe sat through the first half of the playoff media strategy meeting barely paying attention, watching Y/N instead. She'd positioned herself at the opposite end of the conference table, as far from him as possible. She ran through coverage plans and platform strategies like she always did, completely professional, completely competent.

But when she started assigning responsibilities, Joe's attention sharpened.

"Tyler will continue handling quarterback coverage," Y/N said, her tone suggesting this was a foregone conclusion. "We want consistency through the playoff run."

Joe's jaw tightened. Four years of working together, and she was just going to reassign him like it was nothing? Like he didn't get a say?

"I want Y/N for the post-game segment," he said, interrupting whatever conversation was happening around him. "We have a system."

The words came out sharper than he'd meant them to, but he didn't care anymore. She was cutting him out completely, and he wasn't going to just sit there and take it.

Y/N looked right at him. "Tyler's been doing your segments for weeks. We need to keep things consistent for playoffs."

She was missing the point entirely. This wasn't about Tyler. This was about her avoiding him.

"Y/N knows my cues better," Joe pressed, maintaining eye contact despite her obvious discomfort. "It makes more sense."

He watched her face, looking for something—anything—that showed this was hard for her too. Nothing.

"Tyler's done an excellent job," she replied smoothly. "And I'll be overseeing all content production. The current assignments stand."

The way she shut him down, in front of everyone—it stung. The finality in her voice, how she wouldn't even consider what he wanted, felt like she was dismissing everything they'd built together over four years. Joe noticed the room had gone quiet, people looking between them like they could sense something was off.

After the meeting broke up, Joe hung back, hoping to catch Y/N alone. But she was already packing up her stuff, moving with that practiced efficiency that meant she'd planned her escape before the meeting even started.

So this was how it was going to be. Y/N's distance wasn't about workload or being busy with playoffs. It was personal. She was actively tearing down everything they'd worked to build together, systematically dismantling four years of collaboration like it had never mattered at all.

As Joe watched Y/N leave the conference room without a backward glance, he felt the pieces finally click into place. This wasn't just about professional boundaries or protecting their working relationship.

Y/N had feelings for him. Had probably had them for longer than he'd realized.

And his relationship with Ellie had forced her to choose between her job and her heart. She'd chosen her job, built walls to keep herself safe, and now she was systematically dismantling everything they'd shared to protect what was left.

The recognition hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd been so focused on his own fear of complications that he'd completely missed what was happening right in front of him.

Joe thought about their friendship, about the easy conversations and mutual trust that had developed over years of working together. He thought about Y/N's presence during his recovery, her understanding during his most vulnerable moments, the way she'd made him feel seen and supported when everything else felt uncertain.

All those moments during his recovery, the easy conversations, the way she'd look at him sometimes—it hadn't been just professional support.

* * *

Later that day

Joe was reviewing game film when Sam's voice in the hallway caught his attention. Y/N's name made him pause the video.

"...different since she got back from Louisville," he heard someone say. Probably one of the other media staff.

Joe muted his laptop, focusing on the conversation outside his door.

"Right after the Ellie news broke," Sam's voice confirmed. "I'm worried about her."

There it was. Confirmation of what he'd already known but hadn't wanted to face. Y/N's behavior wasn't about workload or professionalism. It was about him and Ellie.

Joe sat back in his chair. Y/N had been dealing with this for weeks, keeping everything together at work while handling whatever she felt about his relationship. And he'd just gone about his business, completely clueless.

He thought about Ellie—easy, uncomplicated, safe. No messy history, no complicated feelings. Exactly what he'd thought he wanted.

But now, thinking about Y/N's careful distance and what it actually meant, Joe wondered if he'd chosen the wrong thing entirely. Chosen comfort over connection.

* * *

January 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe had been looking for this chance for weeks. Playoffs were chaotic enough that Y/N couldn't avoid him as easily, and he'd been watching her patterns, waiting for the right moment.

He spotted her in the main corridor with her clipboard, directing her team like she always did. Even from here, he could see how she'd positioned herself near the exits. Probably already planning her escape if she saw him coming.

Joe hung back in the weight room doorway, tablet in hand so he'd look like he had a reason to be there. When Y/N's team scattered and she headed for the edit bay—exactly where he'd figured she'd go—he stepped out.

"Y/N."

He watched her stop dead, saw her shoulders go rigid before she turned around. That split second told him everything—being around him was work for her now.

"Joe," she replied, her tone hitting that perfect note of polite professionalism that had become her default with him. "Something you need?"

Joe stepped closer, noting how Y/N's grip tightened slightly on her clipboard. "Just wanted to confirm the gameday shoot schedule. Tyler sent it over, but there's a conflict with the offensive meeting."

It was a legitimate concern, but Joe's real motivation was simpler: he wanted to see if Y/N would handle this personally or continue delegating everything through Tyler.

"I can have him adjust it," Y/N replied, already reaching for her phone. "We're flexible."

The immediate deflection was exactly what he'd expected. Thirty seconds of conversation, and she was already looking for Tyler to handle it instead.

"You could adjust it," Joe pressed, keeping his voice casual despite his growing frustration. "You've been handling the playoff schedule for four seasons."

He watched her face. Nothing. She gave him absolutely nothing.

"Tyler's got it covered," she said simply.

Joe's jaw tightened. Four years, and now she wanted to manage him through Tyler like he was some difficult rookie.

"Sure," he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "If that's how you want to play it."

Silence. Y/N wouldn't even look at him directly, her shoulders tense like she was bracing for something.

Up close, he could see how tired she looked. Not playoff tired. Something else entirely.

"How was Louisville?" The question slipped out before Joe could stop it, his genuine concern overriding his strategic approach to this conversation.

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—surprise, maybe, that he'd asked something personal.

"Good," she answered, then seemed to catch herself being too brief. "Nice to be home for the holidays."

Joe nodded, filing away her admission that Louisville still felt like home after years in Cincinnati. "Your brothers seemed happy to have you back. Saw Matt's post."

He'd been following her family on social media since their second year working together, though he'd never mentioned it directly. Matt's Instagram story from Christmas had shown Y/N laughing with her nieces, looking more relaxed than Joe had seen her in months.

"Family time is always good," Y/N said, glancing at her watch with the kind of deliberate gesture that meant she was planning her exit.

Joe didn't move aside, using his physical presence to keep her engaged despite her obvious desire to escape. "You know," he said, dropping his voice slightly, "this whole distance thing doesn't actually work if everyone notices it."

For just a second, her guard dropped—he saw the alarm in her eyes before she caught herself.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said, but Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing.

Time to abandon subtlety entirely.

"Ja'maar asked me yesterday what happened between us," Joe continued, maintaining eye contact despite Y/N's obvious discomfort. "Says the whole team has noticed you don't work with me directly anymore."

It was true, and he wanted her to know that people had noticed.

"I work with the entire team," Y/N countered, but Joe heard the slight defensiveness beneath her smooth response. "Staff adjustments happen all the time."

"Not like this," Joe said quietly, letting his voice carry the weight of four years of collaboration. "Not after four years."

He saw Y/N's composure start to crack under his direct challenge, watched her mask begin to slip as she realized he wasn't going to accept her deflections.

"Is there a point to this conversation, Joe?" she asked, her voice taking on an edge he rarely heard from her. "Because I really do have a deadline."

The slight desperation in her question told Joe he was finally getting through her defenses. She was feeling cornered, which meant she was feeling something beyond professional indifference.

"The point is," Joe said, letting his own frustration show, "whatever's going on with you, people are noticing. And they're asking me about it, as if I have answers." He paused, studying her face. "Which I don't, because someone won't actually talk to me."

The accusation hung between them, more direct than any conversation they'd had in months. Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw her square her shoulders as she prepared to deflect again.

"There's nothing to talk about," she insisted, but her voice had lost some of its steadiness. "And frankly, if players are gossiping instead of focusing on playoff prep, that's concerning."

Joe almost smiled at her attempt to turn the conversation back to work. Even cornered, Y/N's instinct was to protect team focus and professional boundaries.

"Always deflecting," he said, finally stepping aside to let her pass. But he wasn't done. "Good luck with the edit, Y/N."

As she started to walk away, Joe felt a moment of desperation. Y/N was slipping away from him in ways he was only beginning to understand, and his window for addressing it was closing.

"For what it's worth," he called after her, the admission coming out more vulnerable than he'd intended, "I miss working with you."

Y/N didn't turn around, but her steps hitched for just a second before she kept walking. He'd gotten to her.

Standing alone in the hallway, Joe finally let himself admit what he'd been avoiding. Y/N had feelings for him. Real feelings. The kind that made normal conversation feel dangerous, that required her to build walls just to get through the day.

He thought about Ellie—easy, uncomplicated, safe. Then he thought about Y/N's careful composure, the way she'd looked when he said he missed working with her.

Maybe he'd been choosing the wrong thing all along. Choosing easy over what actually mattered.

The thought scared the hell out of him. Because if Y/N felt something for him, and if he was finally being honest about what he felt for her, then his nice, controlled life was about to get a lot more complicated.

* * *

Late January 2025 - Bengals Facility

The locker room felt empty, drained of all the energy that had carried them through the playoffs. Joe went through his post-season routine on autopilot—packing gear, saying goodbye to teammates, trying to process that their season was over.

Y/N was there with her camera, documenting everything like she always did. For months, she'd managed to avoid him, but in the cramped locker room, she couldn't stay completely out of his way. Joe found himself watching her work, seeing how she moved to get her shots while still keeping her distance from him.

"That's it for me," Ja'maar said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "See you in a few months, man."

Joe nodded, clasping his teammate's hand. "Get some rest. We'll be back."

As players headed out, Joe realized this might be his last shot to talk to Y/N before the offseason. They'd be on different coasts for months, and ending things with nothing but work talk felt wrong after everything they'd been through.

She was by the exit with her camera bag, ready to leave. Sam was with her, and Joe could hear Tyler mentioning Y/N's name from across the room, though he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Tyler handled Burrow's exit interview," Tyler was saying to someone. "Went pretty well, got some good content."

Joe felt that familiar frustration. Even today, on the last day of the season, she'd had Tyler handle his exit interview. No final conversation, no acknowledgment of what they'd been through together this year.

He walked over as they finished packing up. Y/N went rigid the second she saw him coming.

"Exit interviews done?" he asked, addressing both women but looking at Y/N.

"Just wrapping up," Sam replied when Y/N didn't immediately respond. "Tyler said yours went well."

Joe nodded, then decided to abandon subtlety. "Tyler's good," he said, meeting Y/N's eyes. "Different perspective."

The emphasis was intentional. Tyler was fine, but it wasn't the same, and they both knew it.

"Heading out already?" Y/N asked, her tone carefully neutral as she finally acknowledged him directly.

"Flight to California tonight," Joe confirmed, watching her face for any reaction to the mention of where Ellie was based. "Offseason training starts next week."

Something crossed her face when he mentioned California. Like she'd been expecting it.

"Have a good offseason," Y/N said, and the polite dismissal hit him hard. After four years of everything they'd been through together, she was talking to him like he was just another player heading out the door.

Joe looked at her face, hoping for something—anything. But she gave him nothing. Complete professional courtesy, like they were strangers.

"You too, Y/N," he said finally, accepting defeat. He glanced at Sam. "Both of you."

As he walked away, Joe felt everything they weren't saying hanging in the air. No mention of their history, nothing about what they'd built together over four years. Like their partnership had been just another work assignment.

Y/N was letting him leave without a fight, without even trying to make it personal. The message was clear: whatever they'd had was done. Finished with the season.

* * *

That Evening - Airport

Joe sat in the airport departure lounge, flight delayed, staring at Y/N's contact on his phone. His finger hovered over the keyboard but he couldn't figure out what to say.

The whole day felt off, and it wasn't about losing in the playoffs. Seasons ended. That was football. But the way things had gone with Y/N felt wrong somehow.

He kept thinking about Tyler's exit interview. Fine, but basic. Y/N would have asked better questions, dug deeper into what he was thinking, what he'd learned. Tyler had just hit the obvious stuff—stats, team performance, surface-level bullshit.

Joe started typing before he could talk himself out of it:

Wish you'd done my exit interview. Tyler didn't ask the right questions.

He hit send before he could reconsider, then immediately regretted it. Now he sounded desperate, reaching out when she was clearly trying to get away from him. Which he was, but she didn't need to know that.

The response came faster than he'd expected:

Safe travels. Good luck with offseason training.

Joe stared at the message. Even over text, she was keeping him at arm's length.

Still shutting me out. At least you're consistent.

The words came out harsher than he'd intended, but Joe was tired of this shit, tired of being treated like a stranger after everything they'd shared.

Not shutting you out. Just refocusing priorities.

The response felt like a door slamming shut.

Whatever you need to tell yourself.

Joe typed the words quickly, letting his frustration show. If Y/N wanted to pretend they'd never been more than player and media staff, fine. But he wasn't going to play along.

Have a good offseason, Joe.

Joe stared at the text thread. This might be it for months. By the time he got back for OTAs, she'd have had half a year to build those walls even higher.

He was losing her. Not just as a colleague, but as someone who actually mattered to him. It felt like losing something he couldn't replace.

Sitting in that terminal, waiting for a flight to California and a girlfriend who felt more like a comfortable routine than anything real, Joe realized he'd been fucking up for months.

Y/N had been protecting herself from feelings he'd been too scared to deal with. Ellie was safe, easy, but also empty in ways he couldn't ignore anymore.

His phone buzzed. Ellie, asking about his flight, talking about dinner plans and some content opportunity. Joe typed back the right responses, said the right things about being excited to see her.

But his head was still stuck on Y/N's final message, on the distance she'd kept all season, on how he'd chosen easy over everything that actually mattered.

Maybe it was too late to fix this. Maybe some mistakes couldn't be undone.

As they called his flight, Joe grabbed his stuff and headed toward months in California that felt more like punishment than vacation.

* * *

February 2025 - Los Angeles

Joe stepped off the plane at LAX into Southern California warmth, completely different from the Cincinnati winter he'd left behind. Ellie was waiting at baggage claim, looking perfect despite the early hour, all bright smiles and energy.

"There's my playoff warrior," she said, pulling him in for a kiss that felt like it was meant for the people watching. Who the hell talked like that?

"Good to see you," Joe replied, meaning it even as he noted the small audience that had gathered to watch their reunion.

The drive to Ellie's Venice Beach apartment was filled with her updates about modeling gigs, brand partnerships, and the projects she had lined up. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but Joe found himself only half-listening, his mind still processing the abrupt end to the season and the unresolved tension he'd left behind in Cincinnati.

"I thought we could do that couples workout class tomorrow," Ellie was saying as they pulled into her building's parking garage. "Well, I'd film some content there. You could just work out normally while I get my shots."

Joe nodded, appreciating that she understood his boundaries about appearing in her content. "Sounds good. I need to get back into a routine anyway."

Ellie's apartment was exactly what Joe had expected—bright, airy, filled with ring lights and camera equipment strategically placed but not overwhelming. They'd always stayed at hotels when he visited LA, or she'd come to Cincinnati, so this was his first time seeing her actual space. Her refrigerator was stocked with sponsored products, her bathroom counter arranged with skincare items that would appear in her content.

"I know it looks like a lot," Ellie said, noticing his survey of the space. "But I try to keep the work stuff contained. Most of my filming happens when you're training anyway."

"I get it," Joe said, and he did. He understood the business of personal branding, appreciated that Ellie respected his privacy while building her own career.

* * *

March 2025 - Malibu Training Facility

Six weeks in, Joe had his routine down. Morning workouts in Malibu, afternoons with his QB coach working on mechanics, evenings where Ellie edited content while he recovered or watched film.

The training was solid—some of the best he'd ever had access to. But he felt like he was just going through the motions, checking boxes without any real drive behind it.

"You seem distracted today," Liam, his QB coach, observed as they wrapped up a throwing session. "Mechanics are solid, but your head's somewhere else."

Joe toweled off, considering how to respond. "Just thinking about team stuff. Wonder how the new rookies will integrate."

It wasn't entirely true. Joe was thinking about the team, but specifically about whether Y/N was at the combine in Indianapolis, whether she was interviewing prospects, whether she was still maintaining the distance that had defined their final months of the season.

That evening, Joe sat in Ellie's living room while she filmed her post-workout routine in the kitchen, ring light positioned to catch the golden hour coming through her windows. He could hear her talking to her phone about nutrition and recovery, her voice taking on the polished cadence she used for content.

When she finished, she settled beside him on the couch, immediately shifting back to her natural speaking voice.

"Good session today?" she asked, curling up against his side.

"Yeah, making progress," Joe replied, though he wasn't sure what progress actually meant when he felt so disconnected from his usual drive.

"I got some great shots at the gym this morning," Ellie said, scrolling through her phone. "The lighting was perfect. My followers love the behind-the-scenes training stuff, even without you in it."

Joe appreciated that she never pushed him to be in her content. But watching her review footage from their morning—her perfectly curated version of what they'd done—made him think about Y/N. How Y/N captured real moments instead of manufacturing them.

Joe remembered their first real conversation, at a charity event in LA during his second year. Ellie had been working the event, but during a break, she'd sat beside him and asked, "Do you ever get tired of being 'Joe Burrow' all the time?"

The question had surprised him. Most people wanted more of the public version, not less. But Ellie had seemed genuinely curious about the person behind the image.

"Sometimes," he'd admitted. "It's a lot of pressure to be that composed all the time."

"I get it," she'd said simply. "Different industry, same thing. Sometimes I just want to eat pizza and watch Netflix without thinking about how it affects my brand."

That conversation had led to late-night texting, to private dinners, to the relief of being with someone who understood the weight of public expectations. Ellie had offered him something he desperately needed then—acceptance without demands for deeper emotional access.

But now, watching her create content about their relationship while he struggled to feel anything genuine, Joe realized that what had once felt like relief now felt like avoidance. Ellie deserved someone who wanted to know all of her, not just the parts that felt safe.

* * *

April 2025 - Venice Beach

Two months in, things with Ellie had become comfortable but empty. They looked good together, supported each other's work, but it all felt like going through the motions.

"I'm thinking about staying until June," Joe said one night while Ellie edited content on her laptop. "Push back going home."

Ellie looked up, pleased. "That would be great. I have that campaign shooting in May that would be perfect timing."

Joe nodded, though he wasn't really sure why he wanted to stay. The training was incredible—better than anything he could get back home. But that wasn't really the reason.

Maybe he was just avoiding whatever was waiting for him in Ohio. Y/N, the mess he'd made of things, the fact that all his choices were finally catching up with him.

"You seem different lately," Ellie observed, closing her laptop and giving him her full attention. "More... distant, I guess. Everything okay?"

Joe looked at her—beautiful, successful, uncomplicated Ellie who asked direct questions without demanding complicated answers.

"Just thinking about the season ahead," he said. "Whether the team's going to gel, whether we can make another run."

It was partly true, but not the whole story. Joe was thinking about the team, but specifically about Y/N and whether the distance she'd created would continue into the new season.

"You miss it," Ellie said, and it wasn't a question. "The competition, the guys, the whole Cincinnati thing."

She was right, but not completely. Joe did miss football, but more than that, he missed feeling like someone actually got him.

Ellie was perfect for what she was—supportive, successful, understanding. But perfect wasn't the same as real.

As they settled into another night of working side by side—her editing content, him watching film—Joe realized he was counting down days to go back to Cincinnati. Not because he was excited about it, but because he was tired of hiding out here.

He'd picked the safe choice, but safe was starting to feel like settling. And with OTAs coming up, he'd have to face everything he'd been avoiding—including the fact that this wasn't really his life. It was just the life he thought he was supposed to want.

* * *

Mid-April 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe pushed through his third set of bench presses, sweat building despite the early morning hour. The Bengals weight room felt different after months in California—smaller, more familiar, charged with the specific energy that came from shared purpose rather than individual training.

He'd returned to Cincinnati a week earlier than planned, unable to manufacture more reasons to delay his return. The conversation with his QB coach about getting back into team rhythm had been the final excuse he needed to leave LA, though privately Joe knew he was running toward something as much as away from it.

"Looking strong, man," the strength coach said as Joe racked the weight. "California training paid off."

"Thanks," Joe replied, toweling off. The physical improvements were real—he felt sharp, powerful, ready for the demands of another season. But the mental side remained complicated in ways that had nothing to do with football preparation.

As he gathered his water bottle and prepared to head to the next station, Joe heard familiar voices in the hallway. His pulse quickened automatically, though he tried to convince himself it was just general facility energy.

But when the weight room door swung open and he stepped into the corridor, still talking to the strength coach about next week's program, Joe's attention immediately locked onto Y/N walking down the hall.

She looked different. Not just the shorter hair, though that was striking too. Something else—more confident, maybe. More self-contained. Like the time apart had changed her in ways he couldn't put his finger on.

Their eyes met before either of them could look away. Joe felt that familiar jolt, then remembered how they'd left things—polite, distant, unfinished.

"Y/N," he said, keeping his voice neutral despite the way his heart rate had picked up.

"Joe," she replied, maintaining her stride. "Welcome back."

The greeting was perfectly appropriate and told him absolutely nothing.

"Thanks," Joe said, then found himself pushing against her careful boundaries. "Heard you've been busy while I was gone."

He'd heard things, picked up information through various channels. Y/N dating, taking vacations, apparently thriving in his absence. He hated knowing that, and he knew exactly why.

"Just the usual pre-draft chaos," Y/N replied with practiced ease. "How was California?"

The question was polite, professional, revealing nothing about whether she cared about his answer. Joe felt a flash of frustration at her careful neutrality.

"Productive," he said, though even as he said it, Joe realized how hollow the months in LA felt in retrospect. "Good to be back though."

The admission surprised him with its honesty. He was glad to be back, not just for football but for reasons he wasn't ready to examine.

An awkward silence stretched between them. Joe became aware of the strength coach hovering nearby, clearly sensing tension he didn't understand. The man muttered something about paperwork and disappeared, leaving Joe and Y/N alone in the hallway.

"I should get to my meeting," Y/N said, the efficiency in her voice suggesting she was looking for an exit from this conversation.

"Right," Joe agreed, but instead of letting her go, he found himself studying her face with new attention.

The haircut wasn't just different—it was intentional. Sharper, more sophisticated. Like she'd decided to become someone new while he was gone.

"You cut your hair," he said, the observation slipping out before he could stop it.

Y/N looked genuinely surprised by the personal comment. "Yes. Before my trip."

"It looks good," Joe said, meaning it. The cut suited her, highlighted features he'd somehow never noticed before despite working closely with her for years.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, and Joe caught something uncertain in her expression, like she wasn't sure how to respond to personal observation from him.

Joe felt an urge to say more, to push past the polite surface conversation and address the months of distance between them. But standing in the hallway with Y/N clearly wanting to escape, he realized this wasn't the time or place.

"Good luck with your meeting," he said finally, stepping aside.

"Thanks," Y/N said, then added with what felt like genuine warmth, "Good to have you back."

As she walked away, Joe stood there processing what had just happened. Y/N had been polite, professional—everything she should be. But it felt managed, like she was handling him instead of just talking to him.

This wasn't the same person he'd left behind in January. She'd changed while he was gone, found her footing without him. And honestly? She seemed better for it.

He'd spent months in California thinking about her, missing what they'd had, wondering if she was struggling too. Apparently not. She'd moved on while he'd been stuck in the same place, still thinking about what they'd lost.

The professional distance didn't feel like protection anymore. It felt like she genuinely didn't care.

That should have been freeing. If Y/N was over whatever had been between them, they could go back to working together without all the complications.

But walking back through the facility, Joe realized he didn't want that freedom. Not if it meant losing something he'd never properly valued in the first place.

* * *

Late April 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe had been waiting for this chance since he got back to Cincinnati. Y/N was working with him directly again instead of sending Tyler, which he'd hoped meant she was finally loosening up. But today had felt like working with a stranger—technically perfect but completely cold.

As Y/N packed up her equipment, Joe didn't want the session to end. This was the most time they'd spent together since January, and he wasn't ready to go back to avoiding each other in the hallways.

"New workflow seems to be working well," he said, watching her organize cables with practiced movements. "Though Tyler's approach is different from yours."

It was a casual observation, but Joe was fishing for something—any sign that Y/N missed their old collaborative dynamic.

"Everyone has their own style," Y/N replied without looking up. "He's been doing great work with the quarterback content."

"He has," Joe agreed, then decided to push slightly. "But it's good to have you back in the mix too."

Y/N finally met his gaze, her expression perfectly controlled. "Just filling in today since he's covering the offensive line segments."

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Right. Just filling in."

"I heard you've been dating," he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Y/N's hands fumbled slightly with her lens cap—the first crack in her composure he'd seen all day. "Cincinnati's a small town."

Joe felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest at her casual confirmation. "Tee mentioned something. Said you were... exploring options."

The idea of Y/N with other men, building connections with people who didn't carry the complicated history between them, bothered the fuck out of Joe.

"Just getting out there," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Nothing serious."

"Good," Joe said, though the word felt like swallowing glass. "That's... good."

Y/N snapped her camera bag closed with more force than necessary, clearly done with this conversation.

"Well, I should get this footage to editing," she said, standing with the kind of brisk efficiency that meant she was planning her escape. "Draft content won't produce itself."

Joe felt desperation rise in his chest. Y/N was about to walk away, and he had no idea when he'd get another opportunity for honest conversation.

"Y/N," he said, his voice stopping her before she could reach the door. "Are we okay?"

The question was more direct than anything he'd asked her in months, born from Joe's growing recognition that their professional relationship had become a careful performance rather than genuine collaboration.

"We're fine," Y/N said automatically. "Why wouldn't we be?"

The deflection was so practiced it felt insulting. Joe decided to abandon diplomatic phrasing entirely.

"Because this is the first real conversation we've had in months that wasn't strictly about work," he said, meeting her eyes directly. "Because you've been actively avoiding me since November. You created that buffer system, delegated all my media to Tyler, and now you're back from vacation with a new haircut and a new approach, and I feel like I'm constantly a step behind whatever's happening."

Joe watched Y/N's control slip for just a second. For the first time in months, he was getting to her.

"I needed some perspective," Y/N said after a moment, her words chosen with obvious care. "The buffer system was about creating professional clarity. And yes, the vacation helped me realize some things needed to change. But that's not about you, Joe. It's about me figuring out who I am beyond this job."

The explanation made sense but felt like bullshit. Y/N was holding something back, and they both knew it.

"And dating random guys is part of that?" The question escaped before Joe could stop it, revealing more of his reaction than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression shifted, something sharp entering her eyes. "Who I date isn't really your concern, is it? Just like your relationship with Ellie isn't mine."

The mention of Ellie hit Joe like a physical blow. He'd been so focused on understanding Y/N's distance that he'd temporarily forgotten the context that had created it—his relationship with someone else, his choice to pursue safety instead of the complicated feelings that existed between them.

"That's not—" Joe started, then stopped, recognizing he had no right to question Y/N's dating life when he was with Ellie. "It's different."

"Is it?" Y/N challenged, reaching for the door handle. "Look, Joe, we work together. We've always worked well together professionally. I'd like to keep it that way. Anything beyond that just... complicates things unnecessarily."

The dismissal stung worse than anger would have. Y/N was reducing four years of collaboration, trust, and growing connection to simple professional obligation.

"So that's it?" Joe asked, feeling something desperate rise in his chest. "We go back to player and media staff? Pretend the last four years never happened?"

"Not pretend they never happened," Y/N said, her voice gentler but no less final. "Just acknowledge that professional boundaries exist for a reason. And I'm finally respecting them."

Before Joe could respond, Y/N was gone, leaving him alone with everything they hadn't said.

Joe slumped in his chair. Y/N hadn't just kept her distance—she'd chosen it. Whatever had been between them, she was done with it.

And honestly? Good for her. She was protecting herself, building a life that didn't depend on some guy who'd picked someone else. She was dating, moving forward, doing what she should do.

But sitting in that empty room, Joe realized he'd been hoping she was as stuck as he was. That their connection mattered to her the way it had started to matter to him.

Instead, she'd figured out how to be happy without him. Had become someone who didn't need whatever complicated mess they'd had.

He thought about Ellie back in California, building content around a relationship that felt more fake every day. About choosing safe over real, easy over everything that actually mattered.

Maybe Y/N was right to cut him out. Maybe he'd lost the right to complicate her life the moment he'd decided she wasn't worth the risk.

* * *

May 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe sat through the weekly planning meeting barely listening to talk about rookie features and season ticket promotions. His attention was on Y/N at the far end of the table, as far from him as she could get while still doing her job.

Their interactions over the past few weeks had become workable but hollow. Y/N was everything she should be—professional, competent, polite. But whatever they'd had before felt like ancient history now.

"We need quarterback content for the season ticket promo," Kayla announced, and Joe felt his attention sharpen. "Y/N, can you handle that shoot, or do you want Tyler to take it?"

Joe watched Y/N's face, hoping for some sign that she might prefer to work with him directly rather than continue the delegation system she'd established.

"Tyler's already scheduled for rookie breakout features that day," Y/N said, her eyes on her notes rather than on him. "I can handle the quarterback segment."

The clinical phrasing hit Joe wrong. "Quarterback segment." Not "Joe's shoot" or even "the promo content"—just a generic position description that could apply to anyone.

"Perfect," Kayla said, making a note. "Joe, that work for your schedule?"

"Whatever works for the team," Joe replied, though privately he wondered if Y/N understood how her linguistic distance affected him.

As the meeting dispersed, Joe lingered, organizing his materials slowly while waiting for the room to clear. He needed to address this pattern before it became completely entrenched.

"You don't have to keep doing that, you know," he said once they were alone.

Y/N looked up with carefully neutral curiosity. "Doing what?"

Joe studied her face, noting the slight tension around her eyes that suggested she knew exactly what he meant. "Referring to me like I'm just a position on the team. 'Quarterback segment.' 'Quarterback content.' Like you can't even say my name."

Y/N's composure flickered for just a moment before reasserting itself. "It's not intentional. Just professional shorthand."

"It's distance," Joe corrected, keeping his voice low but letting his frustration show. "And I get why you needed it before. But I thought after your vacation, after you said you wanted normal professional interactions, that maybe we'd at least be back to... I don't know, acknowledging we know each other?"

Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw something shift in her expression. For the first time in months, she looked genuinely affected by his perspective rather than simply managing it.

"You're right," she said quietly, and Joe felt a spark of hope at the admission. "I'm sorry."

The apology was simple but felt significant. Joe's expression softened, encouraged by this crack in Y/N's professional armor.

"I miss how we used to talk," he said, the words coming out more vulnerable than he'd intended. "Not about content. Just... you and me."

The admission hung between them, loaded with memories of easier times when their connection had felt natural rather than carefully managed. Joe watched Y/N's face, looking for any sign that she missed it too.

"I've been drawing a line," Y/N said after a moment, her voice carrying something that sounded like regret. "Maybe I've drawn it too sharply."

Joe felt his heart rate pick up at her acknowledgment. This was the most honest she'd been with him since his return from California. Maybe they could find their way back to something resembling their old dynamic.

His phone buzzed against the conference table, interrupting the moment. Joe glanced at it automatically, seeing Ellie's name and a message about her travel schedule.

The reminder of his girlfriend hit like cold water, immediately recontextualizing everything about his conversation with Y/N. Here he was, pushing for more personal connection with another woman while in a relationship, crossing lines he had no right to cross.

"Ellie's back from New York tomorrow," he said, the words feeling heavy as he spoke them.

Joe watched Y/N's expression shift, saw her carefully rebuilt walls snap back into place. The moment of softness disappeared, replaced by the professional distance he'd been trying to bridge.

"That's nice," Y/N replied, her tone perfectly neutral. "I'm sure you've missed her."

The polite response felt like a door closing. Y/N was reminding them both of the reality that made their connection inappropriate, however significant it might feel.

Joe nodded, though the truth was more complicated than missing Ellie. He'd been counting days until his return to Cincinnati, thinking about Y/N more than his girlfriend, questioning choices he'd made months ago.

"See you at the promo shoot," he said, accepting the boundary Y/N was reestablishing.

As Joe left the conference room, he felt torn between what was right and what he wanted. Y/N was smart to keep her distance—he was with someone else, had no business pushing for more.

But walking through the facility, thinking about how she'd softened for just a second before catching herself, Joe knew his feelings for her had only gotten stronger.

That should have been good news. Finally knowing what he wanted. But it also meant facing how badly he'd screwed everything up.

Ellie would be back tomorrow, expecting things to be the same between them. But Joe wasn't the same person who'd chosen easy over real, who'd been too scared to risk anything that mattered.

* * *

That Evening - Joe's Home

Joe sat in his living room staring at Ellie's texts about dinner plans. The house felt too big, too quiet, nothing like the spaces that actually felt like home.

He kept thinking about Y/N admitting she'd been drawing lines too sharply, about that moment when something real had passed between them before his phone had ruined it.

California had been comfortable with Ellie—training while she made content, evenings working side by side without really connecting. Exactly what he'd thought he wanted. Uncomplicated, safe, empty.

But now, thinking about Y/N and how she'd looked when he said he missed their conversations, Joe knew he'd been choosing wrong all along.

He was with someone who fit his life perfectly but didn't make him feel anything real. While the person who actually mattered was building walls to protect herself from him.

Joe typed back to Ellie about dinner, all the right words about being excited to see her. But his mind was stuck on Y/N, on whether her distance was protection or genuine indifference.

Maybe it was time to stop living the life he thought he was supposed to want and start going after what he actually needed.

* * *

June 2025 - Team Charity Event

Joe adjusted his bow tie one final time as the car pulled up to the hotel ballroom. These charity events were part of his professional obligations—smile for donors, represent the organization well, raise money for causes that mattered. But tonight felt different, weighted with the knowledge that Y/N would be working the event.

Ellie looked stunning beside him in her red gown, every inch the perfect partner for a public appearance. She'd flown in from New York specifically for this event, understanding how important team functions were for his image.

"You look amazing," Joe said, meaning it as they walked toward the entrance.

"Thank you," Ellie smiled, automatically adjusting her posture as cameras began flashing. "This is such a beautiful venue. Perfect for content, but I know tonight isn't about that."

Joe appreciated her awareness of boundaries. Ellie understood when to be his girlfriend and when to be his professional partner, never pushing for attention that might detract from the team's mission.

But as they entered the ballroom, Joe found himself scanning the room not for donors or teammates, but for Y/N. He spotted her moving efficiently around the perimeter, camera in hand, documenting the event with the professional competence that had defined her work for years.

She looked different tonight—elegant in a way he'd never seen at work. Black dress, hair sleek and styled back. She moved through the crowd with that quiet confidence, doing her job while most people didn't even notice her.

"Joe Burrow!" A major sponsor approached with enthusiastic energy. "Great to see you. How's the off-season preparation going?"

Joe shifted into public mode, engaging with practiced charm while part of his attention tracked Y/N's movement through the room. She was working methodically, capturing moments that would become the official story of the evening.

For an hour, Joe did what he was supposed to do—photos with donors, small talk about the team, all the standard stuff. But he kept tracking Y/N around the room, watching her work while staying out of his way.

When they finally sat down for dinner, Joe realized she'd have to come to their table for photos. The thought made his pulse pick up.

"Joe Burrow's table is next," he heard someone say, presumably through Y/N's earpiece.

Y/N approached their table with camera ready, her expression professionally pleasant. "Evening, everyone. Time for the official table photo."

Their eyes met immediately, and Joe felt that familiar jolt of connection before he carefully arranged his features into an appropriate smile. This was exactly the kind of interaction they'd been navigating for months—professional necessity complicated by unresolved personal tension.

"Y/N," Joe acknowledged. "Didn't realize you'd be shooting tonight."

"Last-minute call," she replied smoothly. "We needed a few extra hands."

Before Joe could extend the conversation, Ellie turned toward Y/N with genuine warmth.

"You must be Y/N," she said, extending her hand. "Joe's told me so much about you. I've seen your work—it's amazing."

Joe watched this with mixed feelings. Ellie's enthusiasm was real—she'd actually brought up Y/N before, had complimented her work. But seeing them together just highlighted how weird his situation had become.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, shaking Ellie's hand with professional composure. "I appreciate that."

Joe caught Y/N's surprise at the compliment, saw her trying to figure out Ellie's friendliness. Part of him wanted to explain why he'd talked about Y/N at all, but surrounded by all these people, with Ellie's hand on his arm, there was no way to say what he really meant.

But surrounded by sponsors and teammates, with Ellie's hand resting on his arm, those explanations felt impossible.

"Actually, I'm capturing candids tonight," Y/N said, raising her camera. "So everyone just continue your conversations naturally. Pretend I'm not even here."

As Y/N worked around their table, Joe tried to catch her eye, tried to say something without words. But she treated him like everyone else, completely professional.

"Perfect, thank you everyone," Y/N said after capturing several shots. "Enjoy your evening."

As she prepared to move to the next table, Ellie touched her arm lightly. "I hope we get to talk more later. Joe says you have the best stories about the team."

Joe watched Y/N's reaction—polite but careful, managing Ellie's friendliness while maintaining appropriate boundaries.

"Maybe next time," Y/N replied. "I've got quite a few tables left to photograph."

The whole thing left Joe feeling off-balance. Ellie's interest in Y/N just made it clearer how split his life had become—the girlfriend who knew his public face, and the woman who actually knew him.

* * *

Later - Hotel Terrace

Joe stepped onto the terrace, needing air and space to process the evening's unexpected tensions. He'd excused himself from the table conversation, ostensibly to take a business call, but really to escape the careful performance that public events required.

He found Y/N at the railing, looking out at the city lights, her camera hanging idle at her side.

"Taking a break?" he asked, moving to stand beside her.

Y/N turned, and Joe caught something unguarded in her expression before her professional mask reasserted itself. "Just a quick breather. Lots of photos still to get."

Joe studied her profile in the dim lighting, noting the tension in her shoulders that suggested she was working to maintain composure. Being around him still affected her, despite months of careful distance.

"Your buffer system has evolved, I see," he said, unable to resist pushing against her boundaries.

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, confusion flickering across her features.

"You're actually speaking to me at public events now," Joe replied, letting some of his frustration show. "That's progress from January."

Y/N's response was careful, measured. "I'm trying to be more normal about everything. Like I said when I got back from vacation—appropriate professional boundaries, not complete avoidance."

"That why you practically sprinted away from our table?"

"I have other tables to shoot."

Joe turned to face her directly, tired of the careful dance they'd been performing for months. "Come on. We haven't had a real conversation in months. And I'm supposed to pretend that's normal?"

He watched Y/N's composure start to crack, saw something raw flash across her features before she responded.

"Maybe you're not supposed to pretend. Maybe you're supposed to notice."

The challenge in her voice caught Joe off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Y/N turned to face him fully, and Joe saw years of suppressed emotion finally breaking through her professional control.

"It means one day we're grabbing lunch and spending time together outside of work, and the next I find out you have a girlfriend because someone broke into your house."

The words knocked the wind out of him. He'd known Y/N had been hurt by how she'd learned about Ellie, but he'd never really understood what that had cost her.

"That's not how I meant for you to find out—" he started.

"But that's how I did," Y/N cut him off, her voice rising with months of contained pain. "And then I had to walk into a boardroom full of execs and help manage the media fallout. I had to craft a strategy, prep your talking points, anticipate questions—all while pretending like I wasn't finding out in real time that you'd been lying by omission for half a year."

Joe felt sick as Y/N spelled out what he'd put her through. She'd done her job, protected him, kept everything together while he'd basically lied to her face for months.

"It wasn't lying—" he began weakly.

"It was hiding," Y/N snapped, and Joe saw tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "You hid her. Not just from the world, but from me."

Joe's jaw clenched as the truth of her accusation settled. He had hidden Ellie from Y/N specifically, had known instinctively that their connection was something he needed to protect his relationship from.

"You didn't owe me the details," Y/N continued, her voice shaking slightly. "But you knew what we were. What it felt like. You showed up in my life every day. You let it mean something. And when it stopped meaning something to you, you didn't have the decency to say a word."

Each sentence felt like an indictment Joe couldn't defend against. Y/N was right—he'd been a coward, choosing the easy path of avoidance rather than the difficult conversation that honesty would have required.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Joe said quietly, the inadequacy of the words obvious even to him.

"But you did," Y/N replied, and Joe heard four years of suppressed pain in her voice. "Not by being with her. By making me feel like I never mattered in the first place."

The accusation cut deeper than anything else she'd said. Joe stepped forward, something desperate rising in his chest.

"You mattered," he said, his voice low but intense. "You still matter."

"Not enough," Y/N replied, and Joe saw the hurt that had been driving her distance for months. "Not enough to be honest with."

Before Joe could find words to respond, before he could explain that his dishonesty had been about protecting himself rather than dismissing her, Ellie's voice cut through the tension.

"There you are!"

Joe's heart sank as Ellie appeared on the terrace, beautiful and smiling and completely unaware of what she'd just interrupted.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, babe," she continued cheerfully. "They're about to do the team recognition on stage, and the owner specifically asked for you to join them."

Joe felt trapped between his public obligations and this moment of raw honesty with Y/N. His expression must have revealed his conflict, because he caught Y/N watching him with something like resignation.

"I'll be right there," he managed, his voice carefully controlled.

Ellie looked between them, clearly sensing tension but misreading its cause. "I'm not interrupting work talk, am I? I can tell them you'll be a minute."

"No interruption," Y/N said quickly, and Joe watched her professional mask snap back into place. "I was just about to head back in myself. I still have the owner's table to photograph."

Joe watched this transformation with something like grief. Y/N was protecting them both, maintaining the careful boundaries that kept their professional relationship functional.

Ellie smiled at Y/N with genuine warmth. "Your photos have been amazing tonight. I peeked at some on the photographer's display earlier—you have a gift for capturing genuine moments."

"Thank you," Y/N managed, and Joe caught the complicated emotions crossing her face at Ellie's sincere compliment. "That's very kind."

Joe couldn't let the conversation end like this, with everything still unresolved between them.

"Ellie, can you give us just a minute?" he asked. "We weren't quite finished."

Ellie looked surprised but nodded. "Sure. I'll tell them you're on your way."

But before Joe could say anything more, Y/N raised her camera between them like a shield.

"I think we are," she said firmly. "You should go. They're waiting for you."

As Joe walked away with Ellie, her hand slipping naturally into his, he felt the weight of everything left unsaid. Y/N had finally told him how much his choices had hurt her, had laid bare the emotional cost of his cowardice.

But she'd also made it clear that understanding her pain didn't change their reality. Joe was with Ellie, publicly and proudly, and whatever feelings existed between him and Y/N would remain unspoken and unacknowledged.

Walking back into the ballroom, Joe felt like he was returning to a performance of his own life. Smiling for cameras, accepting congratulations, playing the role of successful quarterback with perfect girlfriend.

But his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's words, on the hurt in her voice when she'd said he'd made her feel like she never mattered.

* * *

June 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe sat through the morning film session barely paying attention, still thinking about the charity gala two weeks ago. Y/N's words kept playing in his head—how she'd said he made her feel like she never mattered, how she'd looked when Ellie showed up.

Since then, things had gotten even more formal between them. Not avoidance exactly, but something colder. Like she genuinely didn't care anymore.

"Burrow, you need those Raiders breakdowns from last season," the offensive coordinator said as they wrapped up. "Study how they disguised their coverage on third downs."

Joe nodded, already dreading the process. What used to be a quick conversation with Y/N was now a formal request through Tyler.

He found Tyler in the hallway. "Can you get me the Raiders breakdowns? Third-down packages specifically."

"Sure thing," Tyler replied. "Y/N will know where those are. I'll have her pull them."

Another reminder that he and Y/N couldn't even handle simple work requests directly anymore.

* * *

Cafeteria - Same Day

Joe grabbed lunch with Ja'maar and Tee, settling into their usual table while they debated the upcoming rookie development program. But his attention was immediately drawn to Y/N sitting across the cafeteria with Sam, their conversation looking relaxed and genuine in ways Joe's interactions with Y/N no longer were.

"You listening, man?" Ja'Maar asked, following Joe's gaze. "Oh. The Y/N situation."

Joe's attention snapped back to his teammates. "What?"

"Whatever's going on with you two," Higgins said, keeping his voice low. "It's been weird for months. You know that, right?"

Joe felt heat rise in his neck. "Nothing's going on. We work together."

"Used to work together," Ja'Maar corrected. "Now you work around each other. There's a difference. And everyone's noticed, by the way."

Joe wanted to deny it, but his teammates weren't wrong. The easy collaboration that had once defined his relationship with Y/N had been replaced by careful professional choreography that everyone seemed to notice.

"It's fine," Joe said, returning his attention to his food. "Just different workflow now."

But even as he said it, Joe found his gaze drifting back to Y/N's table. She was laughing at something Sam had said, looking genuinely happy in a way that made Joe's chest tighten with something he didn't want to examine.

As lunch wound down, Joe watched Y/N and Sam gather their things, noting how Y/N's posture shifted slightly as they approached his table. Not nervous, exactly, but more controlled, like she was managing her reactions.

"Y/N," Joe called out as they walked by. "Tyler said you'd pull those Raiders breakdowns for me?"

Y/N turned with a professional smile that revealed nothing. "He did. I've got staff pulling them. Should be in your inbox by this afternoon."

"Appreciate it," Joe said, recognizing the finality in her tone.

Something flickered in Y/N's eyes, like she realized how weird this had all become. But she just nodded and kept walking.

Ja'maar and Tee exchanged looks.

"Definitely nothing going on," Higgins muttered.

Joe didn't respond. There wasn't much to say.

* * *

That Evening - Joe's Home

Joe's phone buzzed with a text from Ellie as he reviewed the Raiders footage. She wanted to visit next week, maybe do some couples workout content.

Miss you. Can't wait to see you next week. Think we could do that couples workout content I mentioned?

Joe stared at the message. A perfectly reasonable request from his girlfriend. But all he could think about was how Y/N had handled his footage request—efficient, professional, completely detached.

He typed back something appropriate about looking forward to seeing Ellie, but the words felt empty.

The Raiders footage was perfectly organized, exactly what he'd asked for. Y/N's team had delivered as always. No personal touch, no acknowledgment of their history, just competent work.

Maybe that's all they'd ever really had.

* * *

July 2025 - Training Camp Preparation

Joe had agreed to give Ellie a tour of the facility before training camp officially began, though he'd underestimated how complicated it would feel to have her in his professional space. She was enthusiastic about everything—the weight room, the meeting rooms, the state-of-the-art equipment—asking questions that showed genuine interest in his world.

"This is incredible," Ellie said as they walked through the hallways. "I had no idea it was this extensive."

"It's pretty comprehensive," Joe agreed, though part of his attention was tracking familiar sounds and movements, unconsciously mapping Y/N's potential location in the building.

When they reached the cafeteria, Joe spotted Y/N immediately. She sat with Sam near the windows, laughing at something with the kind of natural ease he rarely saw from her anymore. The sight of her genuinely relaxed hit him harder than expected—a reminder of what their interactions used to look like before everything became careful and measured.

"Oh, there's Y/N!" Ellie said, following his gaze. "I should say hello."

Before Joe could suggest otherwise, Ellie was already calling out across the room. "Y/N! How are you?"

Joe watched Y/N's face transform in real-time—from natural laughter to polite professionalism in seconds. The shift was so smooth it was almost invisible, but Joe had been studying Y/N's expressions for five years. He knew the difference.

"I'm good, thanks," Y/N replied, standing as they approached. "Nice to see you again."

"You too," Ellie smiled warmly. "Joe's been showing me around before everyone arrives for camp. This place is amazing."

"It is," Y/N agreed, her tone perfectly light and professional. "Enjoy the tour."

Joe felt the need to fill the silence, to justify Y/N's presence in the conversation somehow. "Y/N's been here since my rookie year," he said to Ellie. "She's documented pretty much every major moment of my NFL career."

The words came out more pointed than he'd intended, carrying weight that felt almost territorial. Y/N's response was swift and deflating.

"The whole media team has," she corrected gently. "It's been a collaborative effort."

She was minimizing their connection, reducing five years of shared moments to generic teamwork. The dismissal stung more than it should have, and Joe found himself pushing back before he could stop himself.

"Not the rehab," he said, his gaze direct. "That was all you."

The moment the words left his mouth, Joe knew he'd crossed a line. Those rehabilitation sessions had been intimate—not romantically, but in the way that pain and vulnerability create connection. Hours of documenting his lowest moments, his frustrations, his small victories. Bringing that up in front of Ellie was claiming ownership of something that wasn't his to claim anymore.

Y/N's composure flickered for just a second before she recovered. "Well, that's what made it such compelling content. Your journey back."

Ellie looked between them, clearly sensing undercurrents she didn't understand. "Joe mentioned how much those documentary pieces meant to fans. Your work really connected people to his recovery."

"That was the goal," Y/N replied. "Glad it resonated." She glanced at her watch with practiced efficiency. "I should get back. Content review meeting in fifteen. Nice seeing you both."

As Y/N walked away with Sam, Joe felt Ellie's curious gaze on him.

"She seems really professional," Ellie observed. "You two work well together."

"Yeah," Joe said, though the word felt hollow. "She's good at what she does."

They continued the tour, but Joe's mind remained fixed on the cafeteria interaction. Why had he mentioned the rehab work? Why had he felt the need to establish that connection in front of Ellie? And why did Y/N's careful deflection feel like a rejection of their entire history?

His phone buzzed as they finished touring the weight room. A text from Ellie to someone—he could see her typing on her phone.

"Just reaching out to Y/N about those charity photos," she explained. "You mentioned she might have some good shots for my portfolio."

Joe's stomach tightened. He had mentioned that, casually, during their drive to the facility. But now it felt like another complication, another way his two worlds were intersecting in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"You don't need to go through her specifically," Joe said. "Any of the media staff can handle that."

"Too late," Ellie smiled, showing him her phone. "Already sent. She seems sweet—I'm sure she won't mind."

Joe stared at the text thread, recognizing the gulf between what Ellie thought she was seeing and what was actually happening. Y/N would agree to help because it was professional courtesy, not because she was "sweet" or happy to do anything involving Ellie.

But explaining that would require explaining why the situation was complicated, which would mean acknowledging feelings he'd spent over a year trying to suppress.

Twenty minutes later, as they wrapped up the tour, Joe's discomfort had crystallized into something that demanded action. He'd been inappropriate in the cafeteria, had put Y/N in an uncomfortable position, had claimed a connection that wasn't his to claim anymore.

"I need to handle something quick," he told Ellie as they reached the parking lot. "Work stuff. Five minutes?"

"Of course," Ellie said easily. "I'll wait in the car."

Joe found himself walking toward Y/N's office before he'd fully decided to go there. The cafeteria encounter had left him unsettled—his inappropriate reference to their private sessions, Y/N's polite but distant responses, the careful way she'd maintained professional boundaries even when he'd essentially ambushed her with personal history.

He paused outside her door, watching her work. She looked focused, unbothered by what had just happened. That steady composure that used to comfort him now felt like a wall he couldn't cross.

"Got a minute?" he asked, stepping into the doorframe.

Y/N looked up, her expression shifting to professional attention. "Of course."

Joe entered but didn't sit, staying near the door. Too much distance felt wrong, but getting too close felt presumptuous. "I wanted to apologize if that was awkward. Ellie wanting to see the facility was... unexpected."

"It's fine," Y/N said smoothly, and Joe heard the practiced ease in her voice. "She's always welcome here. She is your girlfriend."

The matter-of-fact way she said girlfriend hit harder than he'd expected. No emotion, no hesitation—just acknowledgment of reality. It should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt like a door closing.

"She mentioned asking about photos," Joe continued, feeling like he was navigating terrain he no longer understood. "You don't need to handle that personally. Any of the staff can pull those."

"I already told her I would," Y/N replied. "It's not a problem."

Of course you did. Y/N would never go back on a professional commitment, even if it meant spending time on something that might be uncomfortable. Joe studied her face, looking for any sign of the person who used to share inside jokes with him during long filming sessions.

"You've changed since your vacation," he said, the observation slipping out before he could stop it.

Y/N's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Have I?"

"Yes," Joe said, committing to the honesty. "More confident. More... definitive about boundaries."

Something shifted in her expression—not surprise, but perhaps appreciation that he'd noticed. "I gained some perspective. About what I need professionally."

Professionally. The word felt loaded with subtext. Joe felt himself standing at the edge of a conversation they'd never had directly, one that could either clarify everything or destroy what remained of their working relationship.

"Just professionally?" The question escaped before his rational mind could intervene.

Y/N met his gaze steadily, and Joe saw the exact moment she chose not to give him the opening he was fishing for. "That's what matters here. We work together. Everything else is secondary."

The gentle but firm redirection felt like a hand pushing him back from a line he shouldn't have approached. Joe nodded slowly, recognizing both the wisdom and the finality in her response.

"If that's what you need."

"It is."

Joe turned to leave, then felt the weight of something unsaid for too long. He paused, looking back at her.

"For what it's worth, I should have told you about Ellie directly. Before it became public like that. You deserved that much."

The words hung in the air between them. It wasn't everything he owed her, but it was the one concrete failing he could acknowledge without opening emotional territory that would complicate both their lives.

"Thank you for saying that," Y/N replied, and Joe heard genuine appreciation in her voice.

Walking back toward the parking lot, Joe felt the strange sensation of having both gained and lost something in the same conversation. Y/N had accepted his apology with grace, had shown him exactly where the new boundaries lay, had demonstrated the kind of professional maturity that made her invaluable to the organization.

She'd also made it clear that whatever personal connection they'd once shared was permanently in the past. No anger, no drama—just a careful, definitive reset that protected them both.

Joe should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt the hollow recognition that he'd just had what might be their last genuinely honest conversation. From here forward, everything between them would be filtered through professional necessity and careful emotional distance.

Back in the car, Ellie was scrolling through her phone, smiling at something on the screen.

"Y/N already responded about the photos," she said as Joe settled into the driver's seat. "She's so professional. You're lucky to have someone that organized on your team."

"Yeah," Joe replied, starting the engine. "She's good at what she does."

But driving away from the facility, Joe couldn't shake the feeling that he'd lost something irreplaceable through his own emotional cowardice. Y/N had offered him friendship when he was too afraid to pursue something deeper. When he'd chosen safety with Ellie instead, Y/N had adapted with characteristic grace, maintaining their professional relationship while protecting herself from further hurt.

Now she was moving forward while Joe remained stuck in the recognition of what he'd given up. Ellie was beautiful, uncomplicated, and genuinely caring. She should have been everything he wanted.

But thinking about Y/N's composed professionalism and the easy laughter he'd witnessed from across the cafeteria, Joe knew that should wasn't the same as was.

He'd made his choice months ago, had prioritized emotional safety over authentic connection. Y/N had accepted that choice and moved on with her life and career.

The problem was that Joe was starting to realize his choice had been wrong. And by the time he'd gained that clarity, it was already too late to change course without devastating multiple lives in the process.

* * *

September 2025 - Regular Season Begins

The season opener against Pittsburgh had everything Joe loved about football—intensity, precision, the satisfaction of executing under pressure. The 40-yard touchdown to Higgins in the third quarter had been particularly clean, the kind of throw that reminded him why he'd chosen this profession.

But even in the middle of game action, Joe found himself tracking Y/N's movements along the sideline. She worked with the same professional efficiency she'd always shown, directing her team while capturing content herself. When he'd thrown the touchdown, his first instinct had been to find her reaction among the crowd of cameras and staff.

She'd been there, doing her job, but the easy shared celebration they might have had a year ago was gone. Instead, their eyes had met briefly during his jog toward the tunnel at halftime—a moment of mutual recognition, professional acknowledgment, nothing more.

It should have been enough. It had to be enough.

After the 24-17 win, Joe handled his postgame interviews with the usual measured responses, discussed the offensive line's protection and the receivers' route-running. But part of his attention remained on the media activity around him, aware of Y/N coordinating coverage without directly involving herself in his interviews.

The buffer system she'd implemented was working exactly as intended. Joe respected the professionalism of it, even as he missed the collaborative relationship they'd once shared.

His phone buzzed as he changed out of his uniform. Ja'Maar asking about team celebration drinks.

Heading home, Joe replied. Good win though.

You sure? Team's in a good mood. Y/N's crew killed it with the content today.

Joe stared at the text, the casual mention of Y/N hitting harder than it should have. Rain check. See you at practice.

Joe was leaving through the players' entrance when he spotted Y/N in the hallway, walking toward the exit with her equipment bag. The facility was mostly empty now, the post-game energy settling into quiet.

"Heading out?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

"Yeah," Y/N replied. "Just finished content wrap-up."

"Good game coverage," Joe said, meaning it. "Saw the touchdown sequence. Perfect timing on the sideline reaction."

"Thanks," Y/N said, and Joe caught something in her voice—surprise that he'd noticed her work specifically. "Clean game from the offense. Especially that third quarter drive."

Joe nodded, wanting to continue the conversation but unsure how to navigate the careful boundaries they'd established. "Team celebrating?"

"Meeting them now," Y/N confirmed. "Sundry and Vice, I think."

"Tell everyone good work," Joe said, then found himself adding, "Your boundary system's working well."

The observation was too direct, too honest about how much he'd been thinking about the walls she'd built between them. But it had been months of careful professional distance, and something about the successful game, the natural flow of their brief conversation, made him want to acknowledge what had developed.

"It seems to be," Y/N agreed carefully.

Joe felt himself standing at the edge of honesty again, the same place he'd been in her office months ago. This time, he stepped closer to the line.

"I don't like it," he said quietly, "but I respect it."

The admission hung between them—his first direct acknowledgment that the professional distance cost him something personal. Y/N's expression shifted slightly, surprise and maybe something else flickering across her face.

Before she could respond, his phone rang. Joe glanced at it—Ellie's name on the screen. The timing felt like the universe intervening, reminding him why Y/N's boundaries existed in the first place.

He looked back at Y/N, seeing understanding in her eyes. She knew who was calling without him saying anything.

"Should take this," he said. "Have a good night, Y/N."

"You too, Joe."

Walking to his car, Joe answered Ellie's call.

"Congratulations on the win!" Ellie's voice was warm and genuinely excited. "I watched the highlights online. That touchdown throw was incredible."

"Thanks," Joe said, settling into his car while watching Y/N walk to hers in his peripheral vision. "How was your day in LA?"

"Amazing," Ellie launched into a detailed account of her photo shoot, the creative direction, the other influencers she'd worked with. Joe listened with divided attention, making appropriate responses while his mind remained fixed on his conversation with Y/N.

"I was thinking," Ellie continued, "maybe I could come to Cincinnati for the next home game? Actually watch you play instead of just seeing highlights?"

"That would be great," Joe replied, though something in him resisted the idea. Having Ellie at the stadium would make their relationship more visible, would require navigation of her inevitable interactions with Y/N.

"Perfect," Ellie said. "I'll check my schedule and book something. Oh, and thank you again for connecting me with Y/N. She sent those charity event photos and they're gorgeous. She really does have an amazing eye."

Joe felt his chest tighten at the mention of Y/N. "She's good at what she does."

"She seems really sweet," Ellie continued. "I was thinking maybe the three of us could grab dinner when I visit? I'd love to get to know your colleagues better."

The suggestion made Joe's hands grip the steering wheel tighter. The idea of a casual dinner with Y/N and Ellie felt like emotional torture disguised as normal socializing.

"We'll see," Joe said carefully. "Y/N keeps pretty busy during the season."

"Of course," Ellie agreed easily. "Just a thought. I know how close you are with your team."

After hanging up, Joe sat in the facility parking lot as it emptied around him. The conversation with Ellie had been pleasant, supportive, exactly what he should have wanted from his girlfriend after a successful game.

Instead, he found himself thinking about Y/N's measured professionalism, the brief moment of honesty they'd shared in the hallway, the way she'd handled his admission about not liking but respecting her boundaries.

He'd told her the truth, and she'd accepted it with the same grace she brought to everything else. No drama, no demand for explanation, just acknowledgment of reality.

But as Joe finally drove home through downtown Cincinnati, past the bars where his teammates were celebrating, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight. Not dramatically, but subtly—like a door that had been cracked open just enough to let in light.

He didn't know what Y/N had been thinking during their hallway conversation, whether his honesty had surprised her or simply confirmed what she already knew about his feelings. But for the first time in months, they'd spoken to each other as more than just colleagues managing professional boundaries.

* * *

Late September 2025 - Exploring Options

Joe learned about Y/N's Giants opportunity the way he learned about most facility rumors—through Jake's casual mention during a quarterback meeting, delivered with the kind of off-hand certainty that suggested everyone already knew.

"Weird about Y/N maybe leaving for New York," Jake had said, reviewing route concepts on his tablet. "Gonna be strange if she goes. She's been here since your rookie year, right?"

Joe's pen had stopped moving across his playbook. "What about New York?"

Jake looked up, surprised. "The Giants thing? VP position or something. Thought you'd know—aren't you two always coordinating on media stuff?"

"We work together," Joe replied carefully, though his mind was already racing. "Haven't heard anything about New York."

"Huh. Maybe it's just rumors then. You know how this place gets."

But Joe knew it wasn't just rumors. Jake didn't spread bullshit, and he'd been too specific about the VP thing. Y/N was actually thinking about leaving. Leaving Cincinnati.

Leaving him.

The thought knocked him sideways, cutting through the careful routine he'd been living with. Over the past few months, Joe had grown comfortable with their new dynamic—respectful, functional, emotionally safe. He'd told himself that the boundaries Y/N had established were healthy, that their working relationship was better for being clearly defined.

But the possibility of Y/N leaving entirely forced him to confront how much he'd been taking her continued presence for granted.

That evening, Joe sat in his house, trying to focus on game film but finding his mind wandering to what Jake had said. He pulled out his phone, thinking about texting Y/N directly, asking about the rumors. But what right did he have to that information? They weren't friends who shared personal updates anymore. They were colleagues who maintained professional boundaries.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie, something about her flight plans for the upcoming home game. Joe read it without really processing the words, his attention still fixed on the possibility that Y/N might be planning to leave Cincinnati.

The realization hit him with uncomfortable clarity: he was more invested in Y/N's career decisions than in his girlfriend's travel plans. More concerned about Y/N potentially leaving Cincinnati than about Ellie coming to visit.

That recognition forced Joe to confront something he'd been avoiding for months. His relationship with Ellie, while pleasant and uncomplicated, had become more obligation than choice. He cared about her genuinely, appreciated her kindness and support, but he didn't feel excited about her presence the way he felt anxious about Y/N's potential absence.

Joe spent the evening researching the Giants' organizational structure and recent content initiatives. He told himself it was professional curiosity, wanting to understand what opportunity Y/N might be considering.

But really, he was trying to gauge whether New York represented something he couldn't compete with. Not that he was competing—he'd made his choice months ago. But the thought of Y/N building a new life in a different city, working with different players, creating content that didn't include him at all, felt like losing something essential.

The next morning, Joe arrived at the facility early, hoping to catch Y/N before her day filled with meetings. He found her in one of the editing bays, reviewing game footage with that focused intensity that had always impressed him.

"Morning," he said, stepping into the doorway.

Y/N looked up, professional smile in place. "Hey. You're here early."

"Wanted to get ahead of the week," Joe replied, then decided to be direct. "Jake mentioned something about a New York opportunity yesterday. Giants?"

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—surprise, maybe annoyance that rumors were spreading. "Nothing's decided," she said carefully.

"But it's real? The opportunity?"

Y/N set down her stylus, turning to face him fully. "It's something I'm considering. VP of Content Strategy position."

Joe felt something close to panic, though he tried to keep it from showing. "Big move."

"It would be," Y/N agreed. "Major market, significant creative control."

"Is this about the buffer system? About creating distance?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, revealing more of his concerns than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression sharpened. "My professional decisions aren't about you, Joe."

The response was firm, definitive, and both relieving and devastating. Relieving because it meant his complicated feelings weren't driving her away. Devastating because it confirmed that he wasn't a factor in her decision-making at all.

"Right," Joe said, trying to recover. "Of course not. It's just... you've built so much here. Five years of work."

"And there's opportunity to build something new," Y/N replied. "That's how careers work. Growth, advancement, new challenges."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her approach even as it felt like a personal rejection. "And there's nothing keeping you here? Nothing worth staying for?"

The question was as close as Joe could come to acknowledging what he couldn't say directly. That he needed her presence in ways that went beyond professional collaboration. That the thought of her leaving felt like losing an essential part of his support system.

Y/N studied his face for a moment. "I've built a life here," she said carefully. "That matters. But so does professional growth."

The answer was appropriately professional, but Joe caught something in her expression—a flicker of recognition that suggested she understood the subtext of his question even if she couldn't acknowledge it directly.

"Well," Joe said, backing toward the door. "I hope whatever you decide works out."

"Thanks," Y/N replied, already turning back to her work. "I'm sure it will."

Walking away from that conversation, Joe realized he was facing a crisis he'd created through his own emotional avoidance. He'd chosen safety with Ellie over the risk of pursuing something real with Y/N. Now Y/N was moving forward with her life and career while Joe remained trapped in a relationship that felt increasingly hollow.

But what could he do? Breaking up with Ellie to chase Y/N as she was planning to leave for New York would be both cruel and pointless. Y/N had already demonstrated that she could build a life that didn't revolve around him. She deserved better than to be someone's backup plan or consolation prize.

That evening, Joe sat in his house, Ellie's latest text about visiting for the Ravens game still unanswered on his phone. He thought about their last conversation, her enthusiasm about meeting his colleagues, her suggestion of dinner with Y/N.

The image of that dinner—Ellie chatting brightly while Y/N maintained professional politeness, Joe caught between his girlfriend and the woman he'd been too afraid to pursue—felt like a special kind of torture. Especially now, knowing Y/N might leave Cincinnati entirely.

Joe finally responded to Ellie's text with vague agreement about her visit, though his heart wasn't in the planning. His attention remained fixed on the recognition that he was about to lose something irreplaceable through his own emotional cowardice.

Y/N would visit New York, would probably be impressed by their facilities and vision, would make a decision based on what was best for her career. And Joe would remain in Cincinnati, playing football at the highest level while feeling increasingly disconnected from everything that made success meaningful.

He'd had his chance to be honest about his feelings, to take the risk that might have led to something real. Instead, he'd chosen comfort and safety, and now that choice was leading to exactly the kind of loss he'd been trying to avoid.

Some regrets, Joe was learning, couldn't be fixed by better decision-making in the future. They could only be carried, carefully contained, while watching what might have been disappear into someone else's new beginning.

* * *

Early October 2025 - Before the Visit

The week before Y/N's trip to New York dragged by. Joe went through his usual routine—film study, practice, media obligations—but he couldn't focus, too aware of Y/N moving around the facility.

During Tuesday's media availability, Joe watched Y/N coordinate with her team from across the room. She looked confident, in control, like someone who belonged in a VP role for a major market team.

The thought made him feel sick.

"Earth to Joe," Ja"Maar said, snapping his fingers in front of Joe's face as they walked to the parking garage after practice. "You've been spacing out all week. What's going on?"

Joe refocused on his teammate. "Just thinking through game plan stuff."

"Bullshit," Ja'Maar replied bluntly. "This is about Y/N leaving, isn't it?"

The directness caught Joe off guard. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you've been tracking her movements all week like you're afraid she's going to disappear," Ja'Maar observed. "And because everyone knows you two have some kind of complicated history, even if nobody talks about it directly."

Joe felt heat rise in his neck. "We work together. Have for five years. It'll be an adjustment if she leaves."

"Uh-huh," Ja'Maar said, clearly unconvinced. "Look, I don't know what the deal is between you two, and it's none of my business. But if you've got something to say to her before she potentially moves across the country, maybe now's the time."

"It's not that simple," Joe replied, though even as he said it, he wondered if it was actually simpler than he was making it.

"It never is," he agreed. "But sometimes complicated is better than regret."

That evening, Joe found himself at the facility later than necessary, ostensibly reviewing additional film but really hoping to cross paths with Y/N. He'd heard through the staff grapevine that she was working late, finalizing content plans before her New York trip.

He found her in her office, surrounded by multiple monitors and notebooks, laptop open to what looked like presentation slides. She glanced up when he knocked on her door frame.

"Working late," Joe observed, stepping into the office when she gestured him in.

"Trying to get ahead before I'm out of town," Y/N replied, saving her work. "Don't want to leave the team scrambling while I'm gone."

Joe noted the careful way she'd phrased it—"while I'm gone," not "if I don't come back." Either diplomatic language or a decision already made that she wasn't ready to announce.

"Mind if I ask what you're expecting from the visit?" he said, settling into the chair across from her desk.

Y/N leaned back, considering her response. "Honestly? I'm trying to approach it with an open mind. The opportunity is substantial, but I want to understand the culture, the vision, what I'd actually be walking into."

"And if it's everything they're promising?"

"Then I'll have a difficult decision to make," she said simply.

Joe studied her expression, looking for any sign of what she was thinking beyond the careful professionalism. "What would make it difficult? I mean, from the outside, it seems like a clear career advancement."

Y/N was quiet for a moment, her fingers absently straightening papers on her desk. "Five years is a long time to build something. To develop relationships, understand a culture, create work that feels meaningful. Starting over somewhere else, even with better title and compensation, means giving up what I've built here."

"But?"

"But maybe that's what growth requires sometimes," she finished. "Maybe staying in your comfort zone, even when it's working, prevents you from discovering what else is possible."

The words hit Joe harder than she probably intended. He heard in them a philosophy he'd been too afraid to apply to his own life—the recognition that comfort could be its own trap, that fear of losing what you had could prevent you from gaining what you actually needed.

"That's a mature way to look at it," he said, meaning it even as it made his own choices feel increasingly cowardly.

"I'm trying to be," Y/N replied. "This industry doesn't give you many chances at opportunities like this. It would be foolish not to explore it seriously."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her approach while hating what it might mean for his own life. "Well, for what it's worth, I hope they roll out the red carpet for you. You deserve to see what you're worth in a major market."

Something shifted in Y/N's expression at his words—surprise, maybe, or appreciation for his support despite his personal investment in her staying.

"Thank you," she said, and Joe caught a warmth in her voice that had been absent from their interactions for months. "That means more than you probably realize."

The moment stretched between them, loaded with recognition of their shared history and mutual respect despite the complications that had driven them apart. Joe felt the urge to say more, to acknowledge what her leaving would mean to him personally, to finally be honest about feelings he'd been suppressing for over a year.

But before he could find the words, Y/N's phone buzzed with what looked like a work emergency. The moment passed, replaced by the familiar rhythm of professional obligations and careful boundaries.

"I should let you get back to it," Joe said, standing. "Good luck in New York. I hope you get everything you're looking for."

"Thanks, Joe. I appreciate that."

As he walked back to his car, Joe replayed their conversation, noting how easily they'd fallen into genuine dialogue when the stakes felt clear. Y/N was preparing for a major career decision, and Joe was supporting her choice even though it might mean losing her presence in his professional life.

It felt both mature and devastating—the kind of selfless support you offered someone you cared about deeply, even when their success might mean your own loss.

Joe thought about Ja'Maar's earlier observation about regret versus complication. Maybe his teammate was right. Maybe the complicated conversation was better than watching Y/N leave without ever being honest about what she meant to him.

But sitting in his car in the empty parking lot, thinking about Ellie's upcoming visit and Y/N's pending trip to New York, Joe couldn't find the courage to risk everything for a conversation that might change nothing.

Some opportunities, once missed, couldn't be recovered. Joe was starting to understand that he might be living through one of those moments—watching something essential slip away because he'd been too afraid to reach for it when it was still possible.

The recognition felt like a weight settling in his chest, heavy and permanent. By the time Y/N returned from New York, Joe suspected his chance for honesty would have passed entirely, leaving him with nothing but the careful professional relationship they'd built and the knowledge of what he'd been too afraid to pursue.

* * *

Late October 2025 - The Breaking Point

Joe stood frozen in Y/N's empty office after she walked out, her words echoing in the sudden silence. The conversation had gone worse than he'd imagined possible, and he'd imagined it going pretty badly.

You don't get to jerk me around like this again.

The accusation cut deep, forcing him to confront the truth he'd been avoiding. From Y/N's perspective, his timing wasn't just bad—it was selfish. Cruel, even. Coming to her now, after years of emotional distance, just as she was ready to leave for something better.

Joe slumped into the chair Y/N had vacated, running his hands through his hair. He'd thought breaking up with Ellie would clear the air, would show Y/N that he was finally ready to be honest. Instead, it had backfired completely.

Y/N wasn't waiting for him anymore. And showing up now, claiming feelings he'd been too scared to acknowledge when it mattered, probably looked like manipulation rather than honesty.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie: Hope you're doing okay. Thank you for being honest with me. I knew something was off.

The message made Joe feel sick with guilt. Breaking up with Ellie had been the right thing to do—she deserved someone who could love her completely—but the conversation had been brutal. She'd handled it with more grace than he'd deserved, acknowledging that she'd sensed his emotional distance even if she hadn't understood its cause.

I'm sorry, he'd told her during their difficult conversation the night before. You deserve so much better than someone who can't be fully present.

It's Y/N, isn't it? Ellie had asked, her voice sad but not surprised. I could tell when we were at the facility. The way you looked at her.

Joe had confirmed it, hating himself for the hurt in Ellie's eyes even as he knew honesty was overdue. She'd cried, asked questions he'd answered as gently as possible, then packed her things with dignity that made him feel even worse about what he'd put her through.

Now, sitting in Y/N's office, Joe realized he'd hurt two people he cared about and probably gained nothing in the process. Y/N was more resolved than ever to leave for New York, and Ellie was nursing heartbreak she'd done nothing to deserve.

Joe's phone rang. Ja'Maar's name on the screen.

"How'd it go?" his teammate asked without preamble.

"Badly," Joe replied, staring at Y/N's empty desk. "Really fucking badly."

"What happened?"

Joe gave him the abbreviated version—the breakup with Ellie, the confrontation with Y/N, her accusation that his timing was manipulative rather than romantic.

"Shit, man," Ja'Maar said when Joe finished. "She's not wrong, though. About the timing."

"I know," Joe admitted. "But what was I supposed to do? Let her leave without saying anything?"

"Maybe," Ja'Maar said bluntly. "Maybe that would have been kinder than dropping this on her when she's trying to make the biggest career decision of her life."

The words stung because they were true. Joe had convinced himself that honesty was the right choice, but honesty motivated by self-interest rather than Y/N's wellbeing wasn't necessarily noble.

"So what now?" Joe asked.

"Now you live with the consequences," Ja'Maar replied. "You made your choices for years, and Y/N made hers. She doesn't owe you anything just because you finally figured out what you want."

After hanging up, Joe remained in Y/N's office, surrounded by evidence of her competence and dedication. Awards on the walls, thank-you notes from players, carefully organized files that spoke to five years of building something meaningful with the Bengals.

He thought about their first meeting during his rookie photoshoot, how Y/N had caught that fumbled football with ease and thrown it back to him with perfect spiral. She'd been impressive from day one, but Joe had been too focused on his own career to really see her potential.

Over the years, he'd watched her grow from a junior media coordinator to someone essential to the organization's identity. She'd documented his lowest moments during injury recovery, had been present for his biggest triumphs, had somehow become woven into every significant moment of his NFL career.

But Joe realized with painful clarity that Y/N had also built her own story during those five years. She'd earned promotions, developed innovative content strategies, gained recognition throughout the league. Her career wasn't just about documenting his journey—it was about creating her own.

The Giants opportunity wasn't Y/N running away from complicated feelings. It was her running toward something she'd earned through years of exceptional work. Joe's feelings were just unfortunate timing, not a reason for her to stay.

That recognition was both humbling and devastating. Joe had spent so long thinking about what Y/N meant to his career, his recovery, his daily life that he'd failed to consider what she needed for her own growth and happiness.

Maybe the most loving thing he could do now was support her decision, whatever it was, without adding more pressure or guilt. Let her choose New York if that's what would make her happy, even if it meant losing her presence from his life entirely.

Joe's phone buzzed with another text, this one from Y/N: I need you to know that conversation doesn't change my timeline. I'm still considering all factors. Please respect whatever I decide.

The message was characteristically professional, but Joe caught the underlying plea for space. Y/N was asking him not to complicate her decision-making process any further.

I will, he replied. And Y/N? You were right about my timing. I'm sorry.

He waited, hoping for a response that would suggest forgiveness or understanding. But none came.

Walking back to his car, Joe felt the weight of recognition settling over him. He'd spent months choosing emotional safety over authentic risk, then panicked when the consequences of those choices became clear. Y/N had every right to prioritize her career over his suddenly declared feelings.

But that didn't make losing her hurt any less.

Joe thought about the upcoming weeks—Y/N's final meetings with the Giants, her decision about New York, the possibility that their last real conversation had been an argument in her office. The idea that she might leave Cincinnati with anger or disappointment as her final impression of him felt unbearable.

Yet maybe that was the price of his years of emotional avoidance. Some opportunities, once missed, couldn't be recovered. Some honesty, when it came too late, caused more harm than continued silence would have.

Joe had finally found the courage to tell Y/N how he felt. Unfortunately, he'd found it at exactly the moment when she'd moved beyond needing to hear it.

* * *

Joe had walked into the leadership meeting with his usual focus, prepared to discuss winter content strategy and playoff scenarios. It was routine, the kind of organizational planning that happened every October. He'd expected updates on draft preparation, maybe some discussion about facility improvements during the offseason.

He hadn't expected to learn about Y/N's potential departure like this.

"As some of you may have heard, Y/N is considering an opportunity with another organization," Kayla said casually, as if she wasn't announcing the end of Joe's world. "We're in discussions about retention, but we also need contingency planning in case she accepts this new role."

The room went quiet, and Joe felt his chest tighten. Everyone was looking at Y/N, who maintained her perfect professional composure despite what had to be an uncomfortable moment. But Joe was looking at the bigger picture—Y/N might leave, and he was finding out about it in a fucking leadership meeting like some random staff member.

"Nothing's been decided yet," Y/N said calmly, and Joe heard the measured control in her voice. "I'm weighing options carefully, and regardless of my decision, I'm committed to ensuring a smooth transition if that becomes necessary."

Smooth transition. Like five years of building something together—professionally, personally, emotionally—could be smoothly transitioned to someone else. Like she was replaceable.

Joe tried to focus on the rest of the meeting, but his mind was spinning. When had she decided to explore other opportunities? How long had she been interviewing? Why hadn't she mentioned it during their coffee conversation or their brief exchange before her New York trip?

Then the answer hit him with sickening clarity: because it wasn't his business anymore. They weren't friends who shared personal updates. They were colleagues who maintained professional boundaries, boundaries he'd helped create through his emotional cowardice.

As the meeting wrapped up, Joe watched Y/N gathering her materials efficiently, preparing to leave as if she hadn't just casually mentioned potentially abandoning everything they'd built together. The unfairness of it—that she could consider leaving while he was supposed to just accept it professionally—made his composure start to crack.

She was almost to the door when something inside him snapped.

"So that's it?" The words came out louder than he'd intended, but he was past caring about discretion. "Everyone just finds out in a meeting that you might be gone next month?"

Y/N turned slowly, and Joe could see her calculating the optics of this public confrontation. "This isn't the place, Joe."

But when was the place? When had she planned to have this conversation with him specifically? When she was already packed and heading to New York?

"When is the place?" Joe pressed, aware that people were watching but unable to stop himself. "After you've already accepted? After you're already gone?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Y/N replied with that maddening professional calm. "And this is a professional matter I'm handling appropriately."

Appropriately. The word hit him wrong, the implication that his reaction was inappropriate while her potential departure was just good career management.

"Is it?" Joe challenged, taking a step closer. "Because it feels like you're making a major decision that affects a lot of people here without any real conversation."

"I've had those conversations with the appropriate leadership," Y/N countered, and Joe caught the slight edge in her voice. "With Kayla, with the content team. My career decisions don't require facility-wide consultation."

The dismissal stung. He wasn't asking for facility-wide consultation—he was asking why someone he'd worked closely with for five years, someone he'd shared countless conversations and moments with, someone he'd fallen in love with, was planning to leave without a word to him personally.

"So we just lose the person who's built our entire content strategy for five years, and that's supposed to be fine?" Joe heard the challenge in his own voice, recognized he was crossing lines but unable to care.

Y/N's professional mask slipped slightly, her frustration finally showing. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, the question more pointed than anything she'd said to him in months. "Why does this matter to you specifically?"

The question hung between them, loaded with everything they'd never said directly. Joe was acutely aware of their audience, of Kayla and Sam and other staff members watching this exchange with barely concealed interest. He was also aware that his answer could change everything—could destroy the careful professional relationship they'd maintained, could complicate her decision, could expose feelings he'd kept hidden for over a year.

But looking at Y/N, at the possibility of her walking away forever, Joe found he was past caring about complications.

"Because some things should matter more than titles and market size," he said, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Some connections are worth more than whatever the Giants are offering."

The word hung in the air—connections—and Joe saw Y/N's eyes widen slightly at the implication. He'd just publicly acknowledged that this was about more than professional courtesy, more than workflow continuity.

Before either of them could say anything else, Kayla stepped forward with diplomatic intervention. "Let's table this discussion. Y/N hasn't made her decision yet, and we'll have appropriate transition conversations when and if that becomes necessary."

Joe held Y/N's gaze for a moment longer, seeing surprise and something else—uncertainty?—in her expression. Then he turned and walked out, his control finally completely shattered.

In the hallway, Joe leaned against the wall, trying to process what had just happened. He'd publicly confronted Y/N about a personal matter, had essentially announced to the leadership team that her potential departure affected him more than professionally appropriate.

His phone was in his hand before he'd consciously decided to text her:

Joe: I'm sorry. That was out of line. Can we talk? For real this time.

He sent it immediately, then waited, staring at the screen. When her response came, it felt like a door closing:

Y/N: Not a good time. Need to focus on work.

Joe typed quickly:

Joe: I understand. But we need to talk before you decide. Please.

Then he waited again, but no response came.

Walking toward the parking lot, Joe felt the weight of what he'd just done. He'd destroyed months of careful professional distance in about five minutes of emotional honesty. He'd made Y/N's career decision about his feelings, had put her in an impossible position by making their complications public.

But he couldn't bring himself to regret it entirely. Because Y/N was considering leaving, and she hadn't told him personally, and the thought of her disappearing from his life without one honest conversation felt unbearable.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie about dinner plans, and Joe stared at it with the growing certainty that his entire life was built on lies he was tired of living.

Joe's phone buzzed again. Ja'Maar: Heard about the meeting today. You good?

Been better, Joe replied.

Want to talk about it?

Joe considered the offer. Ja'Maar was discreet, trustworthy, and had already figured out that Joe's interest in Y/N went beyond professional courtesy. Maybe external perspective would help.

Yeah. Your place?

An hour later, Joe sat on Ja'Maar's couch with a beer he wasn't really drinking, trying to explain a situation that felt impossible to articulate.

"So let me get this straight," Ja'Maar said after listening to Joe's halting explanation. "You've been in love with Y/N for over a year, but you're dating Ellie because it felt safer. Now Y/N's about to leave for New York, and you publicly freaked out about it in a leadership meeting."

"That's the summary, yeah," Joe confirmed, feeling even worse hearing it laid out so simply.

"And what exactly is your plan here?" Ja'Maar asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about to lose both of them."

Joe set his beer down, running his hands through his hair. "I don't have a plan. That's the problem."

"Okay, let's think through this," Ja'Maar said, settling into problem-solving mode. "First question: what do you actually want?"

The answer came without hesitation. "Y/N. I want Y/N."

"And what about Ellie?"

Joe felt guilt wash over him. "Ellie's great. She's kind, supportive, uncomplicated. Everything I should want. But I don't love her. Not the way I love Y/N." The admission felt both relieving and terrible.

Ja'Maar nodded thoughtfully. "So you're staying with someone you don't love to avoid pursuing someone you do love. Because?"

"Because Y/N deserves better than being someone's consolation prize," Joe said. "Because breaking up with Ellie to chase Y/N as she's leaving for New York would be cruel to everyone involved. Because I had my chance and I chose safety instead."

"Maybe," Ja'Maar agreed. "But you're assuming Y/N's feelings haven't changed, that she's moved on completely. What if she hasn't?"

Joe thought about their coffee shop conversation, the carefully maintained professional distance, Y/N's composed reaction to his emotional outburst today. "She's handled everything with complete professionalism. If she had feelings, she's clearly over them."

"Or she's protecting herself from exactly this situation," Ja'Maar suggested. "From wanting something she thinks she can't have."

The possibility hadn't occurred to Joe. He'd assumed Y/N's professional boundaries meant emotional distance, but maybe they meant the opposite—maybe she was working harder to maintain control precisely because the feelings were still there.

"Even if that's true," Joe said, "the timing is terrible. She's got a major career opportunity waiting for her. She shouldn't base that decision on some guy who's been too afraid to be honest about his feelings."

"So be honest now," Ja'Maar said simply. "Before she decides. Give her all the information, let her make the choice with everything on the table."

"And Ellie?"

Ja'Maar's expression grew serious. "Joe, you can't keep stringing along someone who deserves better while pining for someone else. It's not fair to anyone."

Joe knew his teammate was right. His relationship with Ellie had become fundamentally dishonest, sustained by emotional cowardice rather than genuine commitment.

"Y/N's not answering my calls," Joe said. "After today's disaster, she's probably done with complicated conversations."

"Then you'll have to find another way," Ja'Maar replied. "Because in two weeks, she might be gone. And if you let her leave without being honest, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened."

Driving home, Joe thought about Ja'Maar's advice. Being honest with Y/N meant risking everything—his professional relationship with her, his comfortable routine with Ellie, the carefully constructed life he'd built around emotional safety.

But not being honest meant accepting that he'd let fear dictate the most important choice of his life. That he'd let Y/N leave without ever giving her the chance to choose him, really choose him, with full knowledge of what he felt.

* * *

Three Days Later

The facility felt different without Y/N's regular presence. She'd been working remotely more often, only appearing for essential meetings, clearly maintaining distance after their confrontation. Joe found himself hyperaware of her absence, noting the times when she would normally be reviewing content or coordinating with her team.

He'd kept his promise not to pressure her, hadn't sent additional texts or attempted further conversations. But the waiting was killing him. In less than a week, Y/N would need to give the Giants her final answer, and Joe had no idea which way she was leaning.

"You look like shit," Ja'Maar observed as they wrapped up Wednesday practice.

"Thanks," Joe replied dryly. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."

"I'm serious, man. When's the last time you fuckin' slept?"

Joe couldn't remember. Since his conversation with Y/N, he'd been existing on caffeine and restless energy, his mind cycling through scenarios and regrets whenever he tried to rest.

"She's probably going to take it," Joe said, voicing the fear that had been growing stronger each day. "The Giants offer. Why wouldn't she? It's everything she's worked for professionally."

"Maybe," Ja'Maar agreed. "Or maybe she values what she's built here more than you think."

"Even after I fucked everything up with my timing?"

Ja'Maar considered this. "You know what your problem is? You think this is all about you. Y/N's decision, her feelings, her career—you keep making it about how it affects Joe Burrow."

The observation stung because it was accurate. "So what should I do?"

"Nothing," Ja'Maar said firmly. "Let her make her choice without your emotional baggage influencing it. If she stays, great. If she goes, you deal with it and learn from how you handled this."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom even as every instinct urged him to do something, anything, to influence Y/N's decision in his favor.

That evening, Joe sat in his house scrolling through social media, where speculation about Y/N's potential departure had somehow leaked despite the organization's attempts at discretion. Fans were posting about losing "the best content coordinator in the NFL," sharing favorite videos and posts from her tenure with the team.

One comment thread particularly caught his attention: She made Burrow seem like a real person, not just a celebrity. Hope she stays.

The observation hit home. Y/N had protected his humanity while managing his public image, had found ways to show his personality without exploiting his vulnerability. She'd been more than just a media coordinator—she'd been a guardian of his authentic self in a world that constantly pressured him to perform.

Joe thought about all the moments Y/N had captured over five years, the injury recovery sessions that could have been exploitative but instead showed genuine determination, the community events that revealed his care for Cincinnati, the team interactions that demonstrated his leadership without making it seem forced.

She'd helped him become the person he wanted to be publicly while never making him feel managed or packaged. And now she was considering leaving to build something new, something that didn't depend on understanding Joe Burrow's complexities.

His phone rang. His mother's name on the screen.

"How are you holding up?" she asked without preamble.

Joe shouldn't have been surprised that his parents had heard about Y/N's potential departure. News traveled fast in NFL circles, especially when it involved key personnel.

"Been better," Joe admitted. "How much do you know?"

"Enough to know you're probably beating yourself up over timing and choices," his mother replied with characteristic directness. "Want to talk about it?"

Joe found himself explaining the situation—his relationship with Ellie, his feelings for Y/N, the disastrous conversation in her office. His mother listened without judgment, asking clarifying questions but not offering immediate advice.

"You know," she said when he finished, "sometimes the most loving thing you can do is want someone's happiness more than you want them in your life."

The words hit Joe like a revelation. He'd been so focused on his own loss, his own regret, that he hadn't fully considered what would actually make Y/N happiest in the long run.

"The Giants opportunity is exactly what she's earned," he said slowly. "Even if it means losing her."

"And if supporting her decision is the last gift you can give her," his mother continued gently, "then maybe that's how you show her what she's meant to you all these years."

* * *

Early November 2025 - The Offer

Joe tried to keep his normal routine after Y/N got back from New York, but he couldn't focus. His mind kept wandering to what the Giants had offered her, whether she'd already decided.

Around the facility, she kept things strictly professional—polite nods, brief work exchanges, nothing that acknowledged what had happened between them.

Ja'Marr noticed his distraction during Wednesday's practice.

"You missed that read completely," his teammate said as they reviewed route concepts. "Thompson was wide open on the comeback."

"I saw it," Joe replied, though they both knew he hadn't.

"Where's your head at, man?"

Joe glanced toward the facility windows. "Probably where it shouldn't be."

That evening, Joe sat in his house, staring at his phone. His mother had texted: How are you holding up? Any word on her decision?

Still waiting, Joe replied. Not well.

Remember what we talked about. Sometimes loving someone means wanting their happiness more than their presence.

Joe read the message twice. If Y/N's happiness was in New York, then supporting that choice was how he could prove his feelings were genuine rather than selfish.

But the thought of losing her forever—not just romantically, but from his daily life entirely—felt like losing something he couldn't replace.

* * *

Mid-November 2025

By the middle of November, Joe felt like he was going crazy. Y/N's deadline was coming up, and he had no idea what she was thinking. She gave him nothing—no hints, no clues, nothing.

After another sleepless night, Joe got to the facility early, hoping to see Y/N before his day started. But her office was empty, computer off.

"She's in the edit bay," Sam mentioned, appearing beside him in the hallway. "Been there since early this morning. Finalizing content transitions in case she needs to hand things over."

"That sounds... definitive," Joe managed.

Sam studied his expression. "Maybe. Or maybe just responsible. Y/N always has contingency plans."

Joe spent the day distracted, going through the motions of practice and meetings while his mind remained fixed on Y/N's absence. By evening, he couldn't stand it anymore. He needed to see her, to try once more to have an honest conversation before she made her final decision.

The edit bay was one of the few rooms still lit when Joe arrived back at the facility that night. Through the window, he could see Y/N working alone, surrounded by monitors and notebooks, completely focused on her screen.

Joe stood outside for several minutes, gathering courage for what might be their last private conversation. Everything he'd been too afraid to say for five years needed to be said now, before it was too late.

When he finally knocked and entered, Y/N's immediate tension was obvious. But Joe was beyond caring about professional boundaries or appropriate timing. This was his last chance.

Their conversation escalated quickly, five years of suppressed emotion finally breaking free. When Y/N accused him of not seeing her for years, of only noticing her now that she was leaving, Joe felt something crack inside his chest.

"It's mattered to me for five years!" she'd shouted, and Joe realized with devastating clarity how much pain he'd caused through his emotional cowardice.

But when she admitted that what existed between them had always mattered, something shifted. Hope and desperation combined into action before Joe could think it through.

He kissed her.

Not gentle or tentative—urgent, desperate, like he was trying to communicate everything he'd been too afraid to say. Years of restraint broke open all at once, and when Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, Joe felt like he was finally home.

Her hands gripping his shirt, her body pressed against his, the soft sounds she made when he kissed her neck—it was everything Joe had imagined and more. The connection that had existed between them for years finally had physical expression, and it was overwhelming in its intensity.

When Kayla's call interrupted them, Joe felt the real world crashing back with brutal clarity. As Y/N answered professionally, her voice steady despite their disheveled appearance, Joe marveled at her composure while struggling to regain his own.

"That was real," he'd told her afterward, needing her to understand that his feelings weren't just about fear of losing her. "Everything I've said, everything I feel for you—it's real."

The vulnerability of that admission, spoken in the aftermath of their first kiss, felt like jumping off a cliff. But Y/N needed to know that his declaration wasn't just desperation or poor timing—it was the truth he'd been carrying for years.

When she said she needed time to think clearly, Joe forced himself to step back despite every instinct urging him to hold her, to kiss her again, to try to convince her through touch rather than words.

"Take all the time you need," he'd said, meaning it even as it felt like agreeing to his own torture.

Walking away from Y/N in that edit bay, her lips still swollen from his kisses, was one of the hardest things Joe had ever done. But his mother's words echoed in his mind: sometimes loving someone meant wanting their happiness more than their presence.

If Y/N needed space to make the right decision for her life, Joe would give it to her. Even if that decision broke his heart.

But as he drove home through the dark Cincinnati streets, Joe allowed himself to hope that their kiss had changed something fundamental. That Y/N now understood his feelings weren't just about timing or fear of loss, but about love he'd been too afraid to acknowledge.

One week remained. Seven days for Y/N to decide between New York and Cincinnati, between career advancement and whatever they might build together.

Joe had finally been completely honest. Now all he could do was wait, and hope that honesty hadn't come too late to matter.

The recognition that he might lose both Y/N's presence and her respect—that she might leave thinking poorly of his character and timing—was almost unbearable. But at least she would leave knowing the truth about how he felt.

* * *

The Day After

Joe woke up the next morning with the taste of Y/N still on his lips and the memory of her hands in his hair. But in daylight, doubt crept in. Had kissing her been right, or just more shitty timing?

He'd promised to give her space, but he was dying to know where they stood. Had their kiss changed anything for her, or just made everything worse?

At the facility, Joe went through his routine on autopilot, trying not to look toward Y/N's office. When Sam mentioned Y/N was working remotely again, Joe felt relief and disappointment—glad he didn't have to see her today, but also desperate to gauge her reaction to what had happened.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ja'Marr: You look like you either got hit by a truck or got laid. Which is it?

Joe almost laughed despite his anxiety. Neither. Something in between.

That sounds ominous. We good?

Ask me in a week.

Honestly, Joe had no idea if they were good. He'd finally taken Ja'Marr's advice, been completely honest about his feelings. But Y/N's response was still a mystery, her decision about New York still hanging over everything.

For the first time in years, Joe had no control over something that mattered this much. All he could do was wait and hope Y/N would make whatever choice would make her happy.

Even if it killed him.

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