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velarisdusk · 20 days ago

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Meant to Stand

Cassian x Reader

summary: Rhysand has one request: restore a half-collapsed cabin into something fit for veteran Illyrians. The catch? You'll be doing it with Cassian—and the two of you haven't truly spoken since that mission four years ago. word count: 15.7k content: [ explicit sexual content, borderline dub-con, rough sex, verbal degradation, praise, fingering, bondage, edging, orgasm denial, piv, no condom and no pulling out (me back on my bullshit :P) sexism/misogyny (minor characters), threat of violence (non-graphic, knives mentioned), injury (to the head, blood), explicit language ] author's note: please note that all sexual content is ultimately consensual, though the dynamic leans aggressive/intense. this is an enemies to lovers after all >:) ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ warrior's draught infused with a drop of heartstring enhanced with echo leaves stirred thank you for the request @avidromancereader!! your ask is gone from my inbox and i cant find your acc but i hope you'll somehow see this anyway. mwah <33

He had to be joking.

Rhysand leaned casually against the edge of his desk, as if this were no different from any other meeting, as if he hadn’t just unleashed the single most insufferable idea ever conceived within the borders of this Court. His arms folded across his chest, violet eyes deceptively calm, holding a polite smile that barely masked something sharp underneath. If he said, “I think this could be good for you two” one more time, you were certain you’d find something heavy nearby to throw at him.

Cassian stood to your left, a low, humorless huff escaping him—equal parts disbelief and reluctant amusement. You refused to meet his gaze; looking at him risked egging him on.

“Say it again,” you demanded, keeping your voice steady, trying to rein in the irritation that prickled at your skin. “Just so I know I heard you right.”

Rhys’s smile didn’t falter. “The two of you are going to restore an old Illyrian safehouse. It’s been abandoned for decades—north of Windhaven, higher up into the mountain range. Remote, battered by weather, half-collapsed.”

You blinked, waiting.

“And you want us to fix it.”

“I want you to rebuild it,” he said, voice smooth and unyielding, like riverstone polished by relentless currents. “From the ground up, if necessary.”

You stared at him.

He pressed on, as if he hadn’t just sentenced you both to weeks locked away in isolation with nothing but rotting timber and cold stone. “It’s more than just a safehouse. I want it to be a retreat—a sanctuary where soldiers can recover. After missions. After war. Somewhere quiet. Off-grid, unreachable, but safe. Yours will be the first. If it works, we’ll build more.”

Your eyes flickered to Cassian.

His jaw twitched—the faintest flicker of muscle betraying his calm.

“A healing retreat,” you repeated, your voice flat, tasting disbelief.

Rhys nodded once.

“In the middle of nowhere.”

Another nod.

“For Illyrian soldiers.”

Smile. Nod.

You let out a breath through your nose—a sharp, bitter exhale. “What the fuck did we do to deserve this?”

Rhysand laughed, a rich sound that held a hint of something unrepentant. “Consider it a sign of my deepest trust.”

From beside you, Cassian muttered under his breath, voice low and dark, “Sounds more like a punishment to me.”

Your eyes flicked briefly to him—he looked as irritated as you felt, but he masked it with practiced ease, folding his broad arms across his chest, a silent challenge. Motherfucker.

You turned back to Rhys.

“Why us?”

Rhys’s smile sharpened, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. “Because no one else has your combined skill set. And because I think it would do you good to spend some time—”

“If you say ‘together,’” you cut him off, voice low and deadly serious, “I swear on the Mother, I’ll walk out of this room and straight off the edge of the Sidra.”

Cassian snorted.

You whipped your gaze to him. “This isn’t funny.”

He shrugged with maddening nonchalance. “I didn’t say it was.”

But that smug glint in his eye—the one he’d carried the whole way back from that disastrous mission four years ago—the one where everything went sideways and somehow you had been the one Rhys lectured afterward—was back.

“Look,” Rhys said, voice dipping to something dangerously calm, “the house matters. It served as a midwinter refuge for mountain patrols, and I want it operational again. You’ll have all the supplies you need. Space to work. And if you’re smart, you’ll finish before the first frost.”

Cassian drawled, “And if we’re not smart?”

Rhys’s smile brightened, teeth flashing. “Then you’ll be cold.”

You glanced down at the map unfurled before you—tiny inked lines snaking through jagged peaks like veins. The cottage was just a speck, swallowed whole by towering mountains, tucked so deep into the range it might as well be a secret.

It was madness. You should have said no.

But Cassian straightened beside you, jaw set with stubborn resolve. He wasn’t backing down.

So neither would you.

“Fine,” you said, clipped and sharp.

Cassian echoed it with a curt nod. “Fine.”

Rhys clapped his hands once, far too pleased with himself. “Excellent.”

You bit back the urge to slam your fist into the desk.

That had been this morning.

Now, hours later, your boots crunched against the brittle snow crust that had settled thick inside what little remained of the front room. Your fingers were numb, clenching the rusted shovel you’d found half-buried in a corner, its handle rough and cold beneath your gloves. Rhys had winnowed you straight to the site just after dawn, telling you Cassian would fly in alone. Of course he had.

Rhys hadn’t said much before whisking you here—only the name of the family you’d be staying with. Good, solid folk from Windhaven, kind in a way that felt like the earth itself. Their eldest had built his own forge. The memory flickered briefly, warm as a candle’s flame, until you turned and saw the house.

Calling it a house felt generous.

Half the roof had collapsed, snow having crept inside through years of neglect and storms. One wall sagged inward, as if defeated by its own weight, barely holding on. The front door hung crooked on a single rusty hinge, creaking faintly in the biting wind. Inside, rot and ruin claimed everything—the acrid smell of damp wood and cold ash clung to your nostrils as you stepped over the threshold.

You’d expected this would be bad. It was worse.

This place was not meant to stand.

But you got to work.

By the time the sun clawed its way above the ridgeline, you’d cleared two rooms of snow, shoulders aching, fingers stinging despite the thick gloves. Your muscles protested with every shovelful of debris, your frustration growing heavier than the weight you hauled.

The wind whispered and howled through shattered beams. The house groaned under the assault of time and weather. And still, no sign of Cassian.

When his boots finally crunched through the snow behind you, the sky was already washed bright with late morning sun. You were midway through yanking a broken rafter free from what had once been a bedroom.

“Well,” he said, voice maddeningly bright, “at least it’s got character.”

You spun, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

Cassian glanced around, hands on hips, wings flaring briefly as he took in the wreckage. “No. I’m honestly impressed it’s still standing.”

“I’ve been here for hours.”

“I told Rhys I’d fly. You chose the early shift.”

You dropped the rafter with a satisfying thunk. “You’re late.”

He shrugged. “You started without me.”

And just like that, the bickering began—fast and fierce. Over the beams’ state. The rot creeping through the floors. Who got which tools. Where to start first—though, as you reminded him more than once, you were already well underway.

“You cannot patch a roof with brute force, Cassian.”

“Brute force’s been good to me for five hundred years.”

“Not on a roof.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t lift the roof.”

You came dangerously close to hurling a hammer at his head at that. Why would you want to? Why would you even need to?

Eventually, grudgingly, a plan took shape.

The supplies Rhys had sent arrived: thick lumber, nails, shingles, canvas tarps. Throughout the day, women from Windhaven appeared with baskets of food and tightly wrapped bundles of dried herbs and cloth, leaving as quietly as they came—always with a knowing glance. One winked when she handed you a loaf of bread.

You didn’t ask questions.

Cassian took to the high work, wings carrying him effortlessly to the eaves and upper beams. You handled the details—the door frames, window fittings, and cuts requiring more precision than power. You worked in parallel, never quite together.

Outside, the wind sharpened, prying at battered walls as if intent on tearing the house apart for good.

Hours later, you left the site, the day’s labor etched into your muscles and mood. The chill lingered, stubborn as ever, even when you reached the small home where you would stay.

Illyrian, of course—rough-hewn in both manner and build, but not unkind.

Harran, the father, stood tall and broad-shouldered, coal-dark hair threaded with silver, a jagged scar slicing down his jaw. His eyes were sharp but not cruel, and he moved like a man who’d seen enough battle to stop pretending it glorified anything.

His mate, Vesa, was smaller and wiry, her clipped wings folded tight behind her. Her gaze was steady and clear—missed nothing, endured everything. Her hands, scarred and chapped, were always busy—kneading dough, mending clothes, smoothing a child’s hair.

Their sons, Miran and Corven, were nearly Cassian’s height—broad-shouldered and muscular from long hours training in the mountains. Miran, the older, carried himself with a practiced swagger; Corven was never far behind, eager to match his brother’s pace. They elbowed and argued, squabbled over the first bowl of stew, and ignored you with the effortless indifference only Illyrian boys could master.

Their daughter, Nali, was younger—ten, maybe twelve—difficult to tell beneath soot-smudged skin and fraying braids. Her wings were untouched, not yet clipped. At first, she watched you warily—quiet, observant—before offering a tentative smile and a crust of bread, weighing you carefully as if deciding whether you were threat or fleeting stranger. When she spoke, her bluntness mirrored your own too closely to be coincidence.

Vesa met you at the door with a smile and warm hands. Inside, the hearth roared like a promise of safety. The scent of roasting meat and fresh bread filled the room, weaving through the low murmur of quiet conversation.

You ate without much thought, muscles loosening with each bite as the cold finally released its grip.

Later, wrapped in thick woolen blankets lent by Nali, you lay awake, the mountain wind howling outside like a mourning song, the creak of old wood and scrape of ice against stone your only companions.

Your mind drifted—as it always did after too many hours spent circling Cassian’s orbit—back to that day. The day everything twisted between you.

You could still hear the shouted orders, feel the crushing weight of every mistake like shards of splintering wood pressing down, drowning you.

It hadn’t been just the mission going sideways.

It was everything that followed—the flicker of grudging respect, the sharp words, the cold distance. The silent apologies neither of you dared voice.

You closed your eyes and let the wind howl its grief through the mountains, the sound folding over you like a threadbare lullaby.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

A week had passed. Probably. You’d stopped counting somewhere around day four, when your fingers went numb midway through hammering a frost-stiffened plank and you’d seriously considered torching the entire cottage just to make a point.

Still—progress. Measurable, even. The worst of the rot had been cleared. Floorboards in the front room were sanded and patched. Rafters, once bowed and brittle, had been reinforced with new timber. Slowly, stubbornly, the bones of the house had begun to realign themselves beneath the weight of your shared labor.

Cassian had even rehung the front door—though not without three stripped hinges, several increasingly irrational arguments, and one wholly gratuitous flex of his biceps.

The worst part of it all? The hike.

And gods, it seemed to get steeper with each passing day.

Rhys had dropped you directly at the doorstep when he first winnowed you in, but ever since then, the journey from the foothills to the cottage had to be done on foot—an hour of merciless incline, uneven footing, and air thinned just enough to make your lungs burn.

Every morning, without fail, somewhere near the quarter mark, you’d hear it: the slow, rhythmic thud of wings overhead.

You didn’t know where Cassian spent his nights, but there he was each dawn, cutting a high path across the ridgeline like a shadow peeled from the rock. He never looked down. Never hovered. Never taunted. For that small mercy, you were grateful.

And yet—

Some traitorous part of you, breathless and aching and cold, found itself wishing—just once—that he’d stop. Offer to carry you the rest of the way. Just once.

The moment the thought formed, you slapped yourself in the face with your own glove.

You would rather collapse in the snow than ask. You were not that desperate.

Today’s task: one of the larger ceiling beams had to be repositioned before the rest of the support frame could go in. It was easily twice your weight and stubborn as hell, and you knew without even trying that getting it in place would be a losing battle. That didn’t mean you wouldn’t try though. It was going to be a long day.

You adjusted your grip on the timber. Morning frost still clung to the surface, and the grain bit into your palms like it could sense the tremor in your muscles.

Through the ragged hole where a window would eventually sit, you caught sight of Cassian outside.

He’d hauled half the new roofing up the slope before sunrise. Now he was anchoring the lean-to’s frame—bracing a support beam with one hand, hammering with the other.

Snow crunched beneath his boots each time he shifted. His breath curled silver in the cold. The steady rhythm of nails driving into wood echoed through the half-finished walls, punctuated by the occasional muttered curse when one bent wrong.

It was the kind of work that demanded his full attention—

—which meant, unfortunately, that your job for the moment was this stubborn, gods-damned beam.

You turned back to it with a sigh. Dragged the step ladder from the corner. Braced it against what remained of the western wall. Climbed slowly, joints stiff from the cold, from the climb, from a week’s worth of bruises you hadn’t bothered to tally.

One hand on the beam. One on the top rung.

You pushed.

Nothing.

You shifted angles. Shoved again, jaw locked tight.

Still nothing.

Your breath scraped in and out like it had to fight for space.

You braced your shoulder into the timber, legs straining. Something groaned—either the ladder or your spine—but the beam didn’t move. Or maybe it did. A hair. A tremble. Enough to fool yourself.

Your vision sparked at the edges.

Then your boot slipped.

Your shoulder clipped the top rung, too slow to catch yourself—

—and your head struck the beam, hard, a sudden, blinding thunk.

The world pitched.

Then the floor rose to meet your spine.

A flare of white. Then nothing at all.

Something tugged at you eventually.

Light, at first. Insistent.

—light, insistent.

Then sound—distant, distorted, like your name being called through stone. A scraping wind. The dull, percussive drum of your pulse hammering behind your eyes.

You blinked.

The world listed sideways. Skewed edges. Sky, timber, a shadow leaning over you. It moved—broad shoulders, dark hair—and resolved, slowly, into a face much too close to yours.

Cassian.

His palms framed your face, steady and warm, anchoring you like you might float off otherwise. There was tension in his jaw, a furrow carved deep between his brows. He looked—

Panicked.

Why?

You blinked again. Tried to speak. Nothing emerged.

His thumb passed gently along your cheekbone. You felt it. That, at least, reached you.

Then the pain came.

Blinding. Sudden.

The throb behind your eyes flared white-hot, and you could only gasp, curling reflexively as the world slammed back into place—floorboards cold against your spine, rough beneath your coat.

Cassian’s voice cut through the fog. “Hey. Look at me.” Firm. Quiet. “You’re okay. You hit your head, but you’re okay.”

But his tone didn’t sound certain.

You tried to sit up. A jolt of pain arced down your neck like a whip. Cassian’s hand rose without thought—light on your shoulder, more brace than barrier.

“I’m fine,” you rasped. The lie felt hollow in your throat. You pressed your hand to your temple, willing the room to steady. “Just slipped.”

“You fell off a ladder,” he said tightly, crouching beside you. “You could’ve cracked your gods-damned skull. What were you even doing?”

He was too close. Too warm. He smelled like cedar dust and sweat and early morning frost—and his hands, even in their urgency, remained heartbreakingly gentle.

Steady.

He was always so steady. You hated him for it.

“I said I’m fine,” you muttered, shoving weakly at his shoulder. It was like pushing a boulder.

He didn’t budge. Just exhaled, slow and measured, as if dragging the breath up from somewhere deep in his chest. Then, softer, “You’re bleeding. Let me help you.”

You should’ve refused.

Should’ve snapped something sharp and final.

But your head throbbed like it was caught in a smith’s vice, and the floor kept tilting beneath you in queasy waves, and your knees—gods, your knees were shaking now.

So when he eased you upright, guided you carefully toward the nearest wall, you didn’t fight it.

Cassian knelt in front of you again, eyes sweeping over you with a battle-hardened thoroughness that made your skin crawl. You tried to turn your face away—

—but his fingers found your chin. Gentle. Unmoving.

“Hold still.”

You glared. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

He angled your face toward the light, jaw tightening at the sight of the gash above your brow. The blood had begun to clot, streaking thickly through your lashes. You didn’t need to see it to know the damage—his expression told you enough.

Then his hand shifted. Slid into your hair. Fingers careful, parting through tangles to find the source of the swelling.

You flinched.

He stilled. “Didn’t crack it,” he murmured. “But you’re lucky.”

“Or stubborn.”

A soft huff—barely a sound. “Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

He checked the rest of you with a soldier’s precision—rolling your sleeve to inspect the elbow that had caught your fall, then skimming his hand down your leg, testing the bend of your knee, the give of your ankle. Efficient. Clinical. Detached.

It should’ve felt impersonal.

And yet—

You felt heat creeping beneath your skin all the same.

Cassian leaned back on his heels. “Rhys sent a basic first aid kit up with the supply run. I saw it in one of the crates—we’ll see how basic it is.”

You didn’t argue. Just watched him cross the half-finished room, boots thudding over the creaking floorboards, shadows shifting as he rifled through the stacked crates by the door. Tools clinked faintly nearby. Somewhere outside, the mountain wind threaded through the empty window frames, thin and cold and constant.

You used the moment to gather yourself. To breathe through the pounding behind your eyes, to will the heat still simmering in your chest to settle.

Gods, you hated this.

Hated how easily he’d helped you.

How careful he’d been.

How easy it had been to let him.

Because Cassian was infuriating. Arrogant. Impossible. But when the bluster dropped and left behind only steady hands, a tight mouth, and that quiet concern in his eyes—it made it harder to hold on to the anger you’d spent so long cultivating.

And you needed that anger. It was safer than remembering how it used to be between you. Safer than wondering if he remembered it, too. Safer than asking yourself why it still mattered.

He returned a minute later with a black canvas case and sank back to his knees in front of you. Snapped it open. Inside: a roll of gauze, antiseptic, a clean cloth.

“This’ll sting,” he warned.

You tipped your chin up. “Do your worst.”

He gave you a look. Then, with maddening gentleness, dabbed at the cut above your brow.

The antiseptic bit down sharp and cold and mean. You flinched before you could stop yourself, the muscles in your face twitching involuntarily.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

You let out a breath of a laugh, brittle and dry. “You apologizing now?”

He didn’t bite. Just kept working—focused, silent.

So you clenched your jaw and let him.

There was care in it. Not the loud, performative kind—but the careful press of cloth, the precise wrap of gauze. Intentional. Quiet. It made your skin itch.

He tore the strip of bandage with his teeth, wrapped your head in neat spirals. Tight, but not too tight.

“You’re not setting a bone,” you muttered. “Ease up.”

“Don’t pass out on me again and I’ll consider it.”

You rolled your eyes. Instantly regretted it as the motion sent another pulse of pain lancing through your skull.

When the bandage was finally in place, he leaned back, scanning you again—like he didn’t quite trust you not to have hidden some other injury just to spite him.

“You hit the back of your head too,” he said, voice low. “Hard. You’ll need to watch for symptoms.”

“No shit,” you muttered. “Maybe if someone had warned me about altitude and exertion and, I don’t know, lifting beams clearly designed by a drunk sadist—”

“I did,” he cut in flatly. “Three days ago. You told me to, and I quote, ‘shove it.’”

That… sounded like you.

“Still stands,” you grumbled.

Cassian exhaled through his nose, bracing his forearms on his knees as he studied you. Just studied—no irritation, no smirk, no retort.

Just that look.

You shifted under the weight of it. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Only said, “You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull open.”

You scoffed. “You’d love that. One less thing to trip over in this place.”

A quiet snort escaped him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tempt me.”

You hesitated. Then, grudgingly: “Thanks.”

It burned in your mouth. Bitter as iron.

Cassian stood. Brushed his palms off on his pants like he couldn’t quite figure out what else to do with them.

“Don’t make a habit of it.”

You wouldn’t. Gods, you wouldn’t.

You turned your back before he could say anything else, jaw tight against the ache behind your eyes.

Letting him take care of you had been bad enough.

Letting him see it? That was worse.

Letting it mean something?

Unforgivable.

So you wouldn’t.

You couldn’t.

You told yourself that was enough.

The work after that resumed without ceremony. No acknowledgment. No mention of the moment you’d let him bandage your face like it hadn’t cost you something. Neither of you spoke about that day.

You didn’t speak much at all.

Days blurred into weeks, thick with sawdust and silence. The roof had gone up two days after your fall, the outer walls not long after that, and the gash on your brow healed without much fuss. One morning, you’d found Cassian half-folded in the crawl space, swearing so colorfully at a snapped floorboard that a laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

He froze.

Eyes narrowing like a wolf catching the sound of prey rustling just beyond reach.

By the time you registered your mistake, it was too late—he’d hurled a clump of wet moss the size of a grapefruit directly at your chest.

You yelped.

He smirked.

And as if the gods demanded balance, he promptly knocked his head against a support beam trying to make a smug exit.

You went back to work, muttering something like, “Idiots shouldn’t be trusted with sharp tools.”

Cassian had gone quiet behind you. For a second, you braced for a retort.

But none came.

Just a grunt. And the steady rhythm of hammering resumed.

And so it went: progress, distance, and the occasional detour into something that almost looked like familiarity—until one of you noticed. And then it was gone again.

One such moment arrived today.

The structure was solid now—weather-tight, insulated, the bones of a real home. Furnishing had begun, thanks in large part to the villagers who insisted on treating the whole project like public entertainment. Two Illyrian females—names you never caught—arrived this morning with a pair of mismatched nightstands and a little girl no older than five, who darted into the house without hesitation.

Cassian was crouched by the hearth, checking the chimney seal, when she barreled into him like a pint-sized battering ram.

He caught her instinctively. Let out a startled grunt that softened into a laugh as she blinked up at him and launched into a breathless story involving her kitten, a bucket, and something about soup.

You stood just inside the doorway, mostly hidden by the frame.

He listened—actually listened. One elbow propped on his knee, expression intent, nodding at all the right moments. When she jabbed a finger at the uneven stonework and declared it crooked, he didn’t correct her. Didn’t scoff. Just flicked a glance at the hearth and said, “Y’know what? You might be right.”

She giggled. He tossed her a wink like they’d sealed some sacred pact.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Because you’d forgotten this version of him.

The one who softened.

The one whose laugh, when it came easy, was low and warm and kind.

The one who didn’t bark or posture or carry every moment like a war waiting to be lost.

You’d forgotten.

And gods help you—

You liked it.

You turned away before you could fall any further, before Cassian caught the way you’d been watching.

Just in time, too—the crunch of boots on the path announced more arrivals. The two eldest sons of the Windhaven woman you were boarding with came into view, hauling a bedframe between them with the mattress already strapped on top. They moved in quiet sync, the way people do when the task is old and the rhythm familiar.

One of the females was chasing down the excitable little girl, who waved goodbye to Cassian with such enthusiasm she nearly toppled over. Her mother chuckled and called out, “Thank you both for building this. It’s a gift to see young love doing something useful.”

Your head snapped around. “We’re not—”

“Nope,” Cassian said at the same time, flat and certain. “Definitely not.”

The female just winked at her friend like she didn’t believe a word of it, and started down the path without looking back.

Then the Windhaven boys reached you.

“Brought the bed from the house,” Miran said, glancing at you, then turning squarely to Cassian. “Our mother said you’d need it sooner or later.”

“That was generous,” Cassian replied, stepping forward with easy authority. “Thanks for carrying it all the way up.”

Corven, with a permanent sneer stitched into his face, let out a low snort. His wings twitched like he was spoiling for something. “Didn’t realize you were playing house,” he said, eyes raking over the structure. “Figured you’d be back in Windhaven by now.”

“I’m not playing anything,” you said, voice cool and steady.

Neither of them looked at you.

Corven’s mouth curled. “Could’ve guessed you’d let her boss you around,” he said to Cassian. “They get mouthy when they think they’re helping.”

Cassian didn’t move. Not visibly. But his entire frame shifted—still, suddenly, as if something had locked in place. You felt it before you saw it.

“Watch your fucking mouth,” you said, stepping forward, sharp as a blade unsheathed. “I don’t need a male’s permission to speak, and I sure as hell don’t need one to lift a godsdamned beam.”

Corven scoffed and stepped in close—too close—his breath laced with arrogance. “Just surprised a fae female thinks she belongs up here,” he said. “Thought your kind liked to stay soft.”

You smiled—slow, cold. The kind of smile that made steel ring when drawn. “Careful. You’re one insult away from me showing you just how soft your skull is.”

That wiped the smirk off his face. A flicker of uncertainty passed through his eyes.

“Mouthy,” he muttered, “for someone who needs a male to keep her upright.”

“Try saying that again while I’m holding a hammer,” you said, stepping toward him until your chests nearly brushed. You didn’t blink.

To your left, Miran leaned toward Cassian and muttered, “She always like this? Or just when she’s bleeding for attention?”

Cassian turned his head toward him. Slowly. Controlled. “You wanna try that again?”

Miran’s lip curled. “Oh? Didn’t think bastards got this protective. Especially over a fae bitch who doesn’t know her place.”

The breath left your body like a snapped string.

Cassian didn’t yell. Didn’t raise a hand.

His voice dropped, low and lethal: “Didn’t think Windhaven bred males dumb enough to say that to my face.”

Corven snorted, not quite brave enough to meet Cassian’s eyes. His gaze slid back to you, crawling over your frame with open disdain. “Bet you don’t even carry your own weight.”

Your jaw tightened. “I carry more than you can lift, you smug little—”

“Real bold, with your guard dog here.” He leaned in, that oily smile spreading again. “Without him, you wouldn’t be mouthing off at all. We’d teach you some manners real fast.”

He took a step closer. That was his mistake.

Cassian moved—but you were faster.

The dagger came free from your thigh holster in one clean motion, your other hand fisting the collar of his leather tunic and dragging him forward. The blade pressed low beneath his ribs, gleaming like a promise.

“Try me,” you said, voice a whisper laced with venom. You saw the moment the smirk fell away, replaced by startled calculation. His hands lifted slightly—not surrender, just instinct.

Behind you, Cassian’s voice sliced through the air like flint on steel.

“She doesn’t need anyone to fight her battles.”

You didn’t take your eyes off Corven, not even as Cassian’s next words landed like a death sentence.

“She outranks both of you. And if I hear one more breath out of you, I’ll rip your tongues out and send them back to your father.”

Silence crashed around you, thick and absolute.

Then:

“Leave the bed,” Cassian said, voice now a command, no longer a warning. “Thank your mother for us. And get the fuck out.”

Miran and Corven exchanged a look—wings flaring, teeth grit, pride wounded but not enough to be suicidal. They walked off a few paces, boots crunching against packed snow, dirt kicking up as they launched into the sky.

Graceless. Rattled.

Not nearly as fearless as they’d like to believe.

You sheathed your blade in one smooth, practiced motion. Your pulse was a war drum beneath your skin, steady only because you willed it to be.

Cassian hadn’t moved. He was still staring at the empty air where they’d stood, jaw tight, chest rising with quiet fury.

And when he turned to you—

That fire was still in his eyes. But something else had joined it.

Something softer. Something that looked a hell of a lot like concern.

Like he wanted to ask if you were all right.

You didn’t give him the chance—refusing to be the object of that quiet, pitying gaze.

“So,” you said briskly, nodding toward the bedframe, “we figuring out how to get that thing through the door, or do we throw out the door and build a bigger one?”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You tried not to look at him.

Really—you did.

But fuck, the way he moved.

His shirt clung to the line of his back, damp from the effort of dragging the mattress through the door frame. Broad shoulders bunching beneath worn cotton. Wings flaring once for balance, then tucking in with quiet control. Forearms flexing with each pivot, veins rising with the strain.

You didn’t look.

Not when he crouched to angle the frame.

Not when his shirt rode up and exposed a sliver of golden-brown skin.

Not when his back curved and a few strands of his hair came loose—soft, sweat-dampened waves falling just past his jaw.

“Gonna help,” he grunted, “or just supervise?”

You blinked. “I’m thinking about letting the bed crush you, actually.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound low and unbothered. “Touching.”

Still, you helped angle the frame through the narrow hallway, side-eyeing him the whole way because—Cauldron boil you—how the hell had you managed to ignore how obnoxiously ripped he was for so long?

You told yourself it was the work. All that lumber hauling. All that swinging of tools and lifting of beams and moving of furniture. You were tired. You weren’t thinking straight.

The house had begun to feel… lived in.

The hearth had been stoned and sealed days ago. Mismatched chairs ringed a table you’d argued about positioning—too close to the window, he’d insisted. They hadn’t collapsed yet. Cassian had cobbled together bookshelves from spare planks, and someone had donated a carved bench with mountain birds etched into the backrest. The bed—this godsdamned bed—had been the last missing piece.

You’d kept your head down. Stayed busy. Swept corners. Shifted furniture. Tucked away the worst of the dust. Which was maybe why you didn’t notice the change in the air.

Not until the front door shook in its frame.

Cassian froze mid-step, one hand still braced on the bookshelf. His head lifted slightly. Wings adjusted.

Then the door rattled again—louder this time. A gust slid between the gaps, whistling high and sharp. The kind of wind that didn’t blow past, but through.

Cassian moved in three long strides, shouldering up to the door. His hand landed flat on the wood as he reached for the handle. You followed without thinking, stepping beside him just as he threw it open.

The door fought back.

Cassian grunted, leaning his weight into it. The hinges groaned. And then—

The wind hit.

A wall of it, like something with intent. It punched through the gap, ice slicing across your legs, snow curling around your boots and into the room. It howled in the chimney, screamed across the floorboards, clawed for your faces with invisible fingers.

Beyond the threshold, the world had vanished. The trees, gone. The path, buried. Snow fell in slanted sheets, driven sideways by the gale. It shimmered in the fading light, rippling like water, blinding and endless.

Cassian planted a forearm against the frame to keep the door from flying wide. His hair whipped loose behind him. His wings shuddered once before clamping tight to his back.

You pressed a shoulder beside his, blinking into the storm.

He didn’t shout—just said it low, over the wind.

“We’re not making it back to Windhaven tonight.”

You didn’t argue.

By the time Cassian managed to wrench the door shut again, the wind nearly took him with it. He staggered a step, braced a hand to the frame, and threw the bolt into place with a sharp thunk. His breath gusted out, chest rising hard beneath his soaked shirt.

Snow clung to you both in fine, glittering dust. Your boots were slick, pants damp at the hem. The cold had teeth now—sinking straight through the seams of your clothes.

Cassian blew out a low whistle. “And we didn’t bring in any dry firewood.”

You followed his glance to the hearth. The pile inside was pitiful. Damp, half-frozen. There might be enough to keep the coals breathing till morning—but only if you didn’t mind going numb first.

Then his gaze flicked toward the bed.

You beat him to it. “No.”

He didn’t even bother to smirk. Just reached for his belt.

“It’s not like I planned this,” he muttered, leather whispering through loops as he tugged it free.

The leather whispered through the loops, his movements unhurried as he pulled it free—sternly, deliberately. Your eyes followed the movement—against your better judgement.

You forced yourself to look elsewhere. The bed. Then the floor. Then him.

“I’ll take the rug,” you said, already striding toward the folded throw blanket on the armchair. “The floor’s fine.”

Something soft slammed into your face.

You blinked. Staggered back a step. The pillow hit your chest and dropped. You caught it before it bounced to the floor.

“Are you serious?”

Cassian stood beside the bed, arms crossed. “You’re being an idiot.”

“I’m being considerate.”

He rolled his eyes. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, and the floor’s wooden—less forgiving than you think.”

“I’m not sharing a bed with you, Cassian.”

“Oh, please,” he muttered, already tugging off his boots. “Like I’ve never seen you drool in your sleep before.”

Your mouth dropped open. “I do not—”

He collapsed backward onto the mattress with a theatrical groan, then patted the other side without looking at you. “Come on, princess. I won’t even steal the blanket.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You snore.”

“Only when I’m comfortable.”

“I’ll kick you.”

“Not if I kick you first.”

You stared at him. At the lazy sprawl of him across the quilt. At the wind outside battering the shutters like it wanted in. At the hearth that hadn’t been lit in hours.

You muttered a curse and undid your laces. Toed off your boots one at a time—each thud against the floor sharper than necessary. Then you crossed the room, grabbed the blanket—

—and dumped it directly on his face.

He made a low, amused sound, muffled beneath the weight. You climbed into the opposite side of the bed, stiffly, yanking the blanket back into place and tucking it to your chin like it was armor.

“Back-to-back,” you ordered, not turning around.

Cassian shifted, the mattress dipping with his weight. “Sure,” he said quietly. He was already facing away.

Silence settled.

The wind keened against the walls. Something moaned in the chimney—deep and hollow. You lay still, spine straight, every part of your body tight with tension.

Cassian breathed slow beside you.

You clenched your jaw. “And don’t call me that.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“It’s better than idiot,” he muttered. “And you wouldn’t like that either.”

“I didn’t like having a pillow thrown at my face.”

“Well, I didn’t like watching you try to martyr yourself onto the floor when we both know you’d be up every two hours with a stiff back.”

You rolled, just enough to glare at the back of his head. “Excuse me for trying not to make things weird.”

He turned too—slowly, deliberately—just his head at first. “Weird? You think I’m gonna roll over and hump your leg in my sleep or something?”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“I don’t know what you think I’d do,” he said flatly, “but it’s just a bed.”

“This isn’t just anything,” you snapped.

He shifted fully now, facing you across the narrow stretch of space. “Sleeping. In a bed. In the middle of a storm. That’s all this is.”

You sat up, braced on one elbow. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” He raked a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You’re acting like this is a massive deal.”

“Because it is.”

Your voice cut sharper than you meant. You looked at him—at the mess of him in the low firelight. Hair mussed. Jaw tight. Brow furrowed in that way that meant he was trying not to say something.

“I’m not like you,” you said quietly. “I don’t—”

You stopped. The words caught. Bitter against your tongue.

Cassian waited.

But you didn’t finish.

You just lay back down, hard and fast, curling the blanket tighter.

Neither of you spoke again for a long while.

The wind howled against the glass, the storm clawing at the corners of the house like it wanted to blow the walls down. And somewhere beneath it all, you could hear your heartbeat—steady, defiant, and too aware of the warmth at your back.

It was a long time before either of you slept.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was warm.

That was the first thing you registered—not the cold, not the wind or the stiff ache in your back. Just warmth. Heavy, steady, inescapable warmth pressed along every inch of you.

Then: weight.

An arm slung low around your waist. A hand curled loosely against your ribs. A thigh tucked behind yours. One of your calves caught beneath his. Your nose was pressed to something solid and hot. Your fingers rested on something that was very much not a pillow.

Your eyes opened.

Chest. Bare chest. Scarred and golden-brown, rising and falling beneath your palm.

You froze.

Cassian’s breath stirred your hair. Slow. Deep. His nose was buried in it. One wing tucked behind you like an extra blanket.

Oh no.

You didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Just stared at the expanse of his skin beneath your hand—watched it rise and fall in sync with your own panicked breaths. You could feel him. Everywhere. His palm splayed warm against your stomach. Your knee hooked over his thigh. His mouth—soft, parted slightly—rested near your temple.

You definitely hadn’t fallen asleep like this. You’d been cold. Irritated. Back-to-back. You hadn’t even faced him.

So at some point—gods—one of you had moved. And the other hadn’t stopped it.

You launched yourself back like the mattress had caught fire.

Cassian jolted with a garbled grunt and flailed off the far side of the bed, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

You scrambled upright, yanking the blanket to your chest.

He was on his feet in an instant—bare-chested, wide-eyed, a dagger gleaming in his hand.

Your heart leapt. Then your gaze dropped—quick. Shirt still on. Thank the Mother.

Cassian exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding his breath. Then, as if remembering himself, he slid the dagger away behind his back. Like it hadn’t just appeared there.

Neither of you spoke.

Your heart hammered. Not from fear. From—shit, you didn’t even know.

You sat frozen for a beat longer, eyes locked on the crumpled blanket. His warmth still clung to it. His scent, too—cypress and wind and something darker, smokier. Something that lingered.

Cassian dragged a hand through his hair. His eyes skittered everywhere but you. “That was—”

“Fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too bright. “That was fine. We were just cold.”

He nodded once. Sharp. “Cold.”

Silence stretched.

You glanced over. “Why is your shirt off?”

“I run hot,” he said flatly. “Probably pulled it off in my sleep.”

“Right.”

You shoved the blanket aside and scrubbed your hands down your pants like that might wipe away the imprint of him. “Next time, I’m taking the floor.”

Cassian turned to look at you. Something unreadable moved behind his eyes. “You really think there’s gonna be a next time?”

You narrowed yours. “If there is, I’m bringing a second blanket and a fucking knife.”

“Great,” he muttered, turning away. “More weapons in the bed.”

“I wasn’t the one sleeping like a drunk bear on top of me.”

“You could’ve shoved me off.”

“I did. This morning!”

“Maybe try earlier next time.”

“Oh, so sorry for not waking up halfway through the night to fight off your snuggling.”

His head whipped around. “Snuggling?”

You pointed at the bed. “There was limb placement, Cassian. There were positions.”

He gave a full-body shudder. “Ugh. Don’t say it like that.”

You crossed your arms.

Another long, brittle silence.

You looked toward the hearth.

Cassian sighed, fingers dragging down his face.

You didn’t look at each other again. Not right away. But the red burning in your face wasn’t from the cold anymore.

When you passed him his coat, wordless, he took it without meeting your eyes—tugging his sweater back on in jerky, too-quick movements. Still warm. Still tense.

Still close enough that the silence between you felt like the loudest thing in the room.

“I’m gonna see if anyone in Windhaven’s hoarding dry wood,” he muttered, sliding his arms through the sleeves. His fingers moved deftly, fastening the flaps around the slits for his wings, sealing in the warmth with practiced efficiency. “Or if the Mother feels like being generous today.”

He ducked out before you could reply. The wind slammed the door shut behind him, hard enough to rattle the frame.

It still howled out there—louder than it should’ve for morning—but it was nothing like the chaos of the night before. No hail clawing at the shutters. No lightning tearing the sky into pieces. Just the steady, petulant churn of deep winter. Relentless and gray.

You stood there a moment longer, the back of your neck prickling with leftover heat.

Then you wrung your fingers once. Shook out your arms. You needed to move. Needed something to do.

So you turned toward the crates by the wall and got to work—sorting what was left, piece by piece. Anything to keep your hands busy. Anything to stop remembering the shape of him against you.

You didn’t mean to think about him. Not really. But the silence made it easy—made it too easy to drift back. To the heat of his chest beneath your cheek. The slow, unthinking rise and fall of his breathing. You paused, fingers resting lightly on the rim of a crate, and let the memory slip in: the way he’d looked at Miran yesterday—like it had taken real effort not to slam the male into the ground.

For a moment, it had felt like before. Before the cold fronts and the sideways glances. Before the contests and snide remarks and the constant need to prove something. Just the two of you, standing on the same side of something.

It started with a dinner table in the Autumn Court.

Too long by design, more gold than wood. Candlelight flickered along its length, caught in the carved antlers of an elaborate candelabra. The courtiers sat like scattered pawns—fifteen or so in total, all finely dressed and finely bored, murmuring beneath the weight of centuries-old manners.

You sat midway down, spine straight, gown cold against your skin. Feyre had chosen it—a pale, silken thing with thin sleeves and a plunging back, elegant enough to flatter, sheer enough to distract. You hadn’t realized how drafty the hall would be.

At your side, Cassian looked like a portrait of restraint. Formal leathers, dark and freshly oiled, with his sword strapped visibly to his back. His wings were tucked tight, shoulders set broad and proud as he drank from a goblet of spiced wine and pretended to listen to the courtier beside him drone on about hunting dogs.

“You must try the roast boar,” the male was saying. “Caught just this morning in the Ashen Wood. Hardly kicked at all.”

Cassian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Sounds like a real fighter.”

You bit back a laugh and reached for your wine, lifting it with a hand you hoped wasn’t trembling. Not from nerves—from focus. Anticipation. The third course was being cleared. That was the signal.

You caught his eye. He gave the barest nod.

This was the plan: you’d slip out once the desserts arrived. Half the court would be deep in wine by then, and the rest too distracted with flattery to notice your absence. Beron was supposed to be away in Rask, and with him gone, most of the staff had followed. The guards were thinned, the route clear. You knew it by heart. Every hallway, every turn. Every blind corner.

You and Cassian were to retrieve a satchel of documents hidden behind a false wall in Beron’s private study. Documents that, according to Azriel’s source, outlined a network of Autumn spies embedded across the Night Court’s border villages. Names. Routes. Quiet, deliberate betrayal. Proof Rhys needed in hand before the next High Lord summit.

Then the doors opened.

The wind hit first—cold and sharp, a ripple of tension that passed down the table like a shadow. And then came Beron.

Tall. Imperious. A crown of flame wrought in iron above his head. He didn’t speak as he entered, didn’t even look at the table—just let the silence stretch, let his presence do the work of a hundred guards. His eyes landed on you. Then Cassian.

Cassian didn’t move, not at first. Just shifted a fraction, jaw tight. The smile gone.

You leaned in, lips barely moving. “We still have time.”

His eyes stayed fixed ahead. “No.”

“We can be in and out in two minutes.”

“There are guards in the hall.”

“I counted three. They’re patrolling. We can avoid them.”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“It is,” you said sharply, eyes flicking to him. “We’re already here.”

He gave a slow exhale, eyes still forward. “Let it go.”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just pushed your chair back, carefully, gracefully, as though all you needed was a breath of air. You adjusted your shawl, offered a smile to no one in particular, and laid a light hand on Cassian’s arm in passing.

He rose after a beat. Slower. Unwilling.

The hall outside the dining chamber was dim, lit only by amber sconces spaced far apart. The cold bit at your arms as you moved, your footsteps soundless on the marble floors.

“Turn back,” he said behind you.

“We’re already committed.”

“You’re committed. I’m cleaning up your stubborn—”

“You’re here because you agreed.”

“I agreed when Beron was in Rask.” His glare could’ve scorched the stone.

You didn’t answer. Just kept moving, your pace steady, gown brushing the floor. It felt heavier now. The tension thickened with every step. At the end of the corridor, you rounded the corner and slowed your breathing, ears pricked. No footsteps. No voices.

You reached the study door. Checked the sigil. Whispered the passphrase Azriel’d given you.

Cassian hovered just behind you, tense as a drawn bowstring.

The door clicked open.

The study was colder than the hall. Sparse, but grand—lined with dark, heavy shelves and a wide, weathered desk carved with swirling Autumn leaves. The false wall was behind it. You found it quickly, fingers slipping into the seam.

A panel swung free.

And there it was. A satchel. Worn leather, sealed with a Night Court clasp—proof that the spies were real. That the betrayal was already underway.

You had it in your hand.

Then—

“Oi!”

Cassian cursed. You turned in time to see him shove a guard into the wall, hard enough to crack plaster. Another guard’s horn lifted to his lips.

“Stop him—”

Steel flashed. Cassian cut the horn clean off before the sound could carry, but it was too late. The third guard was already gone, no doubt having sprinted for the main wing.

“Shit,” Cassian muttered. “We need to move.”

You bolted. The satchel hit your hip with every step. Shouts echoed behind you—more guards, more boots. You could feel them closing in.

“Go!” Cassian barked. “I’ll hold—”

You didn’t let him finish. Vaulted over the railing instead, your stilettos landing hard on the ledge two stories down. You were sure they snapped, but it didn’t matter when pain flared through your shoulder as you caught yourself. Something pulled—tore, and you couldn’t hold back the ragged cry that tore from your throat.

“(Y/N)!”

Below, the front grounds yawned wide. Gravel path. Stone basin. The koi pond Beron used to impress diplomats and scare off children.

The satchel had landed at the edge of it. Teetering near the water.

“I’m fine!” you shouted up, breath ragged, blood running warm down your arm. “Just jump—come on!”

Cassian landed beside you a second later. He didn’t hesitate. Just scooped you into his arms like you weighed nothing and vaulted off the ledge. The world tilted. The wind roared past.

But then, the real fallout began.

Back home, Rhys didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. His silence in the River House study said enough. The satchel lay at his feet, soaked and half-caked in mud. Your side throbbed beneath a bloodstained bandage, and Cassian still had a smear of crimson dried along his neck—one you hadn’t noticed until the lamplight caught it.

Rhys looked at the satchel. Then at you. Then at Cassian.

“What happened?”

You told him. So did Cassian.

Not all at once. Not over each other. Just… plainly. Like it was a report. Like it wasn’t still alive under your skin.

You hadn’t expected him to take sides. Not overtly. But when it ended, he absolutely had. Like the weight of it had settled heavier on your shoulders than Cassian’s. Like the mistake hadn’t been getting caught—it had been trying to finish the mission at all.

You squared your shoulders, tried to keep your voice from shaking. “I didn’t choose to get caught. I didn’t choose to mess this up.”

Cassian’s jaw flexed. “No. But you chose to keep going when you should’ve pulled back.” His arms crossed, his voice low. “You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

Your throat tightened. You pushed through it.

“I did what I had to,” you said, sharper now. “You think I wanted it to go this way?”

“Wanting and surviving aren’t the same thing,” he snapped. “You gambled with your life—and mine. And the lives of everyone in this court, now that they know what we were doing there. Don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice.”

The air turned brittle.

Rhys’s voice cut through it like a blade.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

The finality in his tone stopped you cold. You flinched before you could stop yourself.

“Get out.”

Your eyes darted to Cassian, expecting him to move first—to scoff or curse or storm off with the anger barely leashed behind his eyes.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stood there. Still as stone. Unreadable.

You opened your mouth—confused, half-prepared to follow his lead—

Then Rhys looked at you.

That calm. That cold, razor-precise calm that never meant fury. Just decision. Just finality.

“Go,” he whispered—quiet, deliberate.

And you understood. Suddenly. Horribly.

He meant you.

You left without another word.

Cassian didn’t follow. Didn’t call after you. Didn’t come by the next day, or the one after that. When you passed each other in the House of Wind, your shoulder in a sling and your pride hanging by threads, he didn’t say a word. Just kept walking.

And maybe that was the worst part.

Not the bruises. Not the frost still clinging to your lungs after the flight back from Autumn. Not even the look Rhys had given you when he dropped the satchel—dropped it—before sitting at his desk like it was nothing worth holding.

The worst part was that Cassian had let it lie.

Had let the blame settle and cling without brushing a single piece of it off. Like you’d earned it. Like silence was the lesson.

In the war room, it was the same. Around that long obsidian table where battle strategies lived and died, where the Inner Circle weighed lives like stones on a scale—he wouldn’t look at you. Wouldn’t say your name.

Just her, she, or nothing at all.

A flick of his eyes. A tilt of his chin. Like you were something he’d learned to step around.

Until now.

Because yesterday, for the first time in over four years, he’d defended you again. Had looked at Miran like he might tear his throat out just for raising his voice at you. Had spoken like the fight never happened. Like you hadn’t failed. Like he remembered what you were worth.

You blinked.

And the crates were still there. Still needing to be sorted. So you bent your head, grit your teeth, and got back to work. Because if he could forget it—at least for now—then maybe you could too.

It was nearly twenty minutes later when the door creaked open again.

You didn’t look up right away—your fingers were halfway through scraping what felt like centuries-old candle wax from the underside of the table. How it had gotten there, you had no idea. Your shoulders ached from the angle, knees cold where they pressed into the floorboards.

But you heard the footsteps pause.

A beat. Then another.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

You shifted, squinting up at him from beneath the table’s edge. “Scraping.”

Cassian blinked, then stepped fully inside, the wind tugging the door shut behind him.

“Why are you under it?”

“Because someone,” you said, chipping harder now, “decided to shove this thing directly in front of the hearth and apparently didn’t notice the stalactites hanging from the bottom.”

He opened his mouth—paused. Then grunted and held up a bundled stack of firewood.

“Vesa gave me these,” he said. “Said it was the least she could do after yesterday.” A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “Told her what happened. You should’ve seen those kids’ faces—went pale as ash.”

You snorted. “Sounds about right. It’s always the ones who talk the most shit.”

He dropped the bundle beside the grate and crouched, sleeves shoved up, hair still tousled from the wind. You stayed under the table, willing yourself to focus on the wax and not the shape of him lit in profile by the first flickers of flame.

For the first few minutes, he was quiet, poking at the kindling until a small fire finally caught and crackled to life. Then—

“Why’s the table all the way over there?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just leaned out and wiped your wrist across your cheek.

“Because this spot gets the best light.”

Cassian rose and brushed his palms together. Then, without waiting, strode across and grabbed the table’s edge.

“Don’t—” you started, too late.

He dragged it five feet to the right, chair legs shrieking across the floor, some collapsing into a messy cluster.

“You’ll block the light,” you snapped, standing now and flinging the scraper onto the windowsill.

He cocked his head. “You’re obsessed with the damn view.”

“You moved it into the corner.”

“The corner’s not a dungeon,” he muttered. “It’s still technically daylight.”

“Daylight doesn’t mean good light,” you shot back.

“And you’re suddenly a fucking artist?”

“I’m trying to make this place not look like a condemned training yard.”

He stepped closer. “Well, forgive me for interfering with your vision.”

“You always do.”

His brows lifted, expression cooling. “Oh, that’s rich. Because you’re the picture of collaboration.”

You folded your arms. “I would be, if you’d stop rearranging everything I’ve already done.”

“It’s a table.”

“It’s always a table with you!”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you show up, throw your weight around without consideration of others and the time they’ve put into something, and act like you’re doing them a favor!”

His brow lifted, expression tightening. “I am doing you a favor.”

“By ruining everything?”

“It’s a miracle this place has floors that don’t collapse under your ego.”

You took a slow, pointed step toward him. “At least I showed up on time.”

Cassian’s smile was sharp. “At least I didn’t get us both chewed out by Rhys.”

Your nostrils flared. “You still think that was my fault?”

“I think you never admit when you screw up!”

“I always admit it—because someone has to!”

He stared down at you, breathing hard now, chest rising in the same uneven rhythm hammering through your own.

And then, just like that, you both realized how close you’d gotten.

“What do you care so damn much?” he shouted, voice ringing off the stone walls.

“Because it’s our project!” you fired back, fists clenched at your sides.

Cassian scoffed, incredulous. “Our project? You barely let me touch anything without biting my damn head off—”

“Because you do it wrong!”

“I built half this place!”

“Exactly. Half. And I’m the one trying to make it livable.”

You were toe to toe now, breath mingling—furious and hot, sharp enough to cut.

“It’s ours,” you snarled. “Whether you like it or not.”

Silence.

One breath. Then another.

And that was all it took.

He lunged first. You met him halfway.

The kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t sweet. It was teeth and fury and weeks of tension neither of you had dared name—finally breaking free.

His hands tangled in your hair before you could catch a breath, gripping like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or shove you away. You grabbed at his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, hard enough to stretch the seams.

You stumbled together—hip into the table. One of the dining chairs screeched across the floor as you crashed into it. Neither of you stopped.

Cassian bit at your bottom lip like he wanted to keep the argument going that way, and you shoved him, nails dragging down his chest. He caught your waist, hauled you back in. You didn’t know if you were kissing him or fighting him anymore. Didn’t care.

Your hand slid up his chest to his throat, not gentle, and he groaned into your mouth like it only spurred him on.

Four years. Four years of silence and blame and what-ifs collapsing in the space between your bodies, now gone.

You weren’t thinking—just grabbing, shoving, kissing like you meant to hurt. Cassian stumbled again, hard, tripped over one of the dining chairs and nearly went down.

He caught himself at the last second, crashing backward into the seat with a grunt.

You didn’t get the chance to laugh—because he yanked you down with him.

You landed on his lap, straddling his thighs, your mouth never leaving his. And then everything blurred into fire.

His hands gripped your hips, dragging you forward, grinding you down until you could feel every sharp line of him pressed beneath you. The friction wrung a raw sound from your throat. Your fingers scrabbled at his coat, his shoulders, fisting in the fabric like you didn’t know whether you wanted to rip it off or hang on tighter.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered against his mouth, biting at the corner of it.

“Shut up,” he rasped, catching your jaw in one hand and dragging you back in.

You rolled your hips again—deliberate now. Slow, filthy. He groaned, hips jerking up in answer. You did it again. Again. The rhythm turned hungry.

You weren’t sure who lost control first. Only that suddenly it was all heat and teeth and breathless swearing.

You tugged at the collar of his coat, wrenching it open just enough to shove your hands beneath—seeking the warmth of him through the coarse weave of his sweater. He growled into your mouth when your nails scraped down his spine.

The damn coat was still in the way.

You reached behind him, fingers slipping over the slats built to frame his wings, trying to find the clasps. Couldn’t get them. Didn’t care. You tugged anyway—frustrated, frantic, gasping against his throat as he mouthed his way down the side of your neck.

“This is—fuck, this is so stupid,” you breathed, hips stuttering against his again.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, low and furious, like it scorched him to say it.

You got one clasp open, then the next snapped loose beneath your fingers.

He didn’t wait. Tore at the coat, shoving it down his arms, half-flinging it aside. Before it even hit the floor, you were already under his sweater, dragging it up with one hand while the other reached again for the second set of slats.

These were easier. Familiar. Your fingers worked fast. You got them loose and yanked.

He helped this time, yanking the sweater over his head and tossing it somewhere behind him.

But you barely registered it.

Because his hands were already under your shirt.

Big, rough palms skating over your sides, greedy, without finesse—just hunger. You gasped, one hand braced on his shoulder, the other already tugging your shirt upward.

He didn’t wait. Grabbed the hem and yanked it over your head in one motion. Tossed it behind you.

You didn’t even feel his fingers before the clasp of your bra flicked open—just the sharp, practiced snap and the sudden looseness against your skin.

And then he was baring you to the air, to him, dragging the straps down your arms like he’d tear them off if they didn’t come fast enough.

His mouth closed over your nipple—hot, relentless—and you gasped, head tipping back as he sucked hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you jolt. One of his hands kneaded the other breast, rough and greedy, while the other stayed clamped on your hip, dragging you down like he meant to fuse you there.

It was frantic. Hungry. Mindless in the way only need could be.

You rode the hard line of him through your clothes, every grind a flash of friction that lit up your spine. Your thighs locked tighter around him, chasing more—harder, deeper—and his grip only anchored you firmer, like he couldn’t get close enough if he tried.

Shirts gone, his chest hot and bare against yours—

Mother above, the heat of him. The press of skin. How solid he was, how he moved like the contact might kill him or save him.

You were breathing hard against his ear, still grinding slow and filthy against him. He groaned into your chest, mouth dragging lower, sucking a dark, bruising mark onto the swell of your breast.

“You always this easy when someone mouths off at you?” you panted, lips brushing his jaw as he rolled his hips into yours. “Guess that explains the barmaid in Itica.”

He bit your collarbone—hard.

You cursed, breath catching.

“You’re such a little shit,” he growled into your skin, voice shredded.

Your nails raked down his back, catching at the sensitive base of his wings. He jolted.

“Takes one to know one,” you said, smug.

Cassian pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “You gonna run your mouth the whole time?”

“Only when it gets you this worked up.”

Something in him snapped.

He growled—low and feral—and surged upright in one brutal motion, hands gripping your ass as he lifted you off his lap. You yelped, clinging to his shoulders, and barely registered the shift before your back hit the bed with a bounce, limbs flung wide beneath him.

He stood over you, flushed, breathing hard. His fingers were already on his belt.

You couldn’t help it—you stared. Watched the way his fingers gripped the worn leather. The sharp clink of the buckle, the whisper of it sliding through the metal loop. It shouldn’t have been hot. It was hot. Like watching him unholster a weapon. Like watching him bare his teeth. You swallowed, heat crawling up your throat, your thighs pressing together.

His knuckles brushed his stomach as he dragged the belt loose, and the sight alone made your pulse skip.

“Oh, you like this?” he said, tone smug, a little cruel. “Yeah, I know you do. Couldn’t tear your fuckin’ eyes off it last night.”

The belt hissed the rest of the way through the loops.

“Shut up,” you said, but your voice came out too thin.

His smirk was pure sin.

And then he was on you.

One heartbeat flat on your back—next thing, you were flipped face-down with a grunt, cheek pressed hard to the mattress.

“Cassian—” you started, twisting under him.

“Shut. Up.” It came low and sharp in your ear.

One heavy hand yanked your wrists behind your back. The belt coiled around them a moment later. Not once. Not twice. Kept looping it tight through the buckle until your hands were cinched together in a firm, inescapable bind.

You cursed, bucking hard. “Fucking undo it—”

“Should’ve thought of that before you started mouthing off,” he growled.

He dragged your hips up with both hands, leaving your shoulders pinned by one broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Your face mashed into the sheets, breath caught, teeth gritted.

You twisted your wrists, tried to lift your upper body—

But he shoved you back down with humiliating ease.

“Stay the fuck down,” he bit out.

Then came the tug of your pants, the hook of his fingers in your underwear. You kicked out instinctively, but it didn’t matter. He manhandled the fabric down anyway, wrestling it past your hips, down to your knees, leaving your legs tangled and stuck. The cool air rushed over you—over the slick, swollen heat between your thighs—igniting a fresh spark that sent a sharp hiss from deep within you.

“Shit,” Cassian growled, and his head dropped, forehead resting on the curve of your back as his fingers pressed against you. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when he dragged two fingers through it again—slower this time. Like he needed to feel it properly. Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

“From that?” he muttered, heat washing over your skin. “Just from that little show?”

You didn’t even have time to think before his fingers slammed into you.

No warning. No buildup. Just a sharp, brutal thrust that knocked the breath out of you, your body jolting forward with a choked gasp.

“Fuck—” you choked, wrists straining against the belt.

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t give you a second to adjust. His fingers drove into you hard and fast, relentless—each thrust ruthless, the angle unerring. Over and over, he found that spot that lit you up from the inside out, made your breath stutter and your vision white out.

The wet sound of it was obscene. It echoed between the groaning mattress and the wrecked, involuntary noises spilling from your mouth.

Cassian muttered something behind you—filthy and dark. You didn’t catch all of it. Just the tone—low and wrecked, like he couldn’t believe what he was doing. Like he couldn’t stop.

His free hand dug into your hip, anchoring you in place as he fucked you on his fingers. Your knees slipped wider despite the pants still tangled around them—your body betraying every biting word you’d thrown his way.

“All that mouth,” he panted, “all those fucking fights—just needed something stuffed in you, didn’t you?”

You twisted, tried to rise, but his hand left your hip and fisted in your hair, shoving your face into the mattress.

“Stay down,” he growled, fucking you faster now. His voice went ragged. Wild. “You wanted this, didn’t you? Mouthy little thing, and now you can’t take it?”

A harsh scoff.

“Should’ve done this years ago.”

Your stomach flipped. You hated that it flipped.

But you managed to turn your head—maybe he let you, maybe not. “Yeah? Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t be such a tight-fisted, control-obsessed asshole. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent the last four years wanting to claw your fucking eyes out every time you walked into a room.”

His fingers didn’t falter. If anything, his wrist stiffened, driving them deeper—meaner—like you’d proven something.

“Four years and you still can’t decide if you wanna kill me or fuck me.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way his fingers were driving into you, relentless.

“Nothing to say?” he murmured, teeth sinking into the curve of your ass. “No claws left, kitten?”

“Ew,” you hissed, hips jerking. “Don’t call me that.”

He just laughed—low and mean—then flipped you like it was nothing, your back hitting the mattress with a bounce.

Your wrists ached beneath you, fists digging into the small of your back. Uncomfortable as hell—not that you’d expect anything else from him. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’d done it on purpose. Just to irk you. One last petty jab before you talked about this later.

Oh, Gods. You were going to have to talk about this later.

A conversation.

About this.

A hot spike of dread twisted low in your gut.

But you didn’t get the chance to dwell on it, because then he was undoing the buttons on his pants—and suddenly, you had a far more immediate problem on your hands.

Well. Not your hands.

He shoved his pants down, and—

Mother above.

Maybe those Illyrian wingspan rumors had some merit after all. Because fuck.

The first thing you saw was the cut of his hips, the sharp V leading down to a dark trail of hair—and then him. Thick, flushed dark at the tip, heavy enough to make your mouth go dry. Your thighs clenched on instinct.

Of course he’d be built like that. Of course he’d keep that hidden away behind all that smug, self-righteous bravado. Arrogant fucker knew exactly what he was working with.

He caught your stare, brows raised, mouth curving into something downright indecent. “You keep looking at my cock like that, sweetheart,” he drawled, wrapping a hand around the base, slow and unhurried, “and I’m gonna start thinking you’re not as mad at me as you pretend to be.”

He gave himself one lazy stroke. Your breath caught.

“That mean you ready to be nice for once?” His hand moved with practiced ease, pulling your pants and underwear the rest of the way off in one sharp tug. Your socks bunched awkwardly at your ankles, forgotten with the way the heat spiked between you.

You narrowed your eyes. “The only thing I’m ready for is—”

“You gonna behave?” he murmured, almost sweetly. “Gonna play nice for me?”

You sucked in a breath, spine stiffening—but before the words could form, he shoved into you Thick, unrelenting. And just like that, your sentence vanished.

He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath, didn’t give you time to adjust. He set a brutal rhythm from the start, fast and deep, fucking into you like he meant to tear something out of you.

You gasped, voice breaking on a startled cry. “Wait—shit, it’s… Ca—hold on, it’s—”

He laughed. Low. Rough. Right in your ear. “Too late for that now, sweetheart. You wanted to mouth off.”

His eyes met yours, dark and burning. “You feel like heaven.”

His hips slammed into you again, and the only thing you could do was choke on the shock—the white-hot bloom of heat unfurling inside you.

“Fucking tight around me like you were made for this,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. His voice was raw, possessed—like he was branding every thrust into your bones.

Your body clenched involuntarily, muscle locking against muscle, every nerve bracing under the weight of sensation.

“You’re gonna take every inch,” he hissed, voice like smoke, “and you’re gonna like it.”

“Cassian, it’s too—”

“You’re gonna fucking like it, (y/n).”

It hit like a slap—the sound of your name in his mouth.

Not her, or she, or sweetheart, or the princess he’d thrown your way last night.

Just you.

Spat like a challenge. Drawled like a curse.

Your breath caught, your whole body locking up around him.

“Yeah,” he snarled, like he knew exactly what he’d done, the words vibrating against your skin. “You feel that? That what it takes to shut you up?”

His hand splayed across your abdomen, pressing down hard as he drove into you again—deep, brutal, claiming.

“Say my name again,” you whispered before you could stop yourself, before you could think.

He gave a dangerous, breathless laugh. “Greedy,” he growled. “Didn’t think I’d fuck the attitude out of you and make you beg.”

And gods, maybe you were begging. Maybe that’s all you had left, with your hands trapped, hair clinging to your damp skin, and the only thing anchoring you to this world the thick, punishing press of him inside you.

He slowed—just barely—to drag the next thrust in deep. Too deep. You felt the shape of him shift everything, rearrange everything. Your lips parted around a sound you barely recognized as your own. A half-broken moan, raw at the edges.

Cassian grunted at the noise, hips drawing back in one long, slow pull—only to slam forward again, harder. A cruel rhythm. A practiced one. Like he was testing your limits. Learning them.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice thick against your ear. “Messy little thing. Can’t even pretend you don’t want this cock in you.”

Your breath hitched. Your back arched instinctively, desperate to escape the stretch and heat—but his hand clamped hard around your hip, dragging you back with brutal precision. Like you were leverage. Like your body was his now. Because you’d let that slip—say my name again—and he’d taken it for blood in the water.

You hated him for it.

You hated how good he felt.

“Fighting it won’t help,” he said softly, like he could see it on your face. “You already gave in.”

Maybe you had.

Maybe the second he said your name like that—like it still meant something—it had already been over.

You dug your nails into the sheets, teeth grit as you wrenched air back into your lungs. “Keep telling yourself that,” you gasped, forcing the words out around a moan. “Might help you sleep at night. Thinking I actually wanted you all this time.”

His laugh was low, vicious. “Sweetheart, you’re dripping down my cock.”

He punctuated it with a snap of his hips—hard, precise, merciless.

“You can lie all you want. But your cunt’s got better manners than your mouth.”

You twisted beneath him—more reflex than intent—

—and he caught it like he’d been waiting for it.

His grip shifted in a blink, dragging you onto your side. Your shoulder hit the mattress, legs folding awkwardly beneath you—until his hand caught your thigh and lifted, braced it open. The other settled hard at your waist. A warning.

You barely had time to draw breath before he drove back in.

The angle was ruinous. Sharper. Deeper.

He hit something that made your vision snap white. Made your spine curl. Made your mouth fall open in a wordless gasp.

“Fuck,” he bit out. “Tighter like this.”

Your hands—no longer pinned but still restrained—clawed at the sheets, grasping at nothing. And gods, you hated the way your body arched into him. Hated how fast he’d found a new rhythm and made it yours.

“Say it again,” he hissed. “Say you don’t want me. Look me in the fucking eye and lie to me.”

You tried. You tried.

But he rolled his hips just right—once—and the sound that broke from you tore your argument apart at the seams.

Cassian groaned. And gods help you, it sounded like satisfaction.

“Thought so,” he growled, grip tightening as he wrenched your thigh higher. “You feel that?” His voice dropped—rough, clipped, almost amused. “Used. Fucking used.”

You didn’t bother looking at him. But your voice cut through the air anyway, sharp and venomous:

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not the one losing control.”

He stilled for a heartbeat.

Then he drove into that angle again and again, harder and harder, until your lungs caught fire with every thrust.

“You’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

His hand slid down your body, fingertips tracing a slow, deliberate path between your hips, barely brushing over the slick skin. The touch was maddening. Featherlight. Precise in its restraint.

His thumb pressed gently at first, circling with measured patience, never quickening, never giving the release your nerves were screaming for. Cauldron, that was exactly what you needed, the pressure building just enough to ignite you. Yes, yes, yes, yes—each one tore from your lips like prayer, like instinct. You hadn’t even realized you were saying it, hadn’t noticed the way it spilled out—quiet, helpless, reverent.

But he pulled back, and his thrusts slowed to a crawl—so measured, so agonizing, it may as well have been nothing at all.

You jolted like you’d been struck.

“Are you—” Your voice cracked, hoarse with disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

He didn’t bother answering. He didn’t need to. That smirk, sharp and smug, said everything.

You twisted, desperate for leverage, trying to push back against him—to make him move, force his hand—but his arm only cinched tighter around your thigh, keeping you spread and helpless in that sideways sprawl. His body: a cage. A curse.

“You think this is funny?” you snapped.

Cassian’s mouth brushed your ear before you even felt him shift. “I think you’re beautiful when you’re desperate.”

He rolled his hips sinfully deep, just enough to brush everything you needed. Pleasure flared so hot and fast it took your breath, your cry catching halfway through your throat—

And then he stilled.

You swore, loud and vicious.

Cassian laughed low in your ear. “There she is.”

“You motherfucker,” you hissed, trying to move, to get something, anything. But his arm locked firm across your thigh, holding you open and perfectly still.

He hummed in mock thought, as if he wasn’t actively ruining you. “Y’know,” he mused, voice soft like silk over a blade, “I’ve got a few places I want to put my hands.” His palm slid slow up your side, curling beneath the swell of your breast, teasing without giving. “Could untie you. If you promise to be good.”

You snapped your head toward him. “I’m not promising you shit—”

He stopped moving entirely. Every inch of him thick and pulsing and unbearably still, the heat of him like a brand.

The whine tore out of you before you could stop it—high and broken, more plea than protest.

Cassian didn’t say a word. Didn’t smirk. Just looked at you.

A single brow arched.

Your face burned. You grit your teeth. “Fine.”

Still, he waited. “No. Promise.”

You rolled your eyes. Looked away. Of course he wanted the words. Of course he wanted to win.

His hand shot out, gripping your jaw with enough force to make you gasp—fingers squishing your cheeks until your lips puckered. You glared. He didn’t flinch.

“I promise I’ll be good,” you muttered, syrupy-sweet, laced with venom.

Cassian grinned, all teeth. “Good girl.”

Then he let go—of your jaw, of your thigh, of every last ounce of mercy.

You didn’t even register the motion before he reached down, unfastening the buckle in a smooth, unhurried sweep. The belt rasped as it loosened, the sound too loud in the charged air. He never stopped moving inside you—slow, shallow thrusts that felt more like a warning than a reprieve. A promise.

And then your wrists were free.

You didn’t have a second to process it. The moment the leather dropped, he drove back in like he’d been waiting for it—no rhythm, no patience, just heat and power and brutal momentum.

Your arms flew around his neck, hauling him down, desperate for something to hold. His chest crashed against yours, sweat-slicked skin meeting slicker skin, and you clung.

One leg stayed hitched over his shoulder, your thigh crushed near your ribs now, and gods, you felt every inch of him. Every brutal slide, every shift of muscle as he adjusted the angle like he was searching for the exact spot that would ruin you.

His hands were everywhere—one braced beside your head, the other sliding between your bodies, dragging over the sweat-slicked curve of your breast. His thumb swept roughly over your nipple, and you gasped, hips jolting in time with the motion.

You didn’t even think before your own hand moved, sliding down your stomach, chasing the pressure and friction you’d been denied. The second your fingers brushed yourself, your head fell back, breath catching on a moan that was far too desperate to pass as hatred.

He felt it—really heard it.

And when he looked down at you, it wasn’t smugness—it was something darker. Focused. Like now that you were free, he was going to see what you’d do with it.

He didn’t say a word as your fingers worked fast, frantic—just kept moving inside you with brutal precision, all heat and muscle and weight. His chest pressed tight to yours, breath rasping against your cheek. That leg he’d hoisted up stayed pinned, folding you open around him like he had all the time in the world to take you apart.

Then his voice, low and too close to your ear. Not a growl. Not a threat. A question.

“Is this what you wanted?”

You didn’t answer.

His thumb dragged over your nipple again, slower this time. Intentional.

“When you mouthed off earlier. When you looked at me like that.” His teeth skimmed your jaw. “You wanted this?”

You shook your head before you even thought about it.

“Liar.”

He angled his hips again, and you gasped—your body stuttering beneath him, back arching.

Your hand was so slick now. So close.

“You wanted me to fuck it out of you,” he said, like it was obvious. Like he’d always known. “You wanted to lose.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out—shoved aside by sensation, swallowed by heat.

His hand slid up again, cradling your jaw—firm, but not cruel. His thumb brushed over your parted lips.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say what you wanted.”

You swallowed hard, eyes squeezed shut, the words catching in your throat like they might burn coming out. But he didn’t wait. His hips slammed forward—once, twice—hard enough to shake the frame like he’d rip the truth from your body if he had to.

“I… wanted… you to—ah—fuck me.”

Everything stilled—just for a breath.

Then he let out a sound that was half laugh, half snarl, low and razor-sharp.

“Yeah?” he rasped, the next thrust stealing the breath from your lungs. “You wanted me to break you in? Fuck you so hard you’d forget how to run that pretty little mouth?”

Your answer was a strangled sound, no shape to it—but it was enough.

Cassian didn’t need to hear any more.

He moved like he meant it—vicious, savage. Every thrust drove deep, shaking the mattress, the frame, the pictures on the walls. You could feel it everywhere—down to the soles of your feet, behind your teeth, pounding inside your skull. And still, your hand worked furiously between your thighs, desperate and slick, chasing the pressure his rhythm only stoked higher.

You were close. Too close. The kind of close where your thighs were beginning to tremble, where your breath hitched into broken gasps, where your stomach coiled so tight it felt like you might split open from it.

And then his hand shot down, catching yours just as you were about to tip over the edge. He yanked it away, holding it up like a prize, like proof of your need.

“Cassian—fuck—” you sobbed, your hips chasing after what he’d stolen, body spasming from the denial.

He leaned in, breath hot at your ear, and pinned your hand above your head, fingers lacing through yours like he owned them. Owned you.

“What was it you said earlier?” he murmured, the words cruelly soft, hips still driving into you with ruthless intent. “Something about losing control?”

His meaning, along with a sharp thrust, deep and slow, made you cry out.

He hummed, mock-thoughtful. “Tell me—who is it, exactly, falling apart now?”

Your breath hitched, broken on another sob. The pressure was a blade now, poised to split you open.

“What do you want from me?” you begged, voice cracking. “Just—just tell me what you want, I’ll—please—”

His answer came without pause, like he’d been waiting for you to ask. “Apologize,” he said, dark and absolute. “For saying you didn’t want me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed and wide.

“Tell me,” he ground out, each thrust a brutal punctuation. “Tell me how badly you want me. No—need me.”

You hesitated, teeth sinking into your bottom lip hard enough to sting. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to say it—it was that saying it meant surrender. Saying it meant he’d won.

Still, your voice came out hoarse and thin. “I didn’t mean it…”

He gave a low, amused hum, cock still grinding into you like there was no rush. “That’s not an apology, sweetheart.”

You tried to glare at him, but your head was thrown back too far, body too wrung out to muster more than a gasping curse.

“Fine,” you spat. “I’m sorry I said I didn’t want you.”

“Better,” he murmured, mouth brushing your cheek, near your jaw, his breath all heat and command.. “Keep going.”

Your next breath came shaky. “I wanted you,” you said, barely audible. “I’ve wanted you for—fuck—for so long.”

“That’s it,” he praised, voice molten. “Say it like you mean it.”

And gods help you, you did.

“I need you,” you choked, thighs trembling around his hips. “I fucking need you, Cassian.”

“Look at you,” he breathed, something reverent beneath the filth. “All that attitude, all that fight—and now you’re here, begging. Dripping.”

His hand slid between your bodies like it belonged there. Two fingers found the aching, swollen mess of you, rubbing tight, punishing circles. You jerked at the contact, a broken cry ripping from your throat.

“So sweet for me now,” he groaned, working you with ruthless precision. “Was that so hard, baby?”

You whimpered, hips twitching. “No,” you whispered. “Just—please, let me—”

“Then come, (y/n),” he growled, his fingers moving faster now, rough and wet and perfect. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

And with those words, you did—you shattered around him, back arching hard as white-hot pleasure crashed over you, wave after merciless wave. His name tore from your throat—sacred, wrecked, a plea and a prayer all at once. Your body locked tight around him, the sounds ripping from you falling somewhere at the intersection of a shout and a cry and a moan.

Cassian swore—raw, reverent—and didn’t stop.

In one seamless, brutal motion, he grabbed behind your knees and shoved them higher, folding you in half. Your thighs pressed tight to your chest, ankles hooked over his shoulders as he pinned you there—helpless, trembling, wholly his.

“Fuck,” he bit out, voice hoarse. “Look at you—still fucking squeezing me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely think. That new angle had him hitting something devastating—something deep and bruising that sent stars bursting behind your eyes.

He didn’t slow. Just kept going, those deep, relentless thrusts rocking the bedframe, obscene slick sounds cutting through the ragged rhythm of your breath.

“Taking me so well,” he groaned, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh like a vice. “This what you needed? Me to fuck you this deep—this full—until you can’t think straight?”

Maybe it was. Maybe this had always been what you both needed—this unspoken breaking point, all heat and fury and surrender.

“Keep making those sounds for me,” he rasped, pounding into you like he meant to leave a mark on your soul. “Those pretty little sounds—fuck, you sound so needy.”

And you were. Every noise that spilled from your throat was high and broken and raw, punched out of you with every snap of his hips.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and ruined with want. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” you breathed—then louder, filthier, no shame left in you. “Want you to fuck me full, Cassian. Want to feel you dripping out of me for days.”

He choked on a sound—half snarl, half moan—his rhythm faltering.

Then he drove into you hard, to the hilt, deep enough you swore it pressed behind your ribs, and stilled.

A ragged groan tore from him—your name, cracked and guttural, as his whole body locked above you. You felt every shudder, every pulsing wave of heat spilling into you. Felt him unravel, felt the weight of it—of him—pouring into you until there was nothing else.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then Cassian let out a breathless laugh, low and wrecked. “Fuck.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The storm had passed.

In every sense.

Morning sun spilled amber through the cottage windows, brushing over fresh paint and new shingles, over repaired beams and the once-crooked door that now swung true on its hinges. The faint scent of pine smoke clung to the air—evidence of the fire Cassian had built earlier, more out of habit than necessity.

You stood at the hearth anyway, one hand braced on the mantle, the other smoothing absently over the front of your sweater. The house was quiet. Not silent, but quiet in the way a place becomes once it’s been lived in. Settled.

Behind you, a soft thud marked the last box lowered to the floor.

“That’s the last of it,” Cassian said, voice low, content.

You didn’t answer right away. Just turned, slowly, letting your eyes move across the room—the clean lines of the walls, the honey-warm kitchen, the faint gloss of varnish still clinging to the new floors. Light glinted off the old tools hung neatly by the door, each one a reminder of what this place had been.

“It doesn’t look like it’s going to fall over anymore,” you said.

Cassian glanced at you from where he knelt by the hearth, coaxing the embers back to life. “You say that like you’re disappointed.”

“I’m not.” You let the corner of your mouth curve, soft. “I think maybe it was meant to stand after all.”

That earned a quiet huff of laughter. He stood and stretched, arms arcing above his head, the hem of his shirt lifting just enough to reveal a sliver of golden skin. You didn’t let your eyes linger.

Not too obviously, anyway.

“Rhys said we can take the rest of the week if we want it,” he said after a beat, wandering to the little kitchen table and adjusting one of the chairs. His voice was easy. Too easy.

You paused, taking a mental tally. Three days—maybe four—since that night. The ache hadn’t quite left your muscles, and neither had the tension between you. It lingered in the space, quiet and unspoken, like something waiting to be acknowledged.

“Do we want it?” you asked

He shrugged. “No one’s waiting. We don’t have to rush back.”

And it was true. There were no war meetings waiting, no urgent messages. The world, for once, wasn’t on fire.

Just this place—sturdy now. Still a little imperfect. But whole.

The thought of another morning here, slow and golden beneath thick quilts… of evenings warmed by the fire, maybe even stealing a moment outside bundled up with Cassian to watch the snow settle while his laugh echoed soft across the rafters—

It didn’t sound terrible.

You reached for two ceramic plates, their edges chipped and familiar, the way all good dishes are. “You’re building the fire, I’m setting the table. We’re staying.”

Cassian looked at you over his shoulder, one brow raised in mock challenge. “That an order?”

You set the last plate down with a gentle clink. “It’s a plan.”

His grin bloomed slow and real. A little tired. A little surprised. But warm, all the same.

When he moved to your side and bumped his hip lightly against yours, reaching for the bread and honey, it wasn’t the kind of touch that asked for anything.

It just was.

Uncomplicated. Easy.

The fire crackled.

The floor no longer creaked beneath your feet.

You poured the tea.

And maybe—for the first time in a long time—something had been fixed that wasn’t made of wood or stone.

Maybe something else had been meant to stand, too.

#acotar #cassian acotar #cassian #cassian x reader #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #meant to stand

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mihii-i · 2 years ago

Note

idk if you write for more than one character at a time, but can i please request the male hashira x gn reader headcanons for when their crush sits on their lap? mostly fluff maybe slight spice? thanks

when you sit on their lap hcs

Pairing(s): male hashira x gn!reader (except muichiro)

CW: sfw, slightly suggestive, gn!reader, lap sitting, very suggestive on tengen’s part, slight mention of thigh riding and grinding

A/N: again, I am so sorry this took awhile because I was on vacation I will be working on what’s in my inbox now <33

Gyomei is weirdly calm about it

Probably because he’s blind or cause he doesn’t have a hard time keeping his composure

He’ll adjust himself so you have a more comfortable position to sit in

Keeps his arms wrapped around your waist or torso to help you balance on his thigh or wherever you’re sitting down

Rests his chin onto your head occasionally

Sometimes forgets to tell you to get off, and you guys just remain in that position for a long time just talking like normal

Another hashira would have to see you two and point it out in order for you to finally get off

Gyomei would apologize if necessary and let you off calmly

“Y/N, I enjoy you sitting on me, we should have more conversations like this.”

Sanemi on the other hand is a little more aggressive…

When you sit down on his lap, he’s completely flustered, his face bright red and hot

He’d yell at you to get off, even though he made no effort to get you off

We know you enjoy it Sanemi it’s okay

If you got off, he’d growl under his breath and try to scoot himself closer to you until you sat back on him

If you stay on his lap, he averts his eyes from yours, and grits his teeth while blushing furiously

After some time of awkward silence of him holding your waist and you cuddling him in his lap, a thread basically snaps inside him, and he pulls you close to him, burying his face into your neck

Sanemi would plant your hips down using his bare hands, and press his teeth to your neck, making sure there’s no space between the two of you

“You got me all hot and bothered, Y/N. Now take responsibility you damn brat.”

Rengoku would have a fairly normal, but excited reaction

He would laugh loudly and hug you tightly, smiling up/down at you as you’re situated on his lap

He allow you to rest your head onto his shoulder in a loving manner

Bro literally can’t stop smiling the whole time you’re on his lap

You two just sit there in a joyful manner, hugging each other tightly while laughing and smiling casually

Rengoku definitely holds onto you as tight as he can after atleast 10 minutes of cuddling

He just can’t get enough, you’re too cute

Probably also presses an overwhelming amount of kisses to your cheek every 20-30 seconds

You can literally feel him smiling against your skin as he kisses you

“Y/N! We shall do this again after our next mission!”

Tengen is definitely the most suggestive and flirtatious with this

As soon as you take a seat on his thigh, he smirks and pulls you into him without hesitation

His arms are locked around your waist as he leans into you with a depraved expression

Constant teasing while you’re on him, no doubt about it

Like, he kisses you everywhere accessible, and grips your waist tighter

When you’re on his thigh, he moves his thigh up and down a little, and helps move your waist back and forth against him

Basically allows you to grind on him if you’re okay with it

Teases you by leaning back and placing his arms to rest against a nearby surface as you keep your movements against him up

“Come on Y/N, don’t keep me waiting.”

Giyuu is quite calm and unfazed when you sit on his lap, similar to Gyomei

He just sits back, and occasionally rests his hands onto your waist or shoulders

Poor guy hasn’t had much affection, and is hella disliked so he just stays quiet the whole time

But, he does hold you tightly. It may not be something huge, but you can feel his affection and love in his embrace

Rests his head onto your shoulder

His breathing is calm and slow against your skin as he buries his face in the crook of your neck, with his chin situated between your shoulder and collarbone.

If you try to get up, he’ll let you, but not before asking you to hold him a bit longer

Maybe, just maybe, he’ll smile against you if he feels comfortable with your body pressed against his on his lap

“Y/N…I love you. Don’t leave me, please.”

Obanai remains silent, but it’s no secret that he’s flustered.

He looks away bashfully and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to avoid eye contact with you since it’s too embarrassing for him

He sighs heavily, trying to maintain his composure with you literally seated on his lap

His face is tinted a bright red, not even his bandaged mouth can hide the heavy blush dusting his cheeks

When you look over, you can literally see Kaburamaru giving Obanai a “you’re a fucking pussy” type stare

I guess that causes him to finally look at you and make eye contact

When he does gain some sort of confidence, he rests his hands onto your shoulders, and eventually wraps his arms around your torso, pulling you closer

He pulls you a little too close- putting you chest to chest with him, and his arms locked around you tightly and squeezing you

If you point out the fact that he’s hugging you too tight, he’ll get embarrassed and quietly apologize, before loosening his grip around you

Just let the man hug you and tough it out okay

“I- Y/N…I’m at a loss for words..?”

A/N: hehheehhe did y’all miss me I’m back <3

I’ll come clean and admit- although I came back recently, I have been writing shit for myself the past week or so?

OKAY DONT BLAME ME I NEED TO THERE ARE NO GOOD FANFICS THAT ARE WELL WRITTEN OR HAVE ANY EMOTION I NEEDA TAKE MATTERS IJTO MY OWN HANDS LMFAOAOS 😭

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unintentionalseductress · 11 months ago

Text

Key:

🌟 Xavier ❄️ Zayne 🖌️ Rafayel 🐦‍⬛ Sylus 🍎Caleb 🦄 Multicharacter

Headcanons:

Best Friend! Zayne ❄️

Bodyguard HC 🦄

Caleb and Praise 🍎

Claw Machine Conundrum 🍎

Dancers of the Air 🦄

Dating an Older Woman

Flowers For You 🦄

Hades & Persephone 🐦‍⬛

Hot Hunter 🦄

How They Position Their Fingers 🦄

Noise Levels 🦄

Number of Kids 🦄

Pain Tolerance 🦄

Plus Size Reader 🦄

Poly 🦄

Reactions to reader saying she hasn't shaved down there🦄

Riding Caleb's Face 🍎

Someone You Loved 🦄

Spicy Secrets 🦄

Sylus is a switch 🐦‍⬛

Telling them to ditch the condom 🦄

Their nicknames for you 🦄

Unconventional Romp Spots 🦄

Underweight Reader 🦄

Voyeur!Sylus 🐦‍⬛

Oneshots:

A Tight Spot 🐦‍⬛ An unexpected kink.

Bunny Breeding 🌟 Come here little bunny it's time to be bred.

Caleb As A Virgin 🍎 What a sweet boi.

Check Please! 🐦‍⬛ While trying to avoid the disappointment of the current dating pool you almost end up offending your blind date.

Colonel Caleb... 🍎 Remember whose mercy you're at.

Dairy Queen ❄️🍎 You love being their cow.

Fresh Cream 🐦‍⬛ Another unexpected kink.

Halloween Makeup 🌟 Putting makeup while on his lap leads to other things.

Hold Me Tenderly 🍎 You are woken from a nightmare and forced to face some uncomfortable truths.

How To Court A Dragon 🐦‍⬛ You unintentionally became his mate. Of course, you have some questions.

It's The Thought That Counts 🌟 A kinky Christmas present leads to more hot sexiness.

Just The Tip ❄️ Why do you make it so hard for him to praise you?

Let Me Take Care Of It 🍎 Gege will always help you.

My Beloved Boys ❄️🍎 Nostalgia hits hard as you remember a beautiful summer of the past.

Of Swords And Shovels 🐦‍⬛ Luke and Kieran inadvertently overhear you and Sylus having a heart-to-heart.

Paintbrush Lesson 🖌️ Rafayel teaches art in an interesting way.

Playing House 🍎 Won't you be with me forever?

Poison Flower ❄️ Dawnbreaker knows you're not really his.

Prescription for Pleasure ❄️ The doctor will see you now.

Promised Sands 🖌️ Faced with an unwanted arranged marriage, you pray for freedom.

Razor's Caress ❄️ Hair removal can be tough, good thing he's there.

Spring Break 🍎 The real reason you ask him to come home.

Study Session 🍎 Were you really going to make him wait while you read?

The Spaces In Between ❄️ Having two of him is such a blessing.

Touch Me, Touch You 🍎 What's the point in having fun if you're not as well?

Uncoded ❄️ Life as a background NPC kinda sucks.

Vanilla Twilight 🍎 Who else would you go to prom with?

When The Snow Melts ❄️ Back in his arms, a lifetime later.

Landscape Screenshots:

Absolute Zeal❄️

Night of Secrecy 🐦‍⬛

Misty Silhouette 🌟

Homecoming Wings I 🍎

Exclusive Aftertaste 🍎

Rain's Embrace 🍎

Intertidal Zone 🖌️

Where Hearts Live🐦‍⬛

Floating Floraletter 🍎

Fragrant Possession ❄️

Moodboards:

Sylus Rafayel Zayne Xavier Caleb

Random:

Eternal Attachment Birthday ❄️ Gojo and Sylus Absolute Zeal Rant ❄️ Homecoming Wings Rant 🍎 Gege Rant 🍎

Upcoming/Requests:

Headcanons

Jealous/angry/rough sex (combining 2 inbox requests, jealous Sylus and rough sex, multicharacter

Oneshots

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sqgeism · 17 days ago

Note

WAIT HAVE YOU SEEN THOSE ONES WHERE LIKE THE CHILD(REN) LIKE DISRESPECT (?) THE MOTHER (READER) IN FRONT OF THE FATHER ???? LIKE JUST TO SEE THE REACTION

THAT WITH PHAINON!!!!! (and whoever else you like)

(I'm so sorry for spamming phainon reqs 💀)

love mail — 🍒 ⨾ this crashed mid posting and i had to re edit EVERYTHING. dont pmo.. just a collection of blurbs for phainon in my inbox so they're all done LOL hi if youre the person/people who requested this i was too lazy to make individual posts im saurrey o(T◇T o)

(fem reader)

if you and phainon had a child—and they disrespected you—he probably wouldn't take it all that seriously. especially if he can tell if it's just to get a reaction out of him.

aits the little one down, one to one talk. tries to act tough but is so gentle with his scolding that it's funny, "don't ever say that stuff to your mama, alright?" while ruffling their hair. "if you do, i'll have no choice but to take away your cereal. yep, AND the building blocks too. no one talks to my wife that way, not even you."

although in a hypothetical situation where his child genuinely DOES respect angel, he's much firmer, strict. his sweet tone is gone and is playing NO games. ❌️ "you think cause you're big now, means you have the right to treat your mom like that? no way. absolutely not. better sort yourself out before i have to do it myself." he will NEVER have a child that holds any disrespect for their parents. he's locked in

phainon would LOVE it if you were gentle. like on everybodys soul. he'd kill to just be able to fall into your arms and be cared for and pampered for the rest of thw day. his killer combo is the "you okay, baby?", while resting on your lap, and your hands in his hair. BOOM. he's dead.

the next 6 hours are for you and phainon ONLY, mainly with him whining about how even if he's literally pressed up against you that he can never truly be close enough. he wants all of you, every inch and every part. he just wants to be all over you i fear </3

and shy? oh he loves it. totally a tease, going back to what i said earlier, he wants to be aaalll over you. probably likes to squeeze your waist just to feel you jump against him, it's his favorite reaction. and he doesn't mind the fact that he probably leads most of the conversation, but he loves to hear you speak. there's this air of grace yet humility to it that he can't get enough of.

absolutely smitten, i say. every and any version of his angel.

clumsy in the more hurtful type, phainon's probably the same. he likes to joke that it makes you two interlinked, 'sharing the pain' he says. but he also makes a great effort to stop you from bumping into things, keeping his hand on your head when you go underneath tables, pulling you away if you're about to run into something, all of that. he's probably just more cautious, and definitely makes sure to leave the big *sword he carries around at home when he's visiting.

'healing kisses' are also a pretty big thing he does, but it's really just an excuse to kiss you. he'll bandage you up and kiss the wounded area a couple of times to 'heal' you, and you play along with his little antics because you love him and it's cute. and what other reasons do you need when it comes to phainon?

(the wording kind of confused me 💔? sorry anon!)

he laughs, but not mockingly, as it's mostly in awe. he thinks you look great! not much of a difference, so he wonders why you make your life intentionally harder by not wearing them. makes sure to reassure you that you look perfect no matter what you choose to wear, but definitely suggests going back to using your glasses. he doesn't really care either way LMAO but please wear your glasses 💔

yeah, he probably would. flops ontop of you when hes exhausted and falls asleep a lot. probably wouldnt flirt with a blahaj, even if it was you, but he isn't leaving you to fend for yourself so i guess that's something!

i could see phainon being a kid with horrible acne, just the worst when he was a teenager. so if you're insecure about yours, he totally understands that. he offers a skincare routine that will hopefully help, ease the pain, stuff like that. but also he just thinks you're beautiful regardless to how your skin makes you feel. and when you don't love yourself, that just means phainon has to love you harder. which he reaaaally doesn't struggle in doing.

he is also very careful with touch! making sure to always have clean hands to hopefully not worsen the acne or anything like that, always trying to help you feel confident.

#ㅤ 𐔌᭥ᩙ༉ㅤnew flower bloomed ! :ೃ࿔𔓘 #sigh #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #phainon hsr x reader #phainon x reader #phainon x you

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jakesangel · 1 year ago

Text

jake x sleepy reader ꣑୧ - requested

jake adores how sleepy you always get. that means endless cuddles as you always want to sleep in his arms, so from time to time, he uses it as his avantage. he loves outdoor dates, but seeing your sleepy figures always warms his heart and, further more, you sleeping on him makes him aware that you're safe w him, n makes him feel like he is your protecteur. he would find it so endearing how you alwasy fall asleep on his shoulder when using the bus to go back home, or building legos w him.

after eating jake would always offer you to watch a movie on the couch to get to cuddle you til you fall asleep digest correctly. he would also let you pick the movie, tho you're gonna fall asleep early he knows it he also knows he won't focus on it but you sleeping, while he picks a plaid n some soft pillows. he knows how you like to fall asleep, both of you laid down, two pillows under his head, his chest under yours. he would keep a hand rubbing your back, waiting for you the fall asleep. and as he hears your soft snores, your slow breath hitting his chin, his heartbeat will go faster, adoration filling his body. my love, he would coo, you're always so adorable. what i am gonna do with you, he would add as his other hand would remove a piece of hair off your face so you could sleep better or more like he can see you better. and with such sight, his prettiest angel, sleeping on his chest, he can't help but trace your features before kissing your forehead, finally closing his eyes, wanting to fully give you his love even if he knows that you aren't conscious to feel it. you sleeping on him also helps him to deliver soft words as he gets shy to communicate his overflowing fondness, i love you so munch baby, you're my favorite part of the day, he would softly whisper a stupid smile on his face.

had a nice nap ? or you're finally awake, you slept for a long time baby, would be sweetly said as you wake up. if you try to get up, going to the bathroom reasons or eating reasons, he wouldn't let you do so it's too early to get up, let's stay a little longer mmmh as he bring your head closer to his chest, his hand stroking your hair. my precious baby, always so sleepy so adorable. he would say, looking up the ceiling, as the sight, of his pretty baby, is too much for him.

notes : hai anon > < i'm sorry it took this munch time i still hope you like it ᵎᵎ please lemme kno it the inbox <3

@imaluckygirl @luvj4key @stwrjvke @amouriu @neos127 @goldenretrieverjakezgirlbaby @jaeyunpinkyring @pockettwinzz @jwsdoll @heeheeswifey @iikeustar @txnwvc @oopshee

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m00nlight-ramblings · 1 year ago

Text

Talk

As a famous singer, you find yourself at the same terrible party as Hozier, but you two decide to do something about it.

Pairing: fem reader x Hozier

Warnings: smut, dirty talk, p in v (protected) sex, fingering, 18+ MINORS DNI

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: THANK YOU SO MUCH to everyone who waited for this one...I'm so sorry it took so long. Please enjoy, and remember, my inbox is open for requests!

This party sucked.

Somehow, at one of the biggest album release parties of the year, you found yourself bored out of your mind, sipping on a weak gin and tonic. Leaning against a corner wall, the bass of the music from the DJ vibrated through you as you watched other people dance – your bandmates were somewhere amongst them, but for whatever reason, you just weren’t feeling it. Maybe you were just in a mood, maybe it was the music (one good song for every ten awful ones), but you sipped your drink, checking your phone every so often until it became a polite time to excuse yourself. You could already taste the revelry of getting back to your house before midnight – pajamas, Thai takeout, and scrolling aimlessly on your phone while Grey’s Anatomy reruns played in the background.

Suddenly, you saw a head bobbing around the others in the crowd – standing what seemed like almost a full foot above everyone else, his thick, curly hair pulled back in a half bun, he smiled and tilted his head to the music distractedly. Your breath hitched for a moment as you saw him – you had seen Hozier at countless red carpets and events in the past year it seemed, but he was also more handsome than the last time. He turned his head and your eyes locked, making you blush, and making him smile. He gently pressed a hand on someone’s back to alert that he was making his way behind him.

As if the giant could ever go unnoticed.

“Hi,” He said as he landed next to you, sipping from his drink. Something brown and in a rocks glass, one giant ice cube anchoring the liquid.

Of course.

“I feel like I needed to come over and speak to you – we seem to orbit each other at basically every red carpet this year.” He spoke, seemingly reading my mind. You smiled.

“That’s funny – I was just thinking that.”

Hozier nodded and his eyes scanned the crowd before landing back at you. It was like he was staring into your soul. Extending a hand, he smiled, “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m –”

“I know who you are,” You admitted, somewhat bashfully as you shook his hand. “I’m a big fan. I’m–”

“I know who you are,” He echoed, a smirk playing on his lips mischievously, “I’m a big fan.”

You could feel your blush deepen as his smooth words washed over you. His accent was enough for you to want to drop your panties, and his smile was already sending your head upside down.

“Your ‘Best New Artist’ win was well deserved,” He continued. “Your album was one of my favorites this year. Selfishly, I hope you guys are working on another one.”

“Wow, thank you,” You breathed, your heart thumping in your chest, “That means a lot coming from one of like, the best lyricists of our generation.”

“Ah,” Hozier waved his hand, bashful, “Come now.”

You cocked an eyebrow and smiled, “You’re going to write something like ‘I'd be the voice that urged Orpheus when her body was found, I'd be the choiceless hope in grief, that drove him underground’ and not expect to be considered that?”

He simply shrugged and sipped his drink. He was blushing, embarrassed.

“This album was also very good,” He changed the subject, speaking of the current album release party. He cleared his throat, “Even though this party sucks.”

You laughed and gently grabbed his forearm in agreement, “Yes! What is that about?!”

“I think it’s the DJ,” He admitted, leaning into you, “The guys releasing this album are buddies of mine, but I’m starting to think if I need to end our friendship based on the DJ they picked for this party.”

“The music he’s playing is making me feel old,” You admitted, “I don’t know any of the songs, and I don’t seem to really like it, either. Is this what our parents feel like when we were listening to Good Charlotte and Britney Spears?”

“Not mine. My mom loves Good Charlotte.” His eyes twinkled.

You laughed. Your eyes fell on your bandmates dancing to the music, obviously drunk off of the expensive beer being served at the open bar. You were acutely aware of Hozier standing next to you, his heat seemingly radiating.

“Is it an inappropriate time to tell you that I think you look beautiful tonight?” He asked, his breath warm on your ear as he leaned down to whisper it. Shivers were sent down your back as he spoke. You turned your head and looked at him, trying to play it cool with the smile that played on your lips.

“Probably not, considering how I’ve been thinking about how handsome you look since I saw you from across the room tonight.” You retorted, titling your head. He smiled and nodded, his eyes scanning the crowd.

“I’m reminded of your beauty every time I see you at events,” Hozier said, his hand finding the small of your back, “And, admittedly, every time I scroll your Instagram feed.”

You laughed, “Hozier is my internet stalker, eh?”

“Can you blame me? That number you had on at the Grammy’s this year?” He made a face, whistling, “It took every ounce of strength not to follow your account as soon as you were done presenting on stage.”

“Do you want to get out of here?” You asked, almost interrupting him. He seemed taken aback, so you tried to backtrack, “I mean…in a bit. We could go somewhere where…the DJ doesn’t suck? After we finish our drinks.”

Hozier quickly chucked back the rest of his drink, putting the glass on the nearest table. “Let’s go.” He took your hand as you chugged the rest of yours as well, finding the spot next to his glass for yours.

He guided you through the party, his hand never leaving the small of your back. You felt heat rushing through you as you made your way to front door, and Hozier handed the valet his ticket. He turned to you.

“Did you drive here?”

You shook your head. “Car service.”

“Great. We can take my car then.”

As the valet pulled up in a sleek Audi, Hozier thanked him and handed him a large bill as a tip. He waited until you were situated in your seat before he slid into the driver’s side, closing his door and pulling into traffic. Some sort of blues-y jazz was coming through the speakers softly.

“So where are you kidnapping me to, Mr. Internet Stalker?” You teased, looking out the window at the lights of downtown L.A.

He smiled, “My hotel,” His voice was a low purr. You exchanged a glance as he leaned his head forward, in explanation, “The bar there is really nice. Live jazz band tonight. It’s mellow.”

You nodded and smiled. As your heart raced, you were trying to calm yourself down, fiddling with the clasp on the purse in your lap. Hozier’s arm was resting on the console in between you, and every so often, his hand inched closer to you. By the time he pulled into the swanky hotel parking lot, his large hand was resting gently on your thigh.

Your stomach was in excited knots.

After another valet exchange, Hozier took your hand and led you inside the hotel. It was grand and beautiful – a $500/night type place. To the right of the entrance was a beautiful restaurant, speakeasy in style. As promised, a four-piece band was set up in the corner of the bar, playing soft tunes and creating the atmosphere of an underground jazz club.

“Told you,” Hozier said, raising his eyebrows playfully, “And the drinks are great as well. Had one before the release party.”

“It’s really nice.” You awkwardly agreed. Hozier stopped for a moment, his face unreadable. He stood before you.

“I also have a minibar upstairs in my room, if you want something to drink.”

“Oh, that sounds much better.” The coil in your belly was itching to be sated, and you didn’t know how much you could play this cat-and-mouse game of will they/won’t they. For a moment, a darkness of lust flickered in his eyes, but he simply smiled and took your hand, leading you to the elevator. He scanned his room card and pressed the button to the top floor.

The air in the elevator was thick, heavy. You both stood facing the door, saying nothing. As the doors open and he led you to his suite, your heartbeat doubled in time. Flicking the lights on, he shut the door behind you, placing the lock in it’s place.

It took all of 30 seconds before your bodies crashed together, teeth clacking and moans erupting.

Hozier grabbed you and pushed your floor length dress up so they he was able to wrap your legs around his waist as he carried you to the bed. Your arms snaked around his neck, fingers finding their way into his hair. You pulled back slightly, your breath ragged already.

“So what the fuck do I call you?” You asked, breathlessly.

Confused, he looked at you, “What?”

“I need to know what I’m saying when I scream your name later…is it Hozier, or is it Andrew?”

He barked out a laugh and bit your lip, “Andrew. Andrew is fine.” He pressed his lips on yours again, dropping on top of you as he guided you to the bed. His large hands ran their way up and down your waist, palming at the skin on your body. He was moaning, grunting into the kiss, as your tongues danced together. You felt his hands leave your waist and slip your heels off, your toes already curling.

Andrew pulled away and slipped off the tweed suit jacket he was wearing. He looked down at you as he shook his head, a smile playing on his lips.

“So fucking beautiful,” He murmured, pressing hot kisses down your neck. “So fucking sexy. Every time I see you.”

You moaned and pressed your hips to him slightly, causing him to gasp lightly in surprise. He kissed down your neck, to your collarbone, gently slipping the thin straps of your dress off of your shoulders. Licking a stripe from your neck to just above your breasts, he smiled, looking at you.

“Fuck,” You breathed, looking down at him. You watched as he stood, slipping off his shoes and socks next to the bed. He unbuttoned his dress shirt and slipped that off, revealing his thin, hairy chest. He was lean, built lithly but strong. Biting your lip, you stifled a moan. He was on you once again, pulling you into a kiss, his hand cradling the back of your neck. His other hand made quick work of the zipper on the back of your dress, and he shimmed it down, before sliding it off of you completely.

Revealing the intricate…shapewear…you wore underneath.

For a moment, both of you stopped breathing, looking down at the ugly, functional corset that covered your body. Embarrassed, you pressed your lips together before looking back at Andrew. Suddenly, both of you were in hysterics.

“I really wish I was wearing some sexy lingerie right about now.” You said, throwing your head back and cackling. Andrew laughed and peppered kisses on your cheeks, shaking his head as he undid the shapewear and took that off as well.

“That was brilliant,” He said, wiping a tear away from laughing, “What a fuckin’ reveal.” As he took it off, you were completely nude, your skin softly pressed against his fingers. He groaned as he took you in, “That’s much better.” His voice was back to husky, low.

He kissed you once more before his fingers found their way to your clit, spreading your legs gently. He didn’t take his eyes off of you as his fingers felt your wetness. Quickly, he inserted two fingers, pushing his long digits all the way in. You moaned and furrowed your brow as he didn’t move for a moment, letting you adjust.

“You’re so wet for me already, darlin’.” He purred, his forehead on yours. You whimpered and nodded. He started to pump inside of you, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Immediately you started to squirm, which made me smile.

“Jesus Christ, Andrew.” You said, your eyes flickering to his fingers moving in and out of you. Heat rose in you as you watched him, the pleasure evident on his face as he licked his lips. When your eyes found his again, you found him looking at you, and not his handiwork.

“I love seeing you like this,” He said plainly, “You’re so beautiful when you squirm.”

He increased his speed, causing you to buck your hips. He nodded, his eyes twinkling, as he continued to pleasure you with his fingers. He leaned down to kiss you – a hot, open-mouthed kiss, with his tongue finding yours immediately. You moaned into it as he curved his fingers inside of you and took your bottom lip in his mouth, sucking gently. Pulling away, he dipped his head and moved his tongue to your hardened nipple, sucking on the bud as your body started to convulse under him.

The coil in your belly was tightening, and fast. Your hips started to buck faster, your wetness pooling out on to his fingers. You started to repeat his name like a prayer, and as you moved closer to the edge, your hand found its way into his hair again, tugging lightly.

“I’m close.” You whimpered.

“I know,” He smiled, moving his mouth to your ear, “Come for me. Be a good girl.”

You gasped slightly at his words as the coil snapped, bucking your hips one last time before your orgasm sent waves of pleasure through you. You moaned loudly, gripping the back of his head tightly as he bit down on your earlobe, never stopping his fingers inside of you.

“That’s it,” He groaned, his voice raspy, “That’s it, pretty girl. Give it all to me. Show me how pretty you are when you come for me.”

Your head swam and your heart raced, your eyes squeezed shut because you could focus. The pleasure that was spreading through you was warm, electric – it was one of the best orgasms you had ever had, and it was only with his fingers.

Jesus Fuckin’ Christ.

After a few moments, Andrew slipped his fingers out, causing you to open your eyes, your breath coming in heaving pants. He was smiling, obviously proud. Slowly, he licked his digits as he stood, moaning.

“Jesus, you taste delicious.” He said, looking at you. He undid the button and zipper on his pants, the obvious tent of his arousal very evident before he slipped them off. Down came his pants and boxer briefs, his large member springing free, wet with precum. He made his way over to a duffle bag thrown on a chair in the corner of the room and rifled through it, finally emerging with a condom in between his fingers. Opening it quickly, he slid it on himself, pumping himself a few times as he walked back to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Are you ready?” He asked, straddling himself in front of you, continue to stroke himself.

“Actually, if you’re not inside of me within the next few seconds I might lose my fucking mind.” You said, watching him. It was silly, but seeing him touch himself in front of you like that made him seem like a god. He smiled and crawled on top of you, slowly positioning himself at your entrance. As his tip teased your wet folds, you whimpered.

Finally, Andrew slid himself inside of you in a single thrust, his forehead finding yours again. Your moans filled the room, and as he started to pump inside of you, the familiar numb feeling of being filled spread throughout you.

“So good,” You said, closing your eyes and pressing your head to the pillow, “So, so good, Andrew.”

“That’s it,” He said, his breath hitching, “Wanna make you feel good. You make my cock feel so good.” He dipped his head in the crook of your neck as he started to slowly increase his pace, finding himself deeper inside of you. The sound of your wet skin slapping together filled the room, matched only by your breathy groans and his primal grunts.

“Fuck!” You shrieked, Andrew finding a particular spot that made your vision fuzzy. Andrew tilted his head up to look at you and he smiled.

“Yeah? Right there, darlin’?” He asked. You nodded, your brows knitted together. His hand found your chin, holding it roughly, “You like it when I fuck you right there?” You nodded again but he shook his head, “Lemme hear you say it, baby.” He gently commanded.

“Fuck. Yes, Andrew, right there!” You said, unable to take your eyes off of him. His eyes darkened as he continued to fuck you, his face flushing.

“My name sounds so good on your lips.” He groaned, continuing to pump in you. Sweat was beading on his forehead as he continued to hit your spot. His hand moved from your chin to your tits, and as he pinched your hardened nipples, you moaned. His thrusts became erratic, irregular.

“You’re close already, aren’t you?” You toyed with him, taking a moment to bite down on his bottom lip, “My pussy so good you’re gonna come for me?”

“Fuck,” He barked, furrowing his brows, “You’re so fucking tight…you’re so wet…I’m gonna come soon. I’m close,” His face flushed deeper as he stared into your eyes, making your heart thunder in your chest. Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut, his head thrown back, voice parted in a silent moan.

You felt his cock twitch inside of you, the condom filling with his orgasm. He jerked his hips, almost a spasm, as he moaned your name. His hands gripped the pillows on either side of you, his biceps flexing. You smiled as he finally opened his eyes, almost in submission as he rode out his orgasm. Your hands found their way to his back, gripping him and bringing him closer.

A few moments went by as he stayed inside of you, trying to catch up with his breathing. He placed gentle kisses on your cheek lazily, finally rolling out of you. Standing, he quickly made his way to the bathroom to toss the condom and clean himself up, but laid next to you again, scooping you up in his arms.

“You’re fucking incredible.” He murmured in your ear, his Irish accent coming out with his tired demeanor. You giggled and looked at him, brushing a sweaty lock of hair behind his ear.

“I’m really glad that party sucked so bad,” You said. He chuckled, his eyes still closed. Opening one, he looked down at you.

“Me too…” He paused for a moment, drawing you closer, “Though, even if that party was fun, I still would’ve made my way over to you.”

“Yeah?”

Andrew nodded and shifted so he was propping himself up on his elbow, “Yeah. I had been trying to muster up the courage for like…three awards shows to come over and say hi to you, now. Months worth of time.” He was somewhat bashful. You blushed.

“Well I’m glad you did.”

“Me too.” He reached out and started to brush his fingers through your hair, and you couldn’t help the fluttering in your chest.

That party sucked. But you were glad it did.

---

A/N: I'm actually kind of obsessed with their banter and relationship...should I make this multiple parts?! I was originally only planning on doing this as a oneshot but I kind love them (teehee).

As always, comments and reblogs mean a lot if you liked this one <3 Thanks for reading

#hozier fic #hozier fluff #hozier smut #hozier oneshot #hozier #the hoziest #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier fanfiction #hozier fan fiction

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clairecrive · 9 months ago

Note

Hey there, I got an idea for a request Alfies secretary is a quiet girl and Alfie is always flirting with her he loves to make her cheeks blush red. And one day she finally becomes brave and says something flirty back to him and he gets all flustered first as he wasn't expecting it and then he's like "fucking hell" with his cheeky grin and makes his move while he has the chance and gives her the best kiss of her life💖

A/n: Hello everyone!! It's been ages since I last wrote anything, let alone for Alfie. However, lately I 've been right down obsessed with him again and couldn't fight the urge to write for him. I found this in my inbox and I'm so so sorry it took me this long to write this!

I'm not going to tag anyone because I don't even know if there's still anyone reading this blog lol. but let me know If you want to be tagged.

MASTERLIST

"Cat and mouse"| Alfie Solomons x reader

"Hello, luv."

"Hello, Mr Solomons."

"Ah, pet how many times do I have to tell ya, eh?" You had been working for Alfie for a while now. Enough time to make you a trusted employee. Even more than that actually. if his relentless flirting was enough of tell.

By now, you were on first name bases. But even though Alfie was quite outspoken about his appreciation of you, the only way you told him it was somewhat reciprocated was by flushing furiously whenever he flirted with you.

It wasn't enough. Not anymore. And while Alfie was patient and respectful of your shy nature, you were done with this cat and mouse dance. You wanted him. You're just waiting for the right time to go for it.

"There's Mr Shelby waiting for you in the hallway, should I let him in?"

Alfie groaned at the name. You knew it was only to keep up his burly grumpy man persona he got going on. Deep down, you thought he didn't mind Tommy's company much.

"Only if you come in with him, pet. I need something beautiful to look at to survive that fucking bore, right?"

Blushing at the insinuation you nodded before going to let Mr. Shelby in and retrieve pen and paper. This was actually part of your job description. Alfie's request was more because he was a flirt and he liked to see you flush.

Nothing but charm in his vein, let me tell you.

"Ms. Y/N will be with us so she could take notes and whatnot, I hope you don't mind Tommy but to be fair, I don't give a fuck if you do, right?"

"She always does Alfie." Tommy drily pointed out while lighting a cigarette.

"Yeah well, I like to be surrounded by beautiful things, don't I?"

"So do I, Alfie. So do I." Tommy agreed

"Alright gentlemen, if you could stop flirting with each other and move onto business please. Mr. Solomons. has a packed schedule, as I'm sure you have as well Mr. Shelby." Rearranging the papers and documents in front of you, you dressed the two men. You knew that they could go on for while like this. Especially alfie had a way of talking for hours without actually saying anything. It made for a perfect business strategy but you knew that he actually needed to settle things with Tommy.

The brume acknowledged her with just a light tilt of his lips while your boss sputtered in shock.

"Fucking hell, pet. What the fuck are ya on about, eh?" He looked at you, and you could see that other than the shock for your outrageous implication, there was actually surprise in his eyes. And then a pleased glimmer.

You only raised an eyebrow at him to silently suggest to just get on with the meeting.

"Fucking women, eh Tommy? Wild creature they are, I tell ya. You never can guess what's on their fucking mind, can ya."

"If you'd get on with it, then maybe you'll have enough time this evening so that I can tell you over dinner."

You had never seen Alfie Solomons speechless. Hell, you had never seen him be silent for more than one minute. You bet that he talked even in his sleeps.

Well, would you look at him now. Eyes wide and mouth almost open. If you hadn't just taken a huge leap out of your comfort zone, you'd find this situation funny.

Tommy Shelby probably did.

"You know what, Alfie? I'll come back tomorrow." And with just a tilt of his head in your direction, the brummie was off and out of Alfie's office.

Meanwhile, Alfie was still looking at you. Which was making you nervous. And when you were nervous, you tended to rumble.

"What? Is it such a preposterous idea?" you said being defensive.

"Fucking hell, pet. Didn't know you had it in ya."

"You're not the only one who can flirt, you know." You mumble, suddenly shy.

"Of course, not. And I fucking hope you're not going to stop either." He smirked at you. Pushing away from his desk he turned so that he was completely facing you.

"Now, why don't you come here and show me exactly what's on yer mind, eh?"

Burning. Your cheeks were burning red by now. But you did exactly what he said. You got up and you walked so that you were now facing him.

With him sitting down and you standing in front of him, you were almost the same height.

You didn't know what to do with your hands, with yourself really. That sudden burst of courage was long gone now.

Taking you in, Alfie could see that as well. Smiling, he gently pulled you even closer to him.

"We could wait 'till dinner and even after that, pet y'know? There's no rush, yeah?" He softly promised. He had been flirting with you for months after all, what's a few more weeks or however much you needed?

"I don't want to wait anymore, Alfie. I just don't know what to do." You looked at him under your lashes, all bashful and cute and Alfie could barely restrain himself.

"Then let me show ya, right?"

Gently cradling your face, Alfie leaned in. He let his nose touch yours in a gentle caress so that you had time to pulled away if you wanted to.

Then, when you didn't he finally kissed you.

It was gentle and soft and, in your opinion, the best kiss in the world.

#alfie x reader #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons #alfie solomons imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinders x reader #tom hardy #fluff

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nurse-floyd · 1 month ago

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Chef Norris

Lando x reader request "Can you please write “You… You learned to cook my favourite meal?” from the List of established relationship prompts with Lando?"

A/N: Please request - my inbox is open again and as always please consider donating to my sick cat's vet fund - we are currently waiting a surgical opinion for the wound under her arm that hasn't healed.

@callsign-swan @ice-man-goes-bwoah @vroomvroomcircuit

It had been a long week for both you and Lando. Despite it being the mid-season break, Lando had still been busy with meetings, promo shoots and with testing. So you weren’t expecting much when you got home from work. You’d exchanged sleepy voice notes about your days, memes and chaotic facetimes of him showing you his and Oscars latest antics at the MTC, but that was pretty much the only times you’d interacted.

As soon as you stepped through the door, tired and hungry, you didn't expect the smell of home cooking to hit you. No Lando scream laughing at his stream from down the hallway. No text for uber from him earlier in the afternoon or the smell of one of his microwaved prepared meals from his dietician that you’d come to recognise.

“Lando?” you called out as you pulled off the sneakers from your feet and stepped further into the apartment. The lights were low, music was softly playing from the kitchen and you could hear the faint clattering of pots and pans.

There he was. Your man, standing at the stove, his damp curls resting against his forehead weaning a hoodie and your apron. His laptop was open, his screen paused on a recipe of your favourite meal. The kitchen? Well that looked like a war zone.

He turned his head as you walked through the door, cheeks slightly flushed. “Hey babe,” he said so casually as he turned back to stir the pan in front of him.

“You’re cooking?” you asked, not surprised but just not expecting it. No anniversary, no special occasion.

“Wanted to surprise you for dinner. We haven’t had a date night just you and me for ages and you deserve it.”

Your heart clenched in your chest, “baby…”

“Nope. Don’t use your ‘baby’ voice on me,” he groaned dramatically as he pointed the spatula at you, “I don’t even know if it’s edible yet.”

You tried to take a peek into the pan to see but he shoved you away quickly, “nope. Not until it’s done. It’s a surprise. And if you see an amazon order for a new vegetable peeler and pan…no you didn’t.”

You shook your head, not even wanting to know.

“Also, mum says hi and is Saturday okay for lunch?”

You laughed, “you called her for help with the recipe, didn’t you?”

“You can’t prove anything!”

You had just enough time for a shower and to get into some comfortable clothes when Lando called you to the dinner table. The room was dark, the table filled with candles and a new bunch of flowers in a vase in the middle. Two places were set up opposite each other and on the platte in front of your space sat a meal that looked so damn good.

“You…you learned to cook my favourite meal?”

He pulled the chair out for you and pushed it in as you sat down and took the space opposite.

“Took me three tries to get the sauce right and I had the help from YouTube and my mum. I also cut my finger,” he said as he showed the bandage wrapped around the tip of his index finger, “but yeah. I did.” The grin on his face was so damn cute. Like a kid showing off their artwork at the end of a school day.

Your heart was full to the brim. He looked so sweet in that moment, his eyes so full of love for you. “Thank you baby.”

He watched you with anticipation as you picked up your fork and took a bite. You chewed thoughtfully, taking a moment to savour all the flavours and textures. “Oh my god. This is actually so good, Lando!”

“Don’t sound too surprised!” he replied as he took a bite of his own. He let out a moan and shook his head, “okay. No. This is actually amazing.”

“Alright, don’t get cocky now,” you laughed.

He shot you a wink, “too late, call me chef Lando.”

You shook your head but continued eating the meal. It wasn’t a five-star luxury hotel or Michelin star restaurant, but you had everything you needed and you wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris x reader #lando norris x you #ln4 #ln4 fanfic #ln4 imagine #ln4 x reader #ln4 x you

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honeyhotteoks · 4 months ago

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₊ ⊹ ⟡ together; alternate version (정윤호 ♡ j.yh)

yunho's been away for tour, only this time, when he comes home you have very different news to share.

style: bullet drabble (alternative sequel to losing time) pairing: non idol!yunho x fem!reader word count: 2.5k tags/warnings: fluff, light angst, all things pregnancy and babies, light smut with breeding kink/preg kink (yunho is v happy she's pregnant essentially lmao) notes: this was fully inspired by an anon in my inbox who asked what would have happened in my short fic together if the news reader had to share was a pregnancy and how would yunho react to that. i don't take fic requests, but i love babyfic and this just turned into a little bullet and drabble fic i thought i would share with everyone.

[masterlist]

at the end of losing time, yunho leaves for tour and it’s a long one. a full two, two and a half months abroad in europe while you’re left at home in a different time zone missing him terribly.

you find out the truth while he’s away, only a few weeks into tour when you start getting sick. it’s not something you can just spring on him while he’s on tour, it would distract him, it would stress him out, and frankly you just don’t know what to do. what decision to make.

you know how you feel about yunho, and you knows how he feels about you…. but this type of news always changes everything.

so you keep it to yourself, and you do your best to make it through.

only when yunho does return.... you’re showing. it's not a lot, just the beginning stages of a curve at three months, but it's starting to be apparent if you’re wearing fitted clothing and it's not something you would be able to keep from him if he touched you.

so when he comes home, finally, and texts you, asking if he can send a car to bring you to the studio, you want to say yes so badly but you can’t.

this isn't a conversation you can have in front of anyone else so you say no. and you’re honestly terrified, so you lie, just a little white lie. you tell him you can't come and that you’re not feeling well, you’ll see him another day soon.

anxiety is fully eating you up and you’re spiraling, and you don’t know it but your texts fully freaked yunho out. he's convinced that you’re going to break up with him and waited until after tour to do it, and he's sick about it.

after dance practice, he sneaks out and comes to your place.

all of a sudden hes there, he’s knocking on your door.

you thought you had more time, you still don’t know how to tell him, what to say- but he’s there

and -

You're a mess. Your hair is tangled from running your fingers through it again and again, and you're pretty sure this sweatshirt has a coffee stain on it, but he's here and no matter what you have to face this.

He knocks again, a soft rap on the door, "y/n, please let me in,"

"Just a second," You call back, knotting your hair back into a bun and kicking on your slippers. Your stomach rolls with nervousness, but at least, you think, it's not morning sickness.

When you finally pull open the door your hands are trembling, and Yunho's pained expression doesn't help.

"Hey," You manage.

"Hi," His eyes dart over you, a crease of concern between his brows, "can I come in?"

You move to let him in immediately, stepping back into the apartment, "Sorry, of course,"

When you shut the door tight and flip the lock, silence fills the space, but somewhere within you, you find the strength to turn around and look up at him.

He shifts from foot to foot, clearly off balance at the strange discomfort between you, and finally he sighs, "Whatever it is," he says, "I know we can work it out."

A strike of panic lances up your spine at the thought he might already know what words are sitting like lead on your tongue, but all you can manage is a soft, "What?"

"You're avoiding me," His hands flex and release, "we haven't seen each other in months, and now I'm here, and you haven't even smiled. I don't think you're sick, I think something's wrong."

"Yunho," Your voice cracks, and you can feel tears threatening your eyes already. You wanted to hold it together, but this is already too hard.

He swallows tightly and keeps talking, his own voice laced with nerves, "I know two months was a long time, and I know I haven't been the best boyfriend, I should have called more, made more time for us, but, y/n," he takes a tentative step towards you, "I love you, and I really don't want to give up on us, please, don't,"

Things slot into place at his words and you shake your head, "Who said anything about giving up on us?"

The words hang for a moment, and then he softly exhales, "You're not breaking up with me?"

"No!" Your voice squeaks as you rush to dispel that idea, "No, oh my god, not at all,"

He grins, covering his face with his broad hands and sighing, "Jesus Christ," he sighs, "I was going out of my mind,"

"No," You shake your head again, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to worry you like that."

He drops his hands and you can see the tension leave his tight shoulders, "Thank god," he smiles and steps towards you.

Panic bubbles back up inside you and you raise your hand to stop him, stepping back until your hips bump into the back of the couch, "Wait,"

His expression crumbles, "What's going on?"

You just have to say it.

"Um," Your stomach flips, "I do have some news."

"News," He repeats numbly.

"Yeah," You start to cross your arms over your chest but the realization that it would pull the fabric of the sweatshirt closer to you rockets through your brain and you drop your arms helplessly by your side. You have no idea how to tell him this.

"You can tell me anything," He says softly, reading your panic in a moment, "and you know, there's nothing we can't handle together."

"Yunho," Tears start to gather, making your eyes glassy, "I don't know how to tell you this,"

"I'm here,"

The panicked, terrified, anxious part of your brain scoffs, for now. You look away from him immediately, eyes glued to the floor. If this is how you lose him, then you guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

You take a steadying breath and jump, "I have something to tell you," you knot your fingers together, "and I didn't know how to tell you while you were away. I was afraid of distracting you or trying to figure this out while you weren't, you know, here,"

"Okay," He murmurs, taking a slow step in your direction, "I'm here,"

"A week after you left," You press your eyes closed tight, tears tracking down your cheeks, "I missed my period,"

He's silent. Your stomach churns again, but you keep going, "For a little bit I just thought it was stress, or something funny, I'm not always on schedule, but, then I started getting sick," With your eyes closed and with him so quiet, you can almost pretend you're practicing this speech, one of the many times you talked it through in the shower, lying in bed, pacing laps around your apartment. "I'm so sorry," Your voice cracks, "I'm pregnant," You can't bring yourself to open your eyes. "I know I should have told you," Tears rush forward a little faster now and you take a hitched breath, "and I know you don't want this, but you deserve to know, and I... I don't, Yunho, I don't know what to do, I don't know what I'm s-supposed to do, and," Yunho steps forwards all at once, his hands cupping your cheeks and drawing your face upwards, "Hey, hey," he soothes, voice tender, "look at me," Your eyes finally open, meeting his gaze. You expect to find him terrified, any twenty-something guy with a delicate career would be, but all you find in his eyes is soft comfort. There's no trace of the idol in him, just your lover, your best friend. "It's okay," He wipes away your tears gently, "sweetheart, breathe," "Why aren't you angry?" Tears rush faster, your breath tight. He smiles, "I'm upset you didn't think you could tell me," he dips forwards and presses a kiss to your forehead, "but y/n, I love you, this isn't... baby, this could never be bad news." "W-what?" "The timing's terrible," He admits, "and I also have no idea what we're supposed to do, but I don't care. I love you, we'll figure this out." Of all the reactions you expected from him, this hadn't even crossed your mind. When he leans back from you a little to study your tear stained face again, he smiles, and it feels like everything about your life is about to change. Slowly, you pull his hands away from your face and take a steadying breath, "Yunho," you manage, "you're an idol, and besides, we're twenty-six, we're not even married, we're not, what the hell are we going to do with a baby," He slides his hands over yours and brings them together, lifting them so he can press his lips to the back of your knuckles, "We'll do what people do, we'll make it work." You shake your head, feeling fully unmoored, but he keeps going. "I knew you were it for me on the second date," He says and the world slows to a stop, "the only thing in the world I'm terrified of is losing you, but this? y/n, I'm in love with you. Did you think I haven't imagined what our lives would be like?" "I," You can't find the right words, but you try, "I love you," His smile widens, and he moves quickly, tugging you forwards and wrapping his arms around you properly. He's much taller, and he has to lean over you, but he wraps one arm smoothly around your lower back and your hands settle on his shoulders. He pulls you up in one smooth motion, his free hand slipping under your thighs as you wrap them around his waist to hold you tight against him. He kisses your lips, tender relief in every press of his mouth on yours and he nuzzles your nose with his, "I missed you," he breathes. "I missed you too," You confess, your body finally relaxing and melting into him, weeks and weeks of tension bleeding out of your body, "so much," He hugs you close, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you bury your face into his neck, and then he freezes, "Oh my god," his hand slides over your back, landing on your waist, "you really are pregnant," You know he can feel it, the change in your body when you're pressed flush against him like this, and you nod into his neck. "H-how," His hand pushes under your sweatshirt, searching your skin, "baby, how far?" "Fourteen weeks," He sucks in a breath, dropping you gingerly back to your feet, "I can't believe you didn't tell me," For a split second you think you're finally getting the anger you anticipated, but the giddy expression on his face says otherwise.

"I've missed so much," He snakes a hand under your hoodie, and lays his palm over your slightly distended belly, "I'm... god, I can't believe this," "You're not upset?" You check softly. "No," He shakes his head, and then he tugs gently at your sweatshirt, "No, but, can you take this off, can I see?" You're nervous again, but his easy energy wraps around you like a safety blanket and you nod, swallowing back any fears and pulling off the sweatshirt, leaving you in nothing but your sweat pants, and a tight tank top. His eyes zero in on the bump immediately, and the sliver of skin between your sweats and the hemline of your top. Your hands rest over your belly, a nervous, protective instinct, "I know," He blinks hard, tearing his eyes away from your changing body and up to your face. "What?" You ask, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. "You're really pregnant," He says, his voice a little rough, and then he reaches again until his hand slides over the smooth plane of your stomach, tracing the curve, "that's my baby," "Yeah," You breathe softly.

Tears track down his face and he laughs, reaching for you again, up into his arms and nestled against him.

From there?

He’s kissing you and he just can’t stop.

You’re a mess from stress and tears, and hardly feel sexy, but he doesn’t care. He’s missed you, he loves you so much and this news is unexpected and terrifying but he’s so happy he doesn’t care

So holding you in his arms still, he takes you to bed

And you’re apologetic about the mess, your bed stand is covered with water bottles and anti-nausea medication and it hits him all at once how you’ve just been holding it together by a thread

And he pulls you into the bed - “You’ve been sick, this hasn’t been easy, has it? I could have been there for you, I wish I had been there,”

But you assure him that you’re mostly on the other side of it, you’re only sick like once in a while now not every second of every day

And he’s like….. we are talking about that later, but right now how are you feeling?

And you’re good…. but god, you missed him and now you’re just so relieved

So he begs you to let him take care of you now, he’s home, he can carry that weight if you’ll let him

And teary tender kissing in bed leaves his hands wandering, noticing how much is different, losing his mind over your bump and the new fullness of your breasts

And he’s hard and you’re touch starved

And then he’s just losing it a little - kissing your body, telling you how much he loves every inch of you, how insane it makes him that he did this to you, how you made something together

And all the tenderness to dirty talk sends your brain into overdrive.

It’s all just desperate needy, thank god we didn’t break up i can’t believe i got you pregnant sex

Worshipping oral, lots of body kissing and feral groaning from Yunho

His absolute insanity at being inside you like this - and you’re tighter, wetter, and needier than ever, and he’s just feral for it

“You’ll be the prettiest mommy, won’t you?”

Just heaps of breeding and preg dirty talk

“God, I hope you want a lot of kids,”

“You look so good like this, I’ll have to knock you up again,”

“So pretty with my baby inside you,”

And when you’re done, you fall asleep instantly. you’ve been sleeping so much more all of a sudden, and you suppose your body needs it, but it feels like you’re finally resting for the first time in weeks

When you wake, your apartment is clean, he got take out (but he’s googling best soups for morning sickness and texting Wooyoung cooking questions), and he’s making a list of everything you’ll need. He’s already making a plan of what you’re going to do.

So even though the tour was terrifying, he’s home, he’s got you. You’re together on this, always.

#ateez fic #yunho fic #ateez drabbles #yunho drabbles #honeyhotteoks fics #yunho #ateez

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bueckers · 1 year ago

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² 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 ━━━ 𝐏𝐁

part one. a/n | here’s part 2 ! thank you for the love on the first one & please feel free to send requests to my inbox.

summary: in which the pleasure elicits a confession.

warning(s): car sex, jealousy, p eating, heated make-out, face riding, arguing, & love confessions.

pairing: paige bueckers x fem reader

It had been about two weeks since Paige’s confession, leaving you puzzled. Since then, there had been no texts, no calls, not even a knock at your door with an explanation. Paige had left you high and dry, her silence taking over the spaces she used to fill with her presence.

Today was Azzi’s birthday, a celebration you couldn’t miss despite the predicament you were in with her best friend. The girls hadn’t asked you about the night you stormed out of Paige’s room half naked, but you knew that they all knew now and there was no covering it up. Paige must’ve gave them intel— but it made you wonder what exactly she told them.

Despite this, you and Azzi had always shared a close bond, and you wouldn’t let Paige ruin that. The plan for the evening was straightforward: a night out at the club, drinks with the team, and a few of Azzi’s other friends. It promised to be a casual gathering, one where you could avoid an uncomfortable confrontation with Paige if you played your cards right.

You’d already been at Azzi’s dorm with Caroline, Aubrey, and Paige who had been keeping her distance from you since you arrived. After helping her pick out an outfit and adjusting her hair just the way she wanted it to be, the five of you all headed out and piled into Paige’s car, Azzi in the front and you having to take the middle of the backseat because of your shorter figure.

Everyone stayed engrossed in conversation, yourself only throwing out small comments when it was needed. As the song changed, you immediately became familiar with the playlist Paige was playing— the one you both shared for both intimate moments and late night drives. The voice of Drake’s Heat of the Moment echoed through the car, causing you to dart your eyes up to the rear view mirror to get a good look at Paige, squinting your eyes a bit. You knew the game she was playing.

She must have felt your gaze because, right then and there, she looked up too. You could only see her eyes, but it was enough to read her expression. It wasn’t cocky or teasing; it was filled with longing. There was meaning. Tearing your eyes away, you found yourself staring past Aubrey and out the dark window, as if you could really see anything. Your hands fidgeted in your lap as you waited impatiently to dart out of the car.

After a few moments, you seemed to have arrived at the club. Aubrey snapped her fingers twice, breaking you out of your daze and chuckling a little. “You good?” she asked as everyone began unbuckling their seatbelts. You grinned at her, quickly glancing at the mirror where Paige was already looking at you. That brief eye contact made you revert your gaze back to the girl next to you.

“Yeah, fine,” you assured her, though your mind was anything but settled.

It had been a long night. You weren’t even sure of the time but you’d been about four drinks in alongside Azzi who had definitely had more than you, dancing sloppily with her teammates. It didn’t matter to anyone though as long as the birthday girl was having the time of her life.

You hadn’t seen Paige since you parted ways from the car, and you were prepared to keep it that way. You’d previously been sitting with Jana and Ayanna at the bar before Jana announced she had to use the restroom. With your drunken state, you assured them that you’d be okay by yourself for a few minutes instead of walking through mounds of people while Ayanna accompanied her.

Twirling the straw around in the empty glass that had previously held your vodka soda, you looked around your surroundings innocently, trying to not make it seem like you were looking for anyone in particular. But you were. You were scanning the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of Paige, yet she remained elusive. The dim, pulsating lights of the club only added to your growing sense of frustration and confusion. Had she intentionally been avoiding you all night, or was it just a coincidence?

“Looking for someone?” an unfamiliar voice called from next to you. Your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly turned toward the stool beside you, raking your eyes up the body of a female— a very attractive one at that. She chuckled, her curls bouncing with the motion. She bore a slight resemblance to Aubrey, or maybe it was just the alcohol making your perception a little off. Her presence was a welcome distraction, so you didn’t mind it.

You smiled sheepishly, your fingers moving mindlessly around the straw. “Why, you wanna buy me a drink?” you flirted. Maybe Paige was the best at flirting, but you dabbled in it.

“I’m not opposed to that,” she smirked at you before calling the bartender over and paying for your next drink. Her confidence was disarming, and you couldn’t help but feed into it. It was certainly a way to win over a drunk girl. Here was someone who was clearly interested in you, a stark contrast to the ambiguity and distance Paige had left you with. You decided to lean into the moment, allowing yourself to be swept up in the flirtation, at least for now.

Eventually, the girl, Lena had pulled you onto the dance floor, her hand grasping yours warmly. The alcohol definitely loosened your limbs and blurred the edges of your thoughts as Lena stayed close, her own moves fluid, drawing you further into her orbit. You were living in the moment and all things Paige had seemed to be forgotten about.

You weren’t sure how much time had slipped by. You lost count of the songs, your only focus being her presence. You weren’t normally one to get so comfortable with someone so quickly, but Lena made it easy. The crowded dance floor felt like a cocoon, insulating you from any lingering thoughts.

But the spell was broken when you caught sight of a familiar face approaching through the throng of dancers. Paige was weaving her way toward you, her expression a storm of emotions that you couldn’t quite pinpoint.

As she swooped in next to you, you were too shocked to move as she spoke, her hand wrapping possessively around your waist. “There you are, baby,” she said loudly enough to be heard over the music, her voice edged with a sharpness that made Lena’s eyebrows rise in surprise.

“Excuse me?” Lena’s eyes flicked between you and Paige, confusion mingling. God, you felt bad, but you truly couldn’t bring yourself to say anything despite Paige not being your girlfriend or this being her place. Only Paige could make you at loss for words in a situation like this. Only Paige would put you in a situation like this.

Paige didn’t miss a beat. “I been looking for her all night.” she smiled cockily at Lena, who seemed to be just as perplexed as you were. “Come on, let’s get some air,” she urged, glancing down at you as you licked your lips in frustration. You could hear the fake joy in her voice. You barely had time to shoot an apologetic look at Lena before Paige was leading you through the crowd, yourself stumbling a bit as you barely made it.

Outside, the cool night air hit you like a splash of cold water, clearing some of the fog from your mind. You managed to wiggle out of Paige’s grasp, shooting her a look that she found amusing as you both arrived in front of the car. Your figure trailing a little behind her. She turned around, crossing her arms and looking at you with a mix of anger and something else you couldn’t quite place. Why was she upset?

“What the hell was that?” you demanded, your own temper flaring now that you were away from the noise and the crowd. “You always do this shit and I’m so fucking sick of it. You stopped caring about me a long time ago, Paige. Stop trying to remind me that you exist after every fuck up because you know I’ll fall into you every time.” You weren’t thinking about what you said before you said it— you didn’t even let Paige get a word out as you watched her facial expression soften in front of you. The entire situation had sobered you up and you could feel a headache coming in.

Paige took a deep breath, her eyes still burning with jealousy. “I couldn’t just stand there and watch you with her,” she admitted, her voice softer but no less intense. “It drove me crazy.”

“You avoided me the whole night— fuck, a whole two weeks! I think you can handle me trying to get in bed with a different girl.” You couldn’t fathom why she could treat you so poorly but not want to see you with anyone else. It irked you knowing she just wanted to hang onto the piece of you that still cared for her on a deeper level than sex and use it to her advantage. It hurt you.

Paige scoffed, her eyes widening before her tongue began to swarm her mouth in amusement. “Oh, that’s what this is about? The sex?”

You shook your head, becoming annoyed with the conversation and ready to storm off. “You don’t get it. You’re never gonna fucking get it.”

Paige’s eyes darted from yours to behind you for a brief moment, making you whip your head around to see a group of people looking your way, concerned looks on their faces. You both recognized the loudness of the conversation, and Paige was quick to move it. She opened the passenger door from behind her, motioning for you to get in with her hands and eyes.

You stood there, unamused. “I’m not getting in the car with you, Paige,” you said simply, a chuckle following your words. You didn’t want to because you knew being in such close proximity with her while trying to stand your ground and stay angry would not go well for you, especially with how good she looked tonight. But she always looked good— this was nothing new.

However, as you slowly met her eyes from just a few feet away, you ultimately knew just how over it was for you. “Get in the car, (y/n).” Her words were slow yet firm. You only stared at her with an unreadable expression for a few moments before you gave in with a roll of your eyes.

Paige walked around the car to the driver’s seat, twisting her keys around her fingers before opening the door and taking a seat. A silence fell between the two of you before you settled on breaking it, knowing too much of it would result in a certain type of tension. You stared at her, the night’s confusion swirling inside you. “You can’t just pretend to be my girlfriend and drag me away like that, Paige. It’s not fair.”

She looked down, her tough exterior cracking. “I know, I’m sorry. I just… I needed to talk to you.” Her voice was softer now, making your anger waver. God, she made it so hard to stay mad.

The sincerity in her tone was enough to make you gold. “You’ve had two weeks to talk to me. Why now?” you asked, trying to keep your frustration in check.

Paige sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I was scared. After what I said, I didn’t know how you’d react, and then I saw you with someone else tonight and… I realized I couldn’t keep avoiding this. Avoiding you,” she explained.

What did that even mean? Paige hadn’t gotten this open or raw with you since you stopped connecting on a friend level and you wondered where this conversation was leading. “So what now?” you asked, your voice losing some of its edge.

She looked up, meeting your gaze with earnest eyes. “I miss you,” she said quietly. You’d never seen her this vulnerable. She was always so composed, so sure of herself. The admission hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Your heart ached at her words, a mix of longing and frustration battling within you. What did she miss, the sex or you? “I don’t know what you want from me,” you shrugged. Don’t give in.

“Jus’ want you,” she said simply, her eyes searching yours. “I’ve missed you so much. These past two weeks have been hell. Fuck— the past six months.” She was referring to the amount of time she’d shut you out for, and you were baffled that she had noticed. It wasn’t just some dick move of hers done unpurposely because it’s just instinct for her, there was a reason. Don’t give in.

The lick of her lips and the doe of her hooded eyes was enough to break down the last of your defenses. She studied the contemplation within you, glancing down at your bare leg before she slowly moved her hand to it. It’s like you couldn’t control the lean of your body. Paige hesitated for a moment, then closed the distance, her lips meeting yours in a desperate, needy kiss. It was like a dam breaking, all your pent up emotions pouring out in one moment.

You kissed her back, your hands finding their way to her hair, pulling her closer. Paige responded with equal fervor, her hands roaming your back and pulling on your clothes, holding you as if afraid you might disappear. The world outside the car faded away as if one nosey person couldn’t just peek their head in and see two girls making out, but it was the least of your concerns.

The small space of the car seemed to shrink even more as the intensity of your kiss deepened. Without breaking the kiss, you shifted, moving over the center console to straddle Paige’s lap in the driver’s seat. Her hands immediately went to your hips, gripping them tightly as if anchoring herself to you.

Your fingers threaded through her hair, tugging slightly, eliciting a soft moan from her that sent shivers down your spine. The sensation of being so close, feeling her heartbeat against yours, was overwhelming in the best possible way. Paige’s hands roamed up your back and down to your thighs, squeezing them. If there was one thing this girl loved, it was your ass and thighs. She could never get enough of them.

You pulled back just enough to look into her eyes, both of you breathing heavily. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes barely open as she looked up at you, her chest heaving with the same desire you felt. But there was also a hint of confusion as to why you pulled away. “Paige,” you whispered, your voice full of uncertainty and hunger. “I can’t do this.” You were only breaking your own morals, and as much as you were feening for her right now, you knew you couldn’t keep running laps with her around a never-ending track.

Paige shook her head, licking her lips. Her expression shifted from confusion to concern. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice was desperate. “Please don’t say that,” her voice was low as she brought one hand up to cradle your face, you immediately leaning into her touch by instinct.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart. “I can’t keep going through this with you. I can’t if it’s just going to end the same way every time.”

Her grip on your hips tightened, her eyes pleading. “It won’t. I swear it won’t.” She paused, taking a deep breath as she searched for the right words. You only looked at her as you waited for what she was going to say, biting down on your bottom lip. “I meant it when I said I loved you.” The confession hung heavy in the air, the honesty causing goosebumps to raise to your arms.

You searched her eyes, looking for any sign of doubt or insincerity, but she was serious. “You really mean it?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. It sounded pathetic to ask, but you didn’t care.

Paige nodded, her blue eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than right now.”

Without another word, you leaned in once more, your lips carefully moving in sync as it quickly went from tender to passionate. Her fingers traced gentle patterns on your skin as if committing every contour to memory as you pressed closer, Paige pulling you in more if that were even possible. Your hands moved down her chest underneath her shirt painfully slow, your fingers dwindling over her abs. You wanted this stupid shirt off.

You shifted slightly, straddling her lap more securely, your legs on either side of her as you deepened the kiss. The feeling of her touch, the warmth of her body pressed against yours, and just knowing how she felt all made you feel more alive than you had in weeks. Her lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, trailing kisses down your neck, making you gasp softly.

“Wanna make you feel good. Okay, baby?” Paige mumbled. You only nodded in response, eager for any type of friction as you moved against her. The only thing standing between more of it was the thin piece of fabric underneath your hoisted up red dress. You were sure you left a mark of your slick on Paige’s cargos.

Pulling away, both of your breathing far from steady, Paige shifted her gaze to the side of her driver chair, reclining it back. Your mouth fell agape slightly as you realized what she wanted to do, and she only chuckled at you— a smirk not leaving her face. She still sat up as she reached for the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head and tossing it into the backseat with ease. Your eyes raked down her body. She then moved to lay back, yourself still in full view as you stayed sat against her in pure shock. Paige Bueckers wanted you to sit on her face in a club parking lot after confessing her love for you.

“Take those off and come up here, ma,” she urged you lowly, her eyes flickering to the bottom half of your body. One of her hands were behind her head and the other placed warmly on your upper thigh, her thumb stroking your skin way too slow as you became warmer by the second. Your breath hitched as you complied, obviously, moving your legs to one side so you could slip the fabric from under you and toss them to the passenger seat.

Paige’s eyes darkened with desire as she watched you. She’d been wanting to do this all night. The moment your underwear left your body, she guided you to straddle her face, her hands gripping your thighs firmly as she pulled you closer. You hesitated for a brief moment, the vulnerability of the position causing a flutter of nerves. You’d done this before— I mean, the first few months were just full of figuring out each other and what you liked and disliked… but in this moment, it felt different. Like a new chapter.

Paige tapped your leg softly in reassurance as she looked up at you, realizing the way you were surveying the situation. “Come here,” she murmured. Everything that came out of her mouth was dripping with craving. She needed to taste you.

You settled over her, your thighs trembling slightly as you positioned yourself. The moment her mouth made contact with you, a gasp escaped your lips, your hands instinctively gripping the back of the seat for support. Paige’s tongue moved with skill like always, her hands guiding your movements as she devoured you.

“Paige,” you moaned out, your voice breathy. “Shit, that feels so good.”

Her grip on your thighs tightened, her fingers practically digging into your skin as she increased the intensity of the way her mouth moved. She mumbled something incoherent as you bucked against her slightly, lost in the feeling as you threw your head back.

The sensations were formidable, a mix of pleasure and intimacy that made your head spin. You could feel every flick and swirl of her tongue, every gentle bite and suck that sent waves of ecstasy through your body. Your breaths came in shallow pants, your moans filling the car.

Paige pulled back slightly, her breath warm against your skin as she murmured, “I wanna hear you say it.”

You shivered at the command, your mind clouded with pleasure and need. “Say what?” you managed to gasp, your voice trembling as you looked down at her, your legs on either side of her face. What a sight.

“I wanna hear you say you love me,” she said, her eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race even faster than it had been.

You said it without having to think about it. “I love you, Paige, shit.” you whispered, your voice filled with emotion as she unexpectedly plunged into you. “So much.” A satisfied smile played on her lips against your throbbing cunt as she resumed her actions. The pleasure intensified as if your words had given her a new determination, each maneuver driving you closer to the edge.

Your body responded to her words and actions, the heat building between you both becoming almost unbearable. You rocked your hips in sync with her movements, your breaths coming in ragged gasps, your moans growing louder. “Paige, I’m so close,” you panted, squeezing your eyes shut so you could off a little longer.

“Look at me,” she demanded. Your eyes shot open, mouth falling open wider. “Let go for me, baby,” she encouraged, and that was all you needed. “Wanna feel you.”

With a cry, you finally let go, the orgasm washing over you in waves that left you breathless and shaking. Paige didn’t stop, her tongue continuing to tease and caress you through the aftershocks until you were too sensitive to take any more. You collapsed forward, your hands braced on the back of the seat as you tried to catch your breath. Paige gently guided you back to straddle her lap, her lips pressing soft kisses to your skin as you came down from your high, your head resting perfectly in the crook of her neck.

After pecking every inch of your face, she leaned in for one on your mouth before you mustered the strength to push her lips away, giggling. “Ew, no!” you exclaimed.

Paige laughed along with you. “I’ll take it then,” she shrugged, licking her lips and swarming her mouth with her tongue dramatically. After the banter, you gently rested your hand on Paige’s chest as you both reveled in the moment. The fogged up windows had came in clutch so no one could see the aftermath of it all, but you pondered on the thought of anyone actually seeing the two of you in action.

“I love you too, by the way,” Paige mumbled. You looked up at her, smiling.

“Yeah, you better.”

#paige bueckers headcannons #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers fanfiction #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #lgbtq #lesbian #uconn women’s basketball #bueckers’ works 🍒

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dark-moonlust · 2 months ago

Note

A 2 male tiger and f!reader threesom. Anytime if you want. I can wait.

Den of Surrender PART 1

Pairing: 2 (were)tigers x female reader Summary: You find shelter in a cave and become the center of attention for two male tiger monsters. Warnings: nsfw, fated mates, 2 on 1, heavy oral, fingering and retracting claws, blissful orgasms, they worship reader, lots of 💦.

Anon thanks for your request. I hope you like this! If you want a part 2 please let me know!

To all my friends here, I know I am very behind on requests. I’m so sorry! My inbox is full of delicious ideas, but the past months have been hazy and difficult. I have work, family issues, and Patreon taking up my time, but I promise I will catch up and post more requests. My progress might be slow but stay with me. 🥺🩷 Love and hugs to all my moonlust friends. Enjoy the oneshot! The attention is heavy and delicious on the reader. Filled with attention, steamy oral and orgasms.

The cave was warm, the air thick with the scent of heat and deep musk. You felt strange being there. You’d trekked for so long and that was the only sanctuary you’d found. The rain was feral outside. You had no choice but to venture deeper and hope for the best. Firelight from the wall torches flickered across the stone, casting shifting shadows until two huge figures lurked in the dark.

You backed up a step, breath caught in your throat.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going, little mate?” one of them drawled.

And then you saw them. They resembled nothing human. Tall and big. Walking slowly and predatorily.

“Wh— who are you?”

The other figure chuckled. “The correct question is ‘what are we?’. I’m Raikhar.”

You gulped as he left the shadows and appeared. He was tall, broad, his stripes deep and jagged. Eyes like twin amber suns stared at you. He stood on two legs like a human, but you knew he was anything but.He was lethal. Tiger. A weretiger. His fur was thick, rougher around the neck like a mane, claws extending from his paws.

Then the other form approached, and you gasped.

“I am Vael, little one,” he said, his voice throaty as he revealed himself. He was just as big, all sinewy muscle wrapped in black-and-orange fur and those emerald green eyes? They spoke of want and hunger. His tail flicked menacingly, pearly fangs protruding from his mouth.

The two of them closed in on you, but you had nowhere to go. No place to escape. But your heart wasn’t afraid. Then Raikhar was there, erasing your thoughts. He crouched low, golden eyes fixed on you while Vael circled behind, their bodies of muscle and heat surrounding you.

A shiver ran through you when Vael purred over your ear, and damn, his breath was hot and smelled like spice and smoke, making your nether regions quiver. His claws trailed lightly along your sides, thankfully not enough to cut your clothes or harm you.

“You came here for a reason. You were fated to find us. And you are already aroused.”

You shook your head strongly. “No. I’m not—”

Words failed you when Raikhar curled in, his chest to your chest, his massive paw cupping your jaw, tender and careful despite the claws. “Don’t fear. Don’t run. You were made for us.”

“We can’t fit,” you mumbled, even if your whole body was electrified by them. What was this insane attraction? You wanted them but it was not possible. You and them. Preposterous. Mad. Impossible. Right?

“Yes, we can. And we will prove it.”

And then they were on you.

Raikhar’s tongue slipped out, parting your half-οpen lips and claiming your mouth. You gasped. It was wet, hοt, commanding and claiming. Vael pressed in from behind, his chest to your back, his teeth grazing your neck. Their bodies caged you in, heat and fur, raw male power overwhelming until your knees buckled.

Paws—god, their rough paws gripped under your knees, lifting you like you weighed nothing and settling you between them. Suspended in the air, with only their bodies keeping you steady. Somehow, you felt no fear… just security and yearning.

Your attention shifted when Raikhar’s claws tοre your shirt and bra, slicing them open, his wet tοngue licking one pert nipple. You whimpered when his huge hands cupped your tits, feeling them up as his tοngue tasted your other nipple. He gave bοth mοunds his full attention, lubricating them with his saliva. It looked so hοt.

Vael was busy too. He slipped dοwn your pants and thοng in one move, οpening your legs wide and pοsitioning you to sit wide open for them. His fingers dipped between your fοlds, and with a surprised whine you noticed that he had retracted his claws and was playing with your pυssy. Blunt paws that were calloused but tender, flicking with no shame. Rubbing your fοlds and toying with your clit, wet squelches echoing in your ears.

“Feel her, Raikhar,” Vael grunted. “Our mate is so soft and wet for us.”

Your head fell back on Vael’s shoulder as his hand palmed your breast, rough and firm, while the other spread your fοlds wider for Raikhar.

“So fucking wet for your mates already,” Raikhar growled, his clawless fingers working your cυnt, slick dripping down your thighs as your hips jerked in their grip. “You feel that, little one? That needy little pυssy is begging to be lοved. Played with. Suckled and kissed.”

Vael purred his agreement. “Feels good, hm? Being worshiped by your mates? But that’s just the beginning. Do you want more, mate?”

You licked your lips, your pυssy on fire. “Feels so damn good. Hmm… more. Yes. Please.”

You cried out when Raikhar slipped a thick finger inside, stretching your walls and curling it just right, his hairy paw grinding against your clit. The friction was perfect and so damn loud. Squelch, squelch, it echoed, your legs trembling as he forced you to feel everything. Your walls clenched, fluttering wildly, and your breath came in ragged gasps, chest heaving.

“You feel that, little one?” Vael snarled from behind, grinding what you guessed was a very hot and huge shaft against your butt crack. “Your body knows. Your cunt knows.”

They kept your legs curled and open, stars dancing behind your eyes when Vael added his finger inside you, both monster digits driving inside you, faster, harder, wet sounds and growls driving you over the edge. You came hard and sobbed when they pushed you on your stomach on the stone floor, taking turns licking up your juices. They held your asscheeks οpen, all of you expοsed as their tοngues dipped down, lapping up your arοusal like it was nectar they’d been starved for.

You screamed. Pushed. Tried to get away.

But they kept you there. Head down, ass up as they devοured you, slurping messily, panting hotly against your fοlds. You writhed, trapped, helpless, every nerve begging and aching. You οrgasmed two more times while they whispered filth into the air, praising and feasting on you.

Screams of bliss echοed through the cave as pleasure surged thrοugh you like a gοddamn tidal wave, pυssy clenching around nothing, belly quivering, body boneless and yet, they didn’t fυcking stop. Vael licked you through your climax, savοring your taste with deep, wet slurps, while Raikhar kissed the slick trickling down your thighs.

“Please…” you panted, tears of ecstasy brimming in your eyes.

“Again,” Vael whispered against your pussy lips.

“We’re not done, little mate,” Railhar assured you. “We’re just beginning.”

——————————

Did you enjoy? Reblog your reaction! Think those sexy tigers are starving for more? Maybe they’ll give reader more pleasure and claim her once and for all? Would you like a part 2?

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mrs-delaney · 1 month ago

Text

Behind The Lens | Part Three

Part One

Part Two

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.

Pairing: Joe Burrow x Reader

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: Life-changing job offers, confrontations in edit bays, the specific discomfort of everyone finding out you might leave, career crossroads, that painful moment when he finally says what you've been waiting to hear at the exact wrong time, first kisses that are years overdue, heartbreaking honesty, the anxiety of deciding between your heart and your career, feelings that can't be compartmentalized no matter how hard you try, and the terrifying vulnerability of finally admitting what you want.

Taglist: @honeydippedfiction

A Few Quick Notes:

📌 This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it’s been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

📌 Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me!

📌 Requests: Open for now, but it may take a minute to get to them, I’ve got several in the inbox.

September 2025 - Regular Season Begins

Game day energy pulsed through the stadium as Y/N directed her social media team from the sidelines. The season opener against Pittsburgh had sold out months ago, the stands now a sea of orange and black as fans welcomed football back to Cincinnati.

"Pregame is live across all platforms," Marcus confirmed, tablet in hand. "Fan engagement numbers already up 25% from last year's opener."

Y/N nodded, scanning the field where players warmed up. "Good. Make sure we're capturing rookie reactions, especially Thompson's first NFL experience. Fans love that 'kid on Christmas morning' energy."

She moved efficiently along the sideline, camera in hand, document key moments herself while overseeing her team's coverage. After five seasons with the Bengals, Y/N had developed an instinct for the visuals and stories that would resonate with fans, the quiet pregame rituals, the focused preparation, the camaraderie within position groups.

From across the field, she spotted Joe going through his warmup routine, methodical and focused as always. He looked good—confident, sharp, ready for the season ahead. Y/N captured a few frames, professional eye recognizing the compelling visuals, before moving on to other players and moments.

The buffer system she'd implemented in January had evolved into something more sustainable by September, a professional approach that allowed her to do her job effectively without the emotional complications that had once made working with Joe so difficult. She still managed overall content strategy, still oversaw quarterback coverage, but delegated the direct, one-on-one work to her team whenever possible.

"Five minutes to national anthem," Sam's voice came through her earpiece. "Coaches want pregame huddle coverage."

"On it," Y/N confirmed, positioning herself for the shot as players gathered around Coach Taylor.

The game unfolded with the intensity typical of a Bengals-Steelers matchup, hard hits, defensive struggles, momentum shifts. Y/N documented it all, capturing both the game action and sideline reactions, directing her team to focus on storytelling moments rather than just plays.

When Joe threw a perfect 40-yard touchdown to Higgins in the third quarter, breaking open what had been a tight defensive battle, Y/N captured his celebration—the controlled fist pump, the quick acknowledgments to teammates, the immediate refocus on the next series. She knew his patterns so well, could anticipate his movements even from across the field.

"That's the money shot," Marcus said, reviewing her footage of the touchdown celebration. "Lead with that for the halftime content push."

Y/N nodded, already moving toward the tunnel to prepare for halftime coverage. As she approached, Joe jogged past on his way to the locker room, helmet in hand. Their eyes met briefly, a moment of recognition amid the chaos. He gave her a small nod, which she returned professionally before continuing on her way.

That was their rhythm now, professional acknowledgment without lingering. Mutual respect without the complications of before. It worked. It had to.

The Bengals won 24-17, a solid start to the season that sent fans home happy and created plenty of positive content for Y/N's team to amplify. After the game, she coordinated postgame interview coverages, finalized social media highlights, and directed the content wrap-up from the media room as players showered and changed.

"That's a wrap," she announced to her team as the final content pieces were scheduled. "Great work everyone. Clean execution across all platforms."

As staff packed up equipment and prepared to leave, Y/N checked final statistics and planned the morning follow-up content. She was focused on her tablet when a voice spoke from the doorway.

"Successful opener."

She looked up to find Brian Reynolds, Director of Communications for the New York Giants, standing just inside the media room. His presence was so unexpected that Y/N momentarily struggled to place him, though they'd met at league events before.

"Brian," she said, professional smile quickly in place. "Didn't expect to see you in Cincinnati."

"In town for meetings with sponsors," he explained, stepping further into the room. "Thought I'd catch the game while I was here. You mind if I shut the door? Wanted to talk to you about something."

Y/N nodded, curious about this unusual visit. Brian closed the door and took a seat across from her, his expression thoughtful.

"I'll be direct," he said. "I've been following your work with the Bengals for several years now. The content strategy you've developed, particularly around Burrow's injuries and comebacks, has been exceptional. Authentic storytelling that connects with fans without exploiting vulnerable moments."

"Thank you," Y/N replied, genuinely pleased by the professional recognition. "That's exactly what we aim for."

"The Giants are looking to completely overhaul our digital content approach," Brian continued. "Our ownership wants a more cohesive strategy across platforms, something that builds deeper fan connections beyond just game highlights and press conferences."

Y/N listened with increasing interest as Brian outlined the Giants' vision, mentally noting the similarities and differences to her work with the Bengals.

"So," he concluded, "we're creating a new position: Vice President of Content Strategy and Fan Engagement. Full creative control, substantial budget increase, direct report to ownership." He met her eyes directly. "We'd like you to consider it."

The offer hung in the air between them, unexpected and substantial. Y/N maintained her professional composure while her mind raced through implications.

"That's... quite an opportunity," she said carefully. "I'm flattered you thought of me."

"You were our first choice," Brian said simply. "Your work speaks for itself. The way you've positioned the Bengals' digital presence, particularly through challenging seasons and player setbacks, shows exactly the kind of storytelling vision we're looking for."

"I appreciate that," Y/N replied. "I would need to know more details, of course."

"Of course," Brian agreed, retrieving a business card from his jacket. "My contact information. If you're interested in discussing further, we can arrange a more formal conversation. Compensation would be substantially above your current position, and we'd provide relocation assistance to New York."

Y/N accepted the card, her thoughts still processing this unexpected development. "This is a lot to consider. I've been with the Bengals my entire NFL career."

"I understand," Brian nodded. "Take some time. But we're moving quickly on this position. We'd like to have someone in place before the holiday season, to prepare for playoff push and draft strategy."

After Brian left, Y/N sat alone in the media room, turning his business card over in her fingers. The opportunity was substantial—higher position, creative control, major market, significant salary increase. A chance to build something new rather than maintain what she'd already established.

It was also, she had to acknowledge, a chance to start fresh. Away from Cincinnati. Away from Joe Burrow and the complex emotions that still lingered despite her best efforts to move forward.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Celebration drinks at Sundry and Vice? Team's heading over.

Y/N stared at the message, Brian's card still in her hand.

Y/N: Running late, finishing some things. Save me a seat.

She tucked the card into her wallet and gathered her things, mind still turning over this unexpected opportunity. She hadn't been looking to leave Cincinnati. Hadn't considered building her career elsewhere. But now that the option existed, she couldn't deny the appeal of a fresh start.

As she walked through the quiet facility, Y/N passed the players' parking area. Joe was just leaving, dressed in his postgame suit, phone to his ear. They spotted each other simultaneously, the empty hallway suddenly charged with awareness.

Joe ended his call quickly. "Heading out?"

"Yeah," Y/N replied. "Just finished content wrap-up."

"Good game coverage," he said, that hint of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Saw the touchdown sequence. Perfect timing on the sideline reaction."

"Thanks," Y/N said, unexpectedly touched that he'd noticed her work specifically. "Clean game from the offense. Especially that third quarter drive."

Joe nodded, seeming to want to continue the conversation but unsure how. "Team celebrating?"

"Meeting them now," Y/N confirmed. "Sundry and Vice, I think."

"Tell everyone good work," Joe said, then added with slight hesitation, "Your boundary system's working well."

The observation caught her off guard, so directly acknowledging what had developed between them. "It seems to be," she agreed carefully.

"I don't like it," he said quietly, "but I respect it."

Before she could respond, his phone rang again. He glanced at it, then back at her. "Should take this. Have a good night, Y/N."

"You too, Joe."

As she walked to her car, Y/N felt a strange lightness. Their brief exchange had been the most natural in months, acknowledgment of their new dynamic without tension or avoidance. Progress, perhaps. Or just the passage of enough time to dull the sharper edges of what had once felt so raw.

She thought of Brian Reynolds' card in her wallet. Of New York City and new beginnings. Of building a career beyond the shadow of complicated feelings for Joe Burrow.

For the first time, leaving Cincinnati felt like a genuine possibility. Not an escape, but a step forward. And that realization was both terrifying and exhilarating.

* * *

Late September 2025 - Exploring Options

The Giants moved quickly after Brian's initial approach. What began as exploratory conversations rapidly evolved into formal interviews, detailed position discussions, and increasingly attractive offers.

Y/N conducted these conversations discreetly, scheduling video calls during off-hours, using empty conference rooms when the facility was quiet, carefully protecting her exploration from becoming facility gossip. Only Sam knew the full extent of her discussions with New York, serving as both sounding board and reality check as Y/N weighed the opportunity.

"They've increased the salary offer again," Y/N said, showing Sam the email during a rare lunch away from the facility. "And added a signing bonus."

Sam whistled softly. "They really want you. Question is, do you want them?"

Y/N stared into her coffee. "The professional opportunity is undeniable. VP title, creative control, major market. It's the kind of role people work decades to reach."

"But?"

"But Cincinnati is home now," Y/N admitted. "Five years of building relationships, understanding this team's culture, creating something meaningful here."

Sam studied her friend carefully. "And is that the only reason you're hesitating?"

Y/N knew what Sam was asking. She sighed, turning her coffee cup slowly. "I'd be lying if I said Joe wasn't a factor. Not in the way you think, though."

"Explain."

"I've finally reached a place where I can work with him professionally without my feelings complicating everything. Where I can appreciate his talent and leadership without that constant ache." Y/N met her friend's gaze directly. "I fought hard for that balance. Part of me wonders if leaving is running away, not moving forward."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested gently, "it's recognizing that you've done the work here, and now it's time for new challenges. Professionally and personally."

Y/N nodded slowly. "The Giants want me to visit New York next month. See the facilities, meet with ownership. Final step before a formal offer."

"And will you go?"

"I think I have to," Y/N replied. "Even if just to know what else is possible."

* * *

The next week passed in a blur of regular season content production, Giants follow-up calls, and careful navigation of Y/N's increasingly complicated professional situation. She maintained her focus on Bengals work, refusing to let her potential departure affect current performance.

The Wednesday morning content meeting found her reviewing game footage with her team, outlining social strategies for the upcoming Ravens matchup. She was deep in discussion about third-down conversion graphics when she noticed her team's attention shift to something behind her.

Y/N turned to find Kayla in the doorway, expression unusually serious.

"Can I see you in my office?" she asked.

The walk to Kayla's office felt longer than usual, Y/N's mind racing through possibilities. Had someone discovered her Giants conversations? Was there an issue with recent content performance?

Kayla closed the door behind them and gestured for Y/N to sit. "So," she began without preamble, "the New York Giants."

Y/N maintained her composure despite the internal jolt of surprise. "You've heard."

"Brian Reynolds and I have known each other for fifteen years," Kayla said simply. "He had the professional courtesy to let me know they were pursuing you seriously. Not the details, just the fact."

"I was going to talk to you," Y/N said quickly. "Once things became more concrete. I'm still exploring options."

Kayla nodded, her expression softening slightly. "I'm not upset that you're exploring opportunities, Y/N. That's normal career development. I am concerned that you didn't feel you could discuss this with me directly."

Y/N exhaled slowly. "It's happened very quickly. And honestly, I'm still processing what I want."

"Fair enough," Kayla said. "So let me be direct: what would it take to keep you in Cincinnati?"

The question caught Y/N off guard. She had been preparing to explain her reasons for considering departure, not negotiate her reasons to stay.

"It's not about compensation," she began carefully. "The Bengals have been very fair."

"But the Giants are offering substantially more," Kayla finished for her. "Along with a VP title and greater creative control."

"Yes."

Kayla leaned forward. "We value your contributions here, Y/N. You've built something special with our content strategy, particularly around player narratives. Before I take this to ownership, I need to know if there's a package that would convince you to stay."

Y/N considered the question carefully. "It's not just about title or compensation, though those are factors. It's about growth potential. The Giants are offering creative control I don't currently have."

"And if we matched that?" Kayla asked. "Director of Content Strategy. Final approval on all external storytelling. Budget oversight."

The offer was substantial—more than Y/N had expected. "I'd need to think about it," she said honestly. "This isn't just a leverage play for me. I'm genuinely weighing options."

"I understand," Kayla said, leaning back in her chair. "Take the time you need. But know that we want to keep you here. You've become an essential part of this organization's voice."

Y/N nodded, appreciating the straightforward conversation. "Thank you. I promise I'll be transparent about my decision process."

"That's all I ask," Kayla said. "And Y/N? Let's keep this between us for now. No need to create unnecessary speculation around the facility."

"Of course," Y/N agreed, though she wondered how long such significant career discussions could remain contained.

* * *

Joe found out two days later.

Y/N was reviewing game highlights in an editing bay when Joe appeared in the doorway, his expression unreadable.

"Got a minute?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.

"Sure," Y/N replied, saving her work before giving him her full attention. Their interactions had become easier over the past few months—professional, occasionally even friendly, but with clear boundaries that neither pushed against.

Joe closed the door behind him, an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

"The Giants?" he asked without preamble.

Y/N kept her expression composed despite her surprise. "How did you hear about that?"

"Does it matter?" He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Were you going to mention it?"

"Once I made a decision," Y/N said carefully. "It's still exploratory at this point."

"Exploratory," Joe repeated, studying her face. "VP of Content Strategy doesn't sound exploratory. Sounds like they're serious."

"They are," Y/N acknowledged, seeing no point in downplaying the opportunity. "And I'm seriously considering it."

Joe was quiet for a moment, his gaze direct in a way it hadn't been in months. "Is this about the buffer system? About creating distance?"

The question caught her off guard with its directness. "No," she said firmly. "This is about my career. A significant opportunity in a major market."

"So it has nothing to do with getting away from a complicated working relationship?" The challenge in his voice was subtle but unmistakable.

Y/N felt a flicker of irritation. "My professional decisions aren't about you, Joe. They're about what's best for my career."

Something shifted in his expression—perhaps surprise at her directness, or recognition of the independence it represented.

"Fair enough," he said after a moment. "But five years building something here, and you'd walk away for a title and a bigger market?"

"It's more than that," Y/N replied, keeping her voice even. "It's about creative control. Building something new rather than maintaining what already exists."

Joe studied her, that perceptive gaze seeing more than she sometimes wished he could. "And there's nothing keeping you here? Nothing worth staying for?"

The question hung between them, loaded with implications neither had acknowledged directly. Y/N maintained her composure, refusing to read more into his words than was actually there.

"I've built a life here," she said carefully. "Relationships that matter. But career opportunities like this don't come along often."

Joe nodded slowly, processing her response. "When will you decide?"

"After I visit New York next month," Y/N explained. "Meet with ownership, see the facilities, get a better sense of what I'd be walking into."

"And if you go," he asked, his voice dropping slightly, "who handles the content strategy here? Who maintains what you've built?"

The question felt both professional and personal, his concern extending beyond workflow logistics.

"That would be Kayla's decision," Y/N replied. "But I'd ensure a smooth transition. I wouldn't leave things in disarray."

Joe pushed off from the wall, his expression settling into something more resolved. "Well, I hope you don't go. But if you do, I get it."

The simple statement, neither manipulative nor dismissive, caught Y/N by surprise. Before she could respond, he continued.

"You've earned the right to choose what's next. After five years of building other people's stories, maybe it's time to build your own."

With that, he turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "Just do me a favor? Let me know before I hear it from someone else."

After he left, Y/N sat motionless, processing their conversation. Joe's reaction had been unexpected—not anger or indifference, but a complex mix of disappointment and understanding. And beneath it all, a question she couldn't fully answer: was there anything keeping her in Cincinnati beyond professional opportunity?

The answer, she knew, was both simpler and more complicated than she wanted to admit.

* * *

Word spread quickly after that, despite Kayla's desire for discretion. By the following week, Y/N noticed the shifts in how people interacted with her—the careful questions about New York, the subtle inquiries about her timeline, the occasional comments about loyalty and opportunity.

She maintained her professional focus, refusing to indulge speculation or make promises she couldn't keep. The Giants continued their pursuit, scheduling her visit for mid-October and sending increasingly detailed information about their vision for the role.

"They've sent the official visit itinerary," Y/N told Sam over drinks after work. "Two days in New York, meetings with ownership, tours of their facilities, dinner with the executive team."

"Sounds like they're rolling out the red carpet," Sam observed, studying the email on Y/N's phone. "When do you leave?"

"Next Thursday," Y/N confirmed. "Back Friday night."

Sam took a sip of her wine. "And how are you feeling about it?"

Y/N considered the question carefully. "Excited. Nervous. Torn. All the things you'd expect when contemplating a major life change."

"And have you told..."

"Joe knows," Y/N confirmed, anticipating her friend's question. "He asked for a heads-up before I make any final decisions."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "That's interesting. Any particular reason why he cares so much?"

"Professional courtesy," Y/N replied automatically, then sighed at Sam's skeptical expression. "And whatever complicated history exists between us. But it doesn't change anything. This decision has to be about my career, not about Joe Burrow."

"Agreed," Sam said, refilling their glasses. "But it's interesting that he sought you out specifically to discuss it. That's not typical quarterback behavior for a staff member's potential departure."

Y/N changed the subject, unwilling to examine the implications too closely. Her relationship with Joe had finally reached a stable, professional place. Overthinking his reaction to her potential departure would only complicate things unnecessarily.

Besides, she reminded herself, Joe had Ellie. Whatever his concerns about Y/N leaving, they were professional, not personal. The sooner she accepted that reality, the clearer her decision-making process would become.

* * *

October 2025 - Decision Point

The days before Y/N's New York visit passed in a blur of preparations, both professional and personal. She carefully organized ongoing projects for her team to handle in her absence, created detailed status reports for Kayla, and prepared a portfolio highlighting her most significant content innovations with the Bengals.

At home, she researched New York neighborhoods, cost of living adjustments, and potential apartment options, trying to imagine herself in this new environment. After five years in Cincinnati, the prospect of starting over in a city like New York was both exhilarating and daunting.

The morning of her departure, Y/N arrived early at the facility to tie up loose ends before heading to the airport. The building was quiet, most staff not yet arrived for the day. She was reviewing final notes in her office when a knock came at her door.

Joe stood there, practice gear already on, a coffee cup in his hand. His early-morning training sessions were legendary, often beginning hours before other players arrived.

"Heading out today?" he asked, his tone casual though his eyes were serious.

"Flight's at 11," Y/N confirmed, surprised by his appearance at her office.

Joe nodded, considering something before speaking again. "New York's a big move."

"It would be," she agreed, unsure where he was going with this observation.

He seemed to weigh his words carefully. "The Giants are getting a lot of buzz this season. New coaching staff, strong draft picks. Good time to join their organization."

"That's part of the appeal," Y/N acknowledged. "Building something during a period of transition and growth."

Joe nodded again, his expression thoughtful. "Well, good luck with the meetings. Hope they show you the real picture, not just the recruiting highlight reel."

"Thanks," Y/N said, touched by his concern despite her determination to maintain professional boundaries. "I plan to ask tough questions."

"You always do," he replied with the hint of a smile. "It's what makes your content authentic."

He turned to leave, then paused. "When do you get back?"

"Tomorrow night," Y/N told him. "Late flight after the final meetings."

"Would you..." he hesitated, then committed. "Would you let me know how it goes? After you've processed it."

The request was simple, yet loaded with implications neither of them had directly addressed. Y/N found herself nodding despite her reservations.

"I will."

After he left, Y/N sat quietly, processing the brief interaction. Joe rarely sought her out for non-content conversations these days, both of them careful to maintain the professional distance established after the charity gala confrontation. Yet here he was, checking in before her Giants visit, expressing interest in her experience there.

She pushed the analysis aside, focusing instead on final preparations for her trip. Joe's interest was likely professional courtesy, nothing more. And regardless of his motives, her decision would be based on career opportunity, not complicated feelings for someone who had chosen someone else.

* * *

New York exceeded expectations. From the moment Y/N landed at LaGuardia, the Giants organization treated her with the consideration reserved for high-priority recruits—private car service, luxury hotel accommodations, meticulously planned itinerary that balanced professional substance with city experiences.

The facilities tour impressed her with both technology and vision. The executive meetings revealed an ownership group genuinely committed to transforming their content approach. The creative team openly acknowledged the need for new leadership and direction.

"We've seen what you built in Cincinnati," the Chief Marketing Officer told her during one session. "The player narratives, the community connections, the authentic voice. We want that here, but adapted for the New York market and culture."

By the end of the first day, Y/N found herself genuinely excited about the possibilities. Over dinner with the executive team, conversation flowed from content strategy to market differentiation to personal experiences, revealing a group of leaders she could envision working alongside.

In her hotel room that night, she called Sam for a reality check.

"They're saying all the right things," Y/N admitted. "Creative control, budget authority, seat at the executive table. It's everything I've worked toward professionally."

"And the city?" Sam asked. "Could you see yourself living there?"

Y/N glanced out her hotel window at the Manhattan skyline, lights twinkling against the night sky. "It's overwhelming but exciting. Different energy than Cincinnati, but not in a bad way."

"You sound like you're leaning toward yes," Sam observed.

"I think I am," Y/N admitted. "There's just..."

"Joe," Sam finished for her.

Y/N sighed, unable to deny it any longer. "Four years, Sam. Four years of loving someone who chose someone else. Twice." She stared out at the city lights. "Part of me wonders if I'll ever fully move on if I stay in Cincinnati. If I'll always be the woman who fell in love with Joe Burrow and couldn't let go."

"Or maybe," Sam suggested carefully, "it's about finally writing the ending yourself, instead of waiting for him to determine it. About choosing your own happiness instead of orbiting his."

The observation lingered with Y/N long after they hung up. Perhaps that was exactly what this opportunity represented, the chance to define her own story rather than remaining a secondary character in Joe Burrow's narrative.

The second day of meetings focused on specifics, compensation package, relocation assistance, start date discussions, transition planning. By the time Y/N boarded her flight back to Cincinnati that evening, she had a formal offer in hand, one even more substantial than initially discussed.

Two weeks to decide. Two weeks to choose between the familiar foundation she'd built in Cincinnati and an exciting but uncertain future in New York.

As the plane descended toward Cincinnati, Y/N gazed out at the city she'd called home for five years. The place where she'd built her career, established meaningful relationships, and yes—fallen in love with someone who didn't, couldn't, or wouldn't love her back.

Would leaving feel like escape or evolution? Running from complications or running toward opportunities?

* * *

The leadership meeting was supposed to be routine, winter content planning, playoff contingencies, draft strategy preliminary discussion. Y/N attended with her usual professional focus, presenting social media performance metrics and engagement strategies for the coming months.

She was wrapping up her presentation when someone asked about content leadership continuity through the winter.

"That's a fair question," Kayla acknowledged. "As some of you may have heard, Y/N is considering an opportunity with another organization. We're in discussions about retention, but we also need contingency planning in case she accepts this new role."

The room went quiet, all eyes shifting to Y/N. She maintained her composure, though the public acknowledgment of her potential departure felt unexpectedly exposing.

"Nothing's been decided yet," she said calmly. "I'm weighing options carefully, and regardless of my decision, I'm committed to ensuring a smooth transition if that becomes necessary."

The meeting continued, but Y/N could feel the shift in energy, the sidelong glances, the subtle reactions to this now-public development. Most surprising was Joe's expression from across the table: not shock or confusion, but a kind of contained intensity she hadn't seen from him in months.

As the meeting concluded, Y/N gathered her materials quickly, hoping to avoid uncomfortable conversations. She had nearly reached the door when Joe's voice stopped her.

"So that's it?" he asked, loud enough for those still in the room to hear. "Everyone just finds out in a meeting that you might be gone next month?"

Y/N turned slowly, aware of the remaining staff watching this exchange with barely concealed interest. "This isn't the place, Joe."

"When is the place?" he pressed, an edge to his voice she rarely heard. "After you've already accepted? After you're already gone?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Y/N replied evenly, conscious of their audience. "And this is a professional matter I'm handling appropriately."

Joe took a step closer, frustration evident in his posture. "Is it? 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, her own frustration rising. "With Kayla, with the content team. My career decisions don't require facility-wide consultation."

"So we just lose the person who's built our entire content strategy for five years, and that's supposed to be fine?" The challenge in Joe's voice was unmistakable now, his usual composed demeanor slipping.

Y/N felt her professional mask wavering in the face of his unexpected confrontation. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, the question escaping before she could contain it. "Why does this matter to you specifically?"

The question hung in the air between them, more pointed than she'd intended, more revealing than was professionally prudent. Joe stared at her, clearly caught between authentic response and awareness of their still-present audience.

"Because some things should matter more than titles and market size," he said finally. "Some connections are worth more than whatever the Giants are offering."

The implication in his words, connections, not just professional value, sent a jolt through Y/N's carefully maintained composure. Before she could respond, Kayla stepped forward, intervening with practiced diplomacy.

"Let's table this discussion," she suggested firmly. "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, something unresolved burning in his expression, before turning and walking out without another word.

The room emptied quickly after that, staff dispersing with the awkward energy that follows public tension. Y/N remained frozen in place, processing what had just happened. Joe had never confronted her so directly, so publicly, about anything—let alone her career choices.

"Well," Sam said, appearing beside her as the room cleared, "that wasn't subtle."

Y/N exhaled slowly, her heart still racing from the unexpected confrontation. "What was he thinking? That was completely unprofessional."

"It was," Sam agreed, "and also completely revealing."

"Of what?"

Sam gave her a look that suggested the answer should be obvious. "Of the fact that your potential departure matters to him. A lot. More than it probably should to a quarterback discussing a staff member."

Y/N shook her head, unwilling to read too much into Joe's uncharacteristic outburst. "He values continuity. Consistency. That's all."

"Sure," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he publicly challenged you in front of leadership. Because of workflow continuity."

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with a text. She glanced down to see Joe's name on the screen:

Joe: I'm sorry. That was out of line. Can we talk? For real this time.

Y/N stared at the message, unsure how to respond. Their coffee shop conversation had already pushed against carefully established boundaries. Another private discussion, especially after his public display of emotion, felt dangerous in ways she couldn't quite articulate.

Y/N: Not a good time. Need to focus on work.

His response came immediately:

Joe: I understand. But we need to talk before you decide. Please.

The request simple yet loaded with implication lingered on her screen. Y/N tucked her phone away without responding, unwilling to commit to a conversation that might only complicate her already difficult decision.

"What did he say?" Sam asked, noting her friend's expression.

"He wants to talk," Y/N replied. "Before I decide about New York."

"And will you?"

Y/N gathered her materials, mind already spinning with potential scenarios and complications. "I don't know. Probably not the smartest move professionally."

"And personally?" Sam pressed gently.

To that, Y/N had no answer at all

* * *

Late October 2025 - The Breaking Point

For three days, Y/N successfully avoided being alone with Joe. She scheduled meetings during times he'd be in practice, worked remotely when possible, and managed to slip away whenever he appeared in common areas. The facility had become a tactical battlefield, with Y/N constantly aware of Joe's location as she navigated around him.

Sam watched this strategic avoidance with growing concern. "You realize you can't keep this up until you decide about New York, right?" she asked as they reviewed content in the edit bay. "The facility isn't that big."

"I don't need to avoid him forever," Y/N replied, eyes on the footage they were reviewing. "Just until I've made my decision without additional complications."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "And his feelings aren't already a complication?"

"His feelings?" Y/N looked up, expression carefully neutral. "He's concerned about maintaining content continuity. It's professional."

"Right," Sam said skeptically. "That's why he confronted you publicly in the middle of a leadership meeting. Because of content continuity."

Y/N didn't respond, returning her attention to the screen. The truth was, she didn't know what to make of Joe's uncharacteristic outburst or his persistent attempts to speak with her privately. And she wasn't sure she wanted to find out not when she was so close to making a decision that could finally free her from the gravitational pull she'd been fighting for years.

Late that afternoon, as the facility emptied for the day, Y/N remained in her office, reviewing the latest correspondence from the Giants. Their offer was extraordinary, substantially higher salary, creative control, direct reporting line to ownership, the prestige of a New York market. The kind of opportunity that came along once in a career, if ever.

Yet something kept her from immediate acceptance. She'd built something meaningful in Cincinnati, had relationships and understanding that couldn't be replicated overnight. And then there was Joe, complicated, frustrating, impossible to fully leave behind.

A knock at her door interrupted these thoughts. Y/N looked up to find Joe standing in the doorway, practice clothes replaced by casual street wear, his expression resolved.

"Got a minute?" he asked, though his tone suggested this wasn't really a question.

Y/N considered deflecting, mentioning a deadline, pleading exhaustion, finding some reason to escape. But the determination in his stance told her he wasn't easily dissuaded this time.

"About content strategy?" she asked, knowing full well it wasn't.

"You could call it that," Joe replied, stepping inside and closing the door behind him—an unusual move that immediately put Y/N on alert.

She straightened in her chair, maintaining her professional composure. "What's on your mind?"

Joe remained standing, hands in his pockets, a tension in his shoulders that Y/N had rarely seen outside of game situations.

"I'll get straight to the point," he said after a moment. "I broke up with Ellie."

The statement hung in the air between them, simple but loaded with implication. Y/N kept her expression carefully neutral, though her heartbeat quickened against her will.

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said, her voice measured and professional. "But I don't see how that's relevant to content strategy."

A flicker of frustration crossed Joe's features. "It's not. But it is relevant to you potentially leaving for New York."

"How so?" Y/N asked, a defensive edge creeping into her voice despite her efforts to maintain distance.

Joe took a step closer to her desk. "Because it changes things between us."

"There is no 'us,' Joe," Y/N responded, the words coming out more sharply than she'd intended. "There never was."

"That's not true and you know it," he countered, his own composure showing cracks. "We've always been more than just colleagues."

Y/N felt a sudden surge of anger, at his timing, at his presumption, at the years she'd spent carefully containing feelings he now seemed to be acknowledging far too late.

"Friends, then," she amended, pushing back from her desk to stand. "But that doesn't give you any say in my career decisions."

"I'm not claiming it does," Joe said, frustration evident in his voice. "I'm just asking you to consider everything before you leave."

"Consider what, exactly?" Y/N asked, her carefully maintained professional mask beginning to slip. "That you're suddenly single again? That after five years, after I'm finally moving forward with my career, you've decided I matter?"

Joe's eyes widened slightly at her tone, unused to such directness from her. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it like, Joe?" The question came out with all the pent-up emotion of years spent watching, waiting, hoping. "Because from where I'm standing, the timing seems pretty convenient."

“Ellie and I had been off for a while,” he said, his voice dropping. “But after the charity gala… things just got clearer.”

Y/N froze, the implications of this timing not lost on her. "The charity gala."

"When you finally told me how you felt about me hiding Ellie from you," Joe continued, holding her gaze. "When I realized what I'd done."

Y/N felt something crack inside her, the last restraint holding back years of carefully contained feelings.

"And that's supposed to make me feel better?" she asked, her voice rising despite the empty facility around them. "That you broke up with your girlfriend because what, you suddenly noticed I was hurt? That's not exactly a compelling reason for me to stay in Cincinnati."

"That's not what I'm saying," Joe insisted, taking another step forward.

"Then what are you saying?" Y/N challenged, fully losing her composure now. "Because I'm having a hard time understanding what you want from me. For years, I was right there, Joe. Through your ACL tear, through the Super Bowl run, through every high and low of your career. I was the person who saw you, who understood you, who was there for everything. And you never once saw me as anything more than the woman behind the camera."

Joe looked stunned by her outburst, his carefully crafted QB1 composure completely abandoned. "That's not true. I saw you. I've always seen you."

"No," Y/N said firmly, anger giving way to a more painful honesty. "You didn't. Because if you had, you wouldn't have hidden Ellie from me for months. You wouldn't have let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report. And you certainly wouldn't be standing here now, only after I'm considering leaving, suddenly claiming there's something between us worth staying for."

Her words hung in the air between them, raw and unavoidable. Joe's expression shifted from defensive to something more vulnerable.

"You're right," he said quietly. "My timing is terrible. And I handled everything with Ellie all wrong. But that doesn't change how I feel now."

"And how is that, exactly?" Y/N asked, needing to hear him actually say it after years of implication and assumption.

Joe took a deep breath, seeming to gather courage for words that didn't come easily to him. "I realized after the charity gala, after you actually called me out instead of just accepting whatever I did like everyone else does, that you were the only person in my life who saw me as me. Not as the quarterback, not as some image to protect. Just me." He paused, visibly struggling. "And I realized I've been fighting how I feel about you for a long time."

Under different circumstances, these would have been the words Y/N had longed to hear. But now, with the Giants offer in her email and years of hurt between them, they felt almost cruel in their timing.

"You don't get to do this," she said, voice trembling slightly with emotion. "You don't get to jerk me around like this again. Not when I'm finally moving forward. Not when I've finally found a way to build my career, my life, without organizing it around your orbit."

"I'm not trying to jerk you around," Joe insisted, genuine frustration in his voice. "I'm trying to be honest with you."

"Five years too late," Y/N countered, gathering her things as emotion threatened to overwhelm her entirely. "I have final meetings in New York this week. I'd appreciate it if you respected whatever decision I make."

Joe stood still, visibly processing her words. "So that's it? You've already decided?"

"No," Y/N admitted, pausing at the door. "But for the first time in five years, I'm making this decision for me. Not based on how I feel about you, or how you might feel about me. Just about what's best for my future."

"And if that's New York?" Joe asked quietly.

Y/N met his gaze directly, allowing herself to really look at him without her protective professional mask. "Then it's New York. And this—whatever this is—becomes another what-if that we both have to live with."

She didn't wait for his response, instead walking out with as much composure as she could muster. It wasn't until she reached her car that the full weight of the conversation hit her, tears finally falling as years of carefully contained emotion spilled over.

For so long, she had wanted Joe to see her, to acknowledge whatever existed between them. Now that he finally had, it felt like the cruelest twist yet, right when she was poised to finally build a life beyond his shadow.

As she drove home through the darkness, Y/N wondered if there could ever be good timing for them, or if they were destined to keep missing each other at critical moments. The one thing she knew with certainty was that her decision about New York had just become infinitely more complicated.

* * *

Early November 2025 - The Offer

The second New York trip passed in a blur of final meetings, facility tours, and relationship-building with the Giants' executive team. Y/N threw herself into these encounters with almost desperate focus, grateful for the professional distraction from her unresolved confrontation with Joe.

"We're prepared to improve the offer," the Giants' CEO told her during their final dinner, sliding a folder across the table. "After meeting with you again, the ownership group is even more convinced you're exactly who we need."

Inside, Y/N found an updated compensation package that exceeded her already high expectations. Along with the substantial salary increase came an expanded budget authority, a dedicated content team reporting directly to her, and a signing bonus that would more than cover relocation expenses.

"We understand this is a significant move," Brian Reynolds added. "But we're confident it's the right next step for someone with your vision and talent."

"I'm flattered," Y/N replied honestly. "And impressed by the organization's commitment."

“We know we initially gave you two weeks,” the CEO said. “But if you need more time, we’re prepared to extend it by another two. We’re eager to have you on board before the end of the season.”

Another two weeks. Fourteen days to decide whether to leave everything she'd built in Cincinnati, her career foundation, her friendships, and whatever complicated potential existed with Joe Burrow.

On the flight home, Y/N stared out the window at the clouds below, turning over her options with clinical precision. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. A vice president title at her age was exceptional. Creative control over a major market team's entire content approach was the kind of opportunity that career trajectories were built on.

Yet Cincinnati had become home. She understood the Bengals culture intimately, had relationships throughout the organization, had built a content strategy that was recognized league-wide. And Kayla's counteroffer was substantial in its own right—perhaps not matching the Giants financially, but offering the director title and creative authority she'd earned.

And then there was Joe.

Y/N closed her eyes, recalling their confrontation. The raw honesty of it had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. For years, she'd imagined what it would be like if Joe finally saw her as more than a colleague, more than the person behind the camera. Now that he seemingly had, the timing felt almost deliberately cruel.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Sam:

Sam: Landed yet? Need intel on final offer and emotional state.

Y/N smiled despite her turmoil.

Y/N: Wheels down in 20. Offer is incredible. Emotional state is complicated.

Sam: Wine and debrief at your place tonight?

Y/N: Yes please. Bring reinforcements.

Later that evening, settled on her couch with wine glasses in hand, Y/N filled Sam in on the Giants' improved offer and the two-week decision timeline.

"So professionally, it's a no-brainer," Sam observed, refilling their glasses. "VP title, New York market, obscene salary."

"Basically," Y/N agreed. "Though Kayla's counteroffer is still very strong for staying."

Sam studied her friend's face. "And what about the Joe situation? Any contact since the confrontation?"

Y/N shook her head. "Radio silence. Which is probably for the best."

"Is it, though?" Sam asked. "You finally had the honest conversation you've been avoiding for years. Doesn't that deserve some follow-up?"

Y/N stared into her wine glass. "What's there to follow up on? His timing is impossible, as usual. I'm literally weighing a career-defining opportunity, and he chooses now to reveal he broke up with Ellie because of me?"

"Not because of you," Sam corrected gently. "Because of how he feels about you. There's a difference."

Y/N sighed, letting her head fall back against the couch. "Either way, it doesn't change the fact that the Giants are offering me exactly what I've been working toward."

"True," Sam acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean you can just ignore what happened with Joe."

"I'm not ignoring it," Y/N insisted. "I'm just... compartmentalizing. Making sure my decision is based on career considerations, not complicated feelings."

Sam gave her a skeptical look. "And you really think you can separate those things completely?"

"I have to," Y/N replied firmly. "Otherwise I'm right back where I started, defining my choices in relation to Joe Burrow instead of what's best for me."

"Fair enough," Sam conceded. "But just for the record, I think there's a difference between making a decision because of how you feel about someone, and acknowledging that your feelings are part of a complex decision."

Y/N didn't immediately respond, knowing there was truth in Sam's words. The reality was more complicated than a simple binary between career and relationship. Her feelings for Joe, long suppressed, deeply rooted, recently disrupted—were inextricably part of her Cincinnati experience. Pretending otherwise was perhaps as dishonest as ignoring the professional opportunity in New York.

"Two weeks," Y/N said finally. "Two weeks to figure out where I actually want to be, and why."

"For what it's worth," Sam added, "I'll support whatever you decide. Even if it means I have to find a new lunch buddy."

Y/N smiled gratefully, thankful for at least one uncomplicated relationship in her life.

Later, after Sam had left, Y/N stood on her balcony looking out at the Cincinnati skyline. The city had become home in ways she hadn't expected when she arrived as a newly-minted master's graduate five years ago. These lights, these buildings, these streets held her history now—professional triumphs, personal connections, and years of complicated feelings for a quarterback who had only just acknowledged what had existed between them all along.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, pulling her from these thoughts. Y/N's heart raced slightly as she checked the screen, half-expecting Joe's name. Instead, she found a message from Brian Reynolds:

Brian: Just checking if you arrived home safely. The entire team is excited about the possibility of you joining us. Let me know if you have any additional questions as you consider the offer.

Y/N typed a polite, professional response, confirming her safe return and reiterating her timeline for decision. As she hit send, she wondered if Joe would reach out again before she decided, or if their confrontation had created a gulf too wide to cross so quickly.

Perhaps that silence was answer enough.

* * *

Mid-November 2025 - The Breaking Point

The days following Y/N's return from New York settled into a strange rhythm at the facility. She maintained her professional responsibilities with focused precision, overseeing content production for the upcoming divisional matchup while simultaneously organizing transition documents in case she accepted the Giants' offer.

Joe kept his distance, respecting her implied request for space. They encountered each other in meetings and team settings, maintaining cordial professionalism that revealed nothing of their confrontation to observers. Only the careful way they avoided direct interaction, the deliberate physical distance they maintained in shared spaces, hinted at the unresolved tension between them.

"Have you decided yet?" Kayla asked during their weekly check-in, the question casual despite its significance.

"Still weighing options," Y/N replied honestly. "Both opportunities have considerable merits."

Kayla nodded, studying her thoughtfully. "For what it's worth, I understand the appeal of New York. The title, the market size, building something from the ground up." She paused. "But I also know what you've built here matters to you. And to us."

"It does," Y/N acknowledged. "That's what makes this so difficult."

"Well, my offer stands," Kayla said. "Director of Content Strategy, creative authority, budget oversight. We can't match their salary completely, but we can get closer than my initial proposal."

Y/N appreciated the directness. "Thank you. I'll have my decision by next week, as promised."

Later that evening, Y/N remained in the edit bay, reviewing footage for the upcoming game package. Most of the staff had gone home hours ago, leaving the facility quiet except for the occasional sounds of cleaning crews or security making their rounds. She welcomed the solitude, finding clarity in the familiar rhythm of work that had defined her career with the Bengals.

The door to the edit bay opened without warning. Y/N turned to find Joe standing in the doorway, still in practice clothes, his expression a mixture of determination and something she couldn't quite define.

"We need to talk," he said simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

Y/N tensed immediately. "Joe, I think we've said everything that needs to be said."

"No," he countered, moving further into the room. "We haven't. Not by a long shot."

"I have work to finish," Y/N said, gesturing to the screens in front of her. It was a weak excuse and they both knew it.

"The Raiders content can wait," Joe replied, stopping directly across from her. "This can't."

Y/N sighed, finally turning to face him fully. "What more is there to say? You've made your feelings clear. I've made my position clear. I have a decision to make about my future."

"That's just it," Joe said, his voice taking on an intensity she rarely heard outside of crucial game situations. "You keep talking about your future like it's this separate thing from everything else. Like it's just job titles and salaries and market size."

"Because that's what a career decision should be based on," Y/N countered, her own frustration building. "Not complicated feelings or bad timing."

"Is that really what you think?" Joe asked, moving around the desk until there was nothing between them. "That feelings and timing are just distractions from the 'real' decision?"

"That's not what I meant," Y/N said, standing her ground despite his proximity. "But I can't make a life-changing choice based on something that might not even—"

"Might not what?" Joe pressed when she stopped abruptly. "Might not be real? Might not last? Is that what you think this is?"

"I don't know what this is!" Y/N exclaimed, her careful composure finally cracking. "All I know is that for years, I've been right here, feeling things I shouldn't feel, wanting things I couldn't have. And now, right when I have a chance to start fresh, to build something that's just about me and my career, you're telling me you've had feelings for me all along?"

Joe didn't back down, his gaze steady on hers. "Yes. That's exactly what I'm telling you. And I'm sorry the timing is terrible. I'm sorry I didn't figure it out sooner, or have the courage to say something before now. But that doesn't make it any less true."

"How am I supposed to believe that?" Y/N asked, the question emerging with all the pain and doubt she'd been carrying. "How do I know this isn't just about you not wanting me to leave? About you suddenly realizing you might lose someone who's always been there, always supported you, always—"

“Because I’ve been in love with you since my rookie year.” His voice cracked the space between them, louder than usual, sharper. Not angry. Just honest in a way that felt like it cost him something. “Every time I tried to keep my distance. Every time I told myself we were just coworkers, just friends. I was lying. To you. To myself.”

Y/N stared at him, momentarily shocked by the raw honesty in his declaration. This wasn't the measured, careful Joe Burrow who spoke in calculated press conferences and maintained professional composure. This was something else entirely, unfiltered, unguarded, desperately sincere.

"If that's true," she began, her voice shaking slightly, "then why Ellie? Why hide her from me specifically? Why let me find out about your relationship from a break-in report?"

Joe ran a hand through his hair, frustration evident in the gesture. "Because I was trying to prove to myself that what I felt for you wasn't real. That I could build something with someone else and finally stop thinking about you all the time." He shook his head, regret clear in his expression. "It was cowardly. And it was unfair to both you and Ellie."

"And now what?" Y/N challenged, taking a step closer despite herself. "Now I'm supposed to turn down a career-defining opportunity because you've finally decided to be honest about your feelings?"

"I'm not asking you to turn down anything," Joe countered. "I'm just asking you to admit that there's more to this decision than job titles and salary packages. That what's between us matters too."

"Of course it matters!" Y/N's voice rose to match his, years of carefully contained emotion finally breaking free. "It's mattered to me for five years! Through every game, every interview, every content shoot. Through watching you with other women, through maintaining professional boundaries, through creating distance when it hurt too much to be close to you. It's always mattered, Joe. That's the problem!"

The confession hung in the air between them, more direct than anything she'd ever admitted aloud. Joe's expression shifted, something like hope flaring in his eyes.

"If it matters," he said, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper, "then why are we still pretending it doesn't?"

Something changed in Joe's expression at her admission—a flicker of hope, then resolve. He closed the distance between them in two quick strides. His hands framed her face, warm, certain, and then his mouth was on hers. No hesitation. No preamble. Just five years of restraint breaking open all at once.

It wasn't a soft kiss. It wasn't slow. It was urgent, deep, like he was trying to make up for every minute he hadn't let himself touch her. Y/N froze for a second, the shock of it holding her still then her hands were on him, gripping the collar of his hoodie, pulling him closer.

He groaned against her mouth, low and unguarded, like even he hadn't realized how much he needed this.

The backs of her thighs hit the desk behind her, and he didn't stop, just pressed her into it with the full weight of his body, kissing her harder now, deeper, like he didn't trust himself to let go. Her hands slid under his shirt, fingertips grazing warm skin. The muscle in his back flexed beneath her palms. Her legs parted instinctively and he stepped between them, one hand sliding down to her hip, anchoring her like he was afraid she'd disappear.

She kissed him back like she meant it. Like she'd been waiting. Years of waiting. Her lips moved with his in a rhythm they'd never practiced but somehow already knew.

When he broke the kiss, it was only to breathe. His forehead dropped to hers, chest heaving, thumb brushing along her jaw like he couldn't quite stop touching her.

Joe didn't say anything.

Y/N couldn't speak. Could barely think. All she could do was tug him back down and kiss him again, deeper this time, slower, a little reckless now. Her fingers twisted in the hem of his shirt, and his hands slid up her thighs like muscle memory, like this had always been coming.

The kiss didn't cool off. It burned. Got messier. Hungrier.

She made a sound, soft, desperate, and that pushed him further. He kissed down her neck, open-mouthed and hot, dragging his teeth lightly along her collarbone, and her head tipped back against the wall, breath shuddering out of her chest.

"Joe," she gasped, barely recognizing her own voice.

The sound of his name seemed to intensify his hunger his mouth reclaimed hers with renewed desperation. Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders, lost in sensations she'd only allowed herself to imagine in her weakest moments.

The sudden buzz of her phone vibrating against the desk shattered the moment. Reality crashed back with brutal clarity as Y/N recognized Kayla's ringtone, an after-hours call from her boss that couldn't be ignored.

She pulled back, breathing heavily, her lips swollen from their kisses. "I have to—" she gestured toward the phone, her professional instincts kicking in despite the situation.

Joe stepped back, giving her space though his eyes never left her face. As Y/N answered the call, keeping her voice remarkably steady, Joe ran a hand over his face, visibly trying to regain his own composure.

The call was brief, a question about the game package deadline that Y/N answered professionally, without any hint of the emotional chaos she was experiencing. After hanging up, she set the phone down carefully, aware of Joe watching her, waiting for her reaction.

"That was..." she began, then stopped, unsure how to characterize what had just happened between them.

"Real," Joe finished for her. "That was real, Y/N. Everything I've said, everything I feel for you—it's real."

Y/N slid off the desk, straightening her clothes with shaking hands. "This complicates everything."

"Maybe," Joe acknowledged. "Or maybe it simplifies it. Maybe it helps you see what matters most."

Y/N looked up at him, at the man she'd loved from behind a camera for years, now standing before her with his heart finally exposed. "I still need to make this decision for the right reasons. My career matters too, Joe. What I've worked for matters."

"I'm not asking you to stay for me," he said, his voice steady despite the vulnerability in his eyes. "That wouldn't be fair to either of us. I'm just asking you to be honest with yourself about what you really want." He paused, meeting her gaze directly. "And if that's New York, I'll understand. But I need you to know that what just happened between us? That wasn't just about tonight. That's been there for years."

The simple truth, spoken without qualification or defense, landed with the weight of everything they'd been avoiding. Y/N felt tears threatening and blinked them back.

"I need time," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "I need to think clearly, not with my heart racing and my body still..." she trailed off, feeling heat rise to her cheeks at the memory of his touch.

Joe nodded, taking a deliberate step back. "Take all the time you need." He turned to leave, then paused at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm not going anywhere. Whatever you decide."

As he turned to leave, Y/N called after him, "Joe?"

He paused, looking back at her.

"Thank you," she said softly. "For finally being honest. Even if the timing is impossible."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe the timing isn't as bad as you think. Maybe it's exactly when we both needed to stop hiding."

After he left, Y/N sank into her chair, her fingers touching her lips, still feeling the imprint of his kisses. The Giants offer represented everything she'd worked toward professionally. But for the first time since receiving it, she allowed herself to consider what staying in Cincinnati might mean, not just for her career, but for her heart.

One week remained to decide where her future truly lay. And now that decision included not just which job to take, but whether she was brave enough to risk everything on a love that had survived five years of denial, distance, and misdirection.

♡♡part four♡

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