#and it got swept and entirely cleaned out

[sea-critter]

scenes from today’s walk

[em1i2a3]

When The Sun Hits

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Bob are starting to test the waters among rampant growing suspicions from the rest of the team (This is a continuation of “Carry The Zero”)

Warnings: AHEM! 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts just because of Bob’s involvement (there’s no mentioning of the plot from Thunderbolts or anything just character involvement ex. Bucky, Yelena, Alexei, Walker etc.), Fluff, References to Sex and/or Sexual Acts, Bob…Is a warning lol. There’s a little bit of self-depreciation in this, talking bad about oneself, but nothing too extreme on that front.

Smut Warnings: Grinding, Teasing (kind of on the brink of edging?) Unprotected P in V Sex (Wrap it up y’all…Or Y’know…Take precautions at least lol), Oral Sex (fem receiving), Fingering, Spit Swallowing, Handjob, Praise/Worship Kink. Soft/Submissive Bob (if you squint) (Hopefully I didn’t miss anything),

Author’s Note: I got this out as soon as I possibly could, thank you so much for the activity on the last post :) y’all are frickin awesome. I hope you enjoy this new part of this story, because I’m going straight to horny jail *boink boink* lol (also whoever made this gif you deserve all the fucking flowers <3)

Word Count: 16,150

Two weeks later you found yourself on the training mat, slicked with sweat, and out of breath.

You wiped your forearms across your forehead, chest rising and falling as you rolled your shoulders to relieve some tension that seized up your back, steadying your stance again, angling yourself carefully so your sight was trained on both Yelena and Bucky.

“Ready?” Yelena asked, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, her curtain bangs bobbing with each movement, preparing herself to pounce.

“As I’ll ever be,” You muttered, exhaling hard through your nose, tasting the remnants of blood that you had spit out two rounds ago after taking a pretty hard slap to the face. You kept your mind clear though, because if you focused on anything else in that moment, you’d lose miserably, or get hurt again, which was something that you didn’t want at all, especially after you were benched for a week after you injured your shoulder.

It was two against one today, which was entirely unfair, but also part of the challenge. Bucky called it ‘awareness training.’ Yelena called it ‘fun.’

They flanked you like wolves attacking a wounded animal. Yelena moved first, sharp and precise, going for a low sweep with her leg. You jumped and dodged it easily, pivoting to avoid Bucky’s right hook. He was heavier on his feet, but that didn’t mean he was slower in any sense. You ducked beneath his next swing and caught Yelena’s wrist before she could even capitalize on your evasion, using her own momentum to send her stumbling back, giving you some space to breathe.

”Not bad,” She huffed.

”Not done yet,” Bucky growled, before charging at you again. You anticipated him this time, moving back just enough to throw him off rhythm. He came at you with a series of jabs, but you blocked them all, even the ones that were enhanced by his vibranium arm, which surprised you even. You parried with a side kick that landed square against his hip, catching him off balance. This granted you a window to turn back towards Yelena, who had just regained her footing.

She came in full force and you barely had time to register her moves. You raised your arm to shield your face from her fist, feeling the impact ripple along the muscle just below your biceps, before striking in the open space she left, right at her ribs, which made her take in a sharp gasp of air.

You didn’t mean to, but a little satisfied smirk played on your lips, like you had the upper hand, like you were finally going to win…Then Bucky swept your legs out from under you with a move so clean you barely noticed the impact.

You hit the mat with a hard exhale, the wind knocking out of your lungs as your back hit the floor. The fluorescent light shined down into your eyes, almost blinding you, and in a blink, Bucky was standing over you, looking down with his hands on his hip.

”You got cocky…And let your guard down for the third time.” He muttered, with a small grin plastered on his face.

”That…” You breathed, trying to recoup the air you lost from slamming into the mat, “Was a cheap shot,” You added, blinking up at him, seeing the way his hair framed his face as he shook his head at you. Without another word, he extended his hand out to you, and you took it, fingers gripping his forearm as he hoisted you to your feet in one swift movement. You staggered slightly when the room tilted for a split second, your balance thrown from the impact you took that still surged through you with little aftershocks. Bucky steadied you instantly with a firm hand on your elbow, eyes scanning over your face.

”You alright?” He asked, with concern lacing his voice, trying to determine whether or not you needed another med bay visit. You gave him a nod.

”Yeah, yeah, just a bit dizzy from that slam, but I’ll live.” Right before Bucky was going to respond, Yelena cut in.

”Alright you two. Water. Now. Before I pass out from sweating so much.” She didn’t wait for either of you to agree, she just turned toward the bench on the far side of the room, and snatched up three water bottles from the crate nearby, which were already chilled. She tossed one to you and to Bucky, beckoning the both of you to join her in a nice break.

The three of you dropped down onto the bench with soft grunts and groans harmonizing the air, as you dragged the back of your arm across your forehead to wipe the beads of sweat off it. You were beat, that was for certain. You could already feel a new set of bruises forming on your body, especially where you had landed on your ass just moments ago, and that was just another thing you were going to have to tend to for the next few days.

You twisted the cap off your bottle and took three large gulps from it, feeling your chest go cold from how quick you chugged. Your sweat-slicked shirt clung to your spine, but the introduction of the drink was finally managing your body temperature, as your pulse began to slow down, easing the rhythmic thumping that echoed through your ears. You put the cap back on, and placed the bottle against your forehead with a sigh, watching your teammates settle down–Yelena beside you, Bucky on the bench across the way. That’s when you felt it…The subtle tension in the air, the silence that lingered just long enough that it made you suspicious.

Bucky lifted his brows sharply at Yelena, like he was daring her to speak first, like they had been planning on asking you questions all day but didn’t know how to approach the subject. She shook her head just once, staring at him with pointed daggers, almost like she was saying that it was his idea so he should be the one to say it. He let out a defeated sigh.

“So…Uh…” He started, scrunching his nose like the words that were on the tip of his tongue tasted weird in his mouth, “How’s it going with Bob? Y’know…Rooming with him and all.” The question caught you off guard, but the awkwardness from Bucky gave off the sense that he was asking this more because everyone else around him was talking and making up their own theories, and he just wanted to get the answers once and for all.

That didn’t mean the question didn’t spike your heart rate again though. Just the mentioning of Bob made you immediately go on defence mode, not just because of what was going on between the both of you, but because you both wanted this to be private until further notice. Neither of you were prepared for the team to know about your late night rendezvous, or how deep the connection really went. It was your little secret and you preferred to keep it that way.

“It’s okay…” You answered, trying to cover up the stutter in your words, “He’s definitely one of the easier roommates I’ve had to be honest. Super quiet, keeps to himself. It’s great.” You avoided Bucky’s gaze, your eyes focusing on the water bottle in your hands before glancing over at Yelena, who was already squinting at you.

”Super quiet, huh?” She repeated, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards, like she didn’t quite buy what you were putting down. You looked over at Bucky too, now seeing that he was watching you as well with one elbow propped up on his knee so he could rest his chin on his fist.

“Yeah, super quiet, he just reads and sleeps basically, nothing more, nothing less. What’s with this line of questioning? You two roleplaying as detectives or something?” Bucky huffed through his nose, a mix between a laugh and a sigh.

”We wouldn’t have to be detectives if you weren’t so secretive…” You raised your eyebrows at Bucky, attempting to hold onto your fake innocence, trying to make it seem like they weren’t somehow onto you, even though there was no possible way they could know anything that was going on in your shared room…Not unless there were cameras, but that was definitely not the case…Because you looked for them.

“Me? Secretive? I don’t understand how I’m being secretive, I’m answering your questions, aren’t I?” Yelena made a small humming sound beside you, sipping from her water bottle, before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

”Okay then, Miss Transparency…” She started, setting the bottle on the bench gently, “What about the window?” You froze, and instantly your brain spiraled with questions on how the hell she found out about the window. You kept your cool on the outside, while the rest of your internal organs were twisting and malfunctioning on the inside trying to figure out how you were going to get yourself out of this one.

”What window?” You asked.

”The one in your room,” Yelena responded, leaning forward just a little bit to crowd your space, “Maintenance said you put in a request to fix it three days ago because there was a crack in the glass. He said it looked like someone took a sledge hammer to it. Kinda weird, yeah?” You blinked at Yelena, keeping your expression blank, like you were thinking.

“Ohhhh…That window.” You said, as if you had just remembered what she was talking about. You waved your hand vaguely, letting out a shaky laugh, which did absolutely nothing to cover the tension that began to seep through your muscles, “Yeah, no, it’s not that weird. I, uh…Accidently pushed my dresser drawer closed a little too hard and the wood slammed into the glass, kind of a freak accident if you ask me.” Yelena stared at you flatly, watching you flail while trying to come up with something believable off the top of your head. If you had time to actually prepare for the grilling you would’ve at least thought of something as back up, but this was just totally unexpected.

It’s not like you could’ve told them the truth anyways, because it just wouldn’t have sounded good, and it would’ve just put Bob under the spotlight once again, and he didn’t deserve that at all. Not when he was trying so hard to get along with everyone, which he was doing very well at until this point at least.

So you just laughed it off again, muttering something about needing to be more careful, before tipping the bottle of water to your lips to shut yourself up.

But your mind was already drifting back to that night, and you couldn’t stop it.

——————

Four nights ago was movie night.

Alexei had insisted on it—insisted being the operative word, because no one had really agreed to it in the first place.

He said movie nights were a “sacred ritual” from his youth, a tradition that brought people together, made them stronger, and unified the soul. And when someone offhandedly mentioned that Bucky had never seen Rocky IV, that sealed everyone’s fate.

“It is masterpiece,” Alexei declared, standing in the center of the living room with the case held high like a relic. You were surprised that he even had a DVD of it, but then again he had mentioned in passing it was one of his favourite movies.

“American propaganda, yes, but still…Very good representation.” He exclaimed, moving around the living room to locate the video player, as you all watched him.

So Rocky IV became the night’s reluctant feature, and any protests were quickly steamrolled under his booming enthusiasm.

The lights were off, the curtains were drawn, and the only glow in the room came from the TV screen—icy blue and gunmetal gray as the film’s opening credits began to roll. Everyone had found their spots. Yelena curled into one corner of the sectional while Walker was on the other, Bucky sat low in a beanbag chair with his arms crossed, Alexei sat right in front of the television with the reverence of a man watching live theatre…

And then there was you.

You tucked yourself into the corner of the couch with a blanket draped on top of you, leaning against a pillow for support because your shoulder was still giving you a little bit of trouble. Bob was beside you, but he was not close enough to raise suspicion as the both of you had separate blankets and weren’t really touching at all…Not yet, at least.

Somewhere near the halfway point of the movie–just after Rocky’s training montage–Bob shifted slightly beside you, adjusting himself with a slight turn of his hips. It wasn’t a big move, but it was noticeable enough to draw your eyes to him, then you saw his hand sliding beneath his blanket ever so slowly, paying attention to the others in the room, hoping that none of them would turn around.

Even through the terrible lighting you could see him beginning to flush, his pale skin becoming a gentle hue of pink which spread all the way down to the collar of pale green sweater, and below it. You couldn’t help but smirk at the sight, seeing how he tried to keep his profile composed, as he moved his hand with quiet purpose, sliding beneath your blanket in one quick movement, knowing that once he was under there nobody would know any better what was happening.

His fingers found your thigh beneath the covering, completely bare for him because of the flannel shorts you were wearing. The first touch was delicate, almost like it wasn’t even there, though you could feel the heat radiating off his skin as the pads of his fingers ghosted over the wide plane of your flesh. He was waiting for you to pull away, to signal to him you didn’t want him to do this here, but when that moment didn’t come, his hand finally settled against you.

He took everything slow, and moved with such care and purpose that you felt like you were going to melt into the sofa . His palm molded gently to the outside of your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles, drawing goosebumps up to the surface of your skin. The touch wasn’t lewd, nor needy…It was intimate in one of the simplest ways possible. Just the grounding press of his hand against you, soaking up the heat of your body, letting it mingle with his own.

You felt your pulse begin to hammer in your ears, and your eyes flickered to the rest of the team, checking if they were still transfixed by whatever was happening in the movie, which they were. Nobody was looking. So you took this as an opportunity for yourself to make a move now too.

It was a gentle shift, just enough to let your blanket drape a little farther over the space between the both of you, until it overlapped with his. You ripped a page out of Bob’s book and slipped your hand beneath the threshold of the covering, before moving it towards him with the same stealthy patience he had just moments ago.

You found his thigh easily, resting your hand against the soft checker-patterned sleep pants he wore. The fabric was light and thin enough to allow you to feel every flex and shift of muscle beneath your touch, the way it twitched at first contact and relaxed when you dragged your palm against it. He cleared his throat gently, trying to mask the noise that was about to slip out of his throat unwillingly.

His thumb on your thigh had stilled completely in those moments, like you had pulled the plug on all his motor functions by just settling your hand on him in the most gentle way possible. Over the past week of being holed up together during your Bucky mandated break from training, you had learned that gentleness was the key thing that unraveled Bob faster than anything else ever could.

Your fingers slowly dragged upward with the lightest graze over the thin fabric, tracing the line of muscle you could feel there. You didn’t press hard, there was no need to, because you could already feel that he was burning under your palm, coming undone, shifting in his seat, like he wanted to get closer to you but couldn’t.

He was trying so hard not to breathe loudly, or to draw attention to himself by making an unnatural noise. His hand tightened on your thigh, giving it a small squeeze, like he was pleading for you to continue, but for you to also take it easy on him because he didn’t know how much he was going to be able to handle. He felt like he was going to turn into a puddle on the sofa, and the sweating and flushing that he was doing was only a prelude to that. You could feel the tension in his body, the way it practically vibrated through him, and it only made you want to touch him more.

You smoothed your thumb over the inside of his thigh, just above the knee, where he flinched. He sucked in a breath and immediately turned it into a cough, low and forced, like he was trying to dislodge something that was stuck in his throat–even though you knew it was just him trying to stifle a sound that he didn’t dare let out–squeezing your thigh again like it was anchoring him to whatever stability he had left.

You didn’t need more than this. You just enjoyed every morsel of connection you got from him, and revelled in the excitement that coursed through your veins from the small things you learned about him, like how easy he was to read, or how flustered he got from such little contact. Or how touch-starved he was despite all the late nights and quiet mornings you two were sharing up until this point. He was learning how to let himself go, but that didn’t mean he was used to it just yet.

By the time the end credits rolled and Alexei stood to stretch with a complaint about how Americans don’t know when to end a movie, Bob was already clawing at the opportunity to make his grand escape. His hand left your thigh, and reached for his blanket–not to fold it, not to hold it when he stood–but to clutch it, to replicate the grip he had on your skin moments before. You slowly removed your hand from him as well, making sure you discreetly brought it back into your area without anyone noticing.

Every motion he did was methodical, almost exaggerated in its effort to present itself as casual, like the both of you weren’t just touching each other's thighs beneath your communal blankets. You watched from the corner of your eye as Bob adjusted the covering over his lip, gripping the hem carefully as he shifted on the couch, leaning slightly forward.

He was shielding himself.

You could tell by the blush that began to deepen around his neck, and the way he couldn’t seem to look at anyone in the room–not even you–that he was trying very hard not to be obvious about the problem that was currently occurring below his waist. The one you had caused with just the gentle stroking of his thigh.

The realization made you heat up, but also smirk.

”I’m gonna…Uh…” Bob cleared his throat, attempting to cover up the way his words buckled under his voice “Head to my room…Start getting ready for bed and stuff, I had a good book I was getting into before…C-Coming to watch the movie.” He added, standing from the couch, keeping the blanket bunched in front of him with a practiced sort of shuffle that only he could execute with pure awkwardness. He said a vague goodnight and everyone responded in their own little way, as he moved towards the corridor that led to the makeshift bedrooms.

Your eyes followed his movements, watching when he made it out of everyone’s line of sight. He turned around, knowing that your eyes were already on him and mouthed a very light “please hurry,” before rushing down the hallway to seek refuge in the privacy of your room.

You waited exactly thirty seconds, which was long enough for the heat in your limbs to settle so when you stood up you didn’t have shaky legs, or draw attention to any of your actions, even though nobody was really paying attention in general.

Yelena was half-sleep, eyes barely open while she nursed what was left of her electrolytes. Walker had his head tilted back, and was snoring loudly. Bucky was sprawled out in the beanbag chair, and Alexei was still rambling, only now it was about how Ivan Drago’s story in Rocky is just misunderstood. So you took the opportunity to stand, and let out an exaggerated yawn, rubbing your eyes for added effect.

”Think I’m also going to head to bed too. I’m exhausted.” You murmured, which earned a small wave from Yelena, a grunt of acknowledgment from Bucky, and a pause from Alexei.

”Did you not like the movie?” He asked, and you smirked.

”Yes of course I liked it, I’ve just seen it a few too many times, but tomorrow you can give me the footnotes on how misunderstood Drago’s story is, for now though I’m off to bed.” He gave you a wide smile, and as you moved away from the living room you could hear him mumble something about you actually being interested in what he had to say.

You quickly made your way down the hall, feeling your heart racing as you made your way towards the room. You tried your best to not make yourself look suspicious but the anticipation was eating you up on the inside.

The second you entered your shared quarters and closed the door behind you, you felt it–that shift in the air, like the moment right before lightning strikes a tree, the static that ebbs and flows through the atmosphere, like a warning to those who are around. The only light that glowed in the space was the desk lamp, which casted golden shapes across the walls, and once you locked the door and turned around, your eyes fell on him.

Bob stood by his bed, the blanket was long discarded, and his sweater was removed, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt. His hands were fidgeting uselessly with the tie of his sleep pants, and when his eyes fell on you it was like he lost all the thoughts that were running through his head. The flush of pink on his cheeks hadn’t faded, if anything it had gotten worse between the time he left the couch and now, like the warmth had fully rooted inside him.

He didn’t say anything right away, he just opened his arms slightly, silently offering himself to you.

In a few quick steps, you crossed the room, taking up the space between his arms, pressing your hands gently to his chest, feeling the way his heart galloped beneath your palm. He cupped your elbows first, tentative and shy, looking down at you with those shimmering blue eyes that you had come to fawn over in secret, before letting his hands slide down to your wrists. You gave him a soft smile, tilting your head back a bit so he could lean forward to kiss you.

His mouth brushed yours once–tentative and silent, like he was asking a question–then again, with more confidence when you didn’t pull away, before fully pressing his mouth to yours. He kissed you like he thought he would never get the chance to do it again. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips, or the way you sighed into him like you’d been holding your breath for hours while waiting for this moment to come. His hands left your wrists, you slid up to your jaw, the tips of his thumbs barely grazing the corners of your mouth

And you melted into him.

You’d been doing this dance for the past few nights now–experiencing these careful, burning moments together that never quite tipped over the edge–and neither of you seemed to mind. You didn’t need the act of sex to feel intimate with him, even though you still had those thoughts that raced through you from time to time.

Every night you got to learn something new about him–how his breathing changed when you kissed his throat, how the muscles in his stomach twitched when you trailed your fingers ever so slowly under the hem of his shirt, and how he arched subtly into your touch like he was too afraid to vocalize that he wanted more.

It was explorative, patient, and gentle, and that’s all the both of you needed to have a good time.

The kiss continued to deepen, as his lips parted for you, letting your tongue through the threshold. He tasted like fresh breath mints, like he had swallowed a few before you came into the room, which wasn’t an out of place thought at all–he typically did small things like that.

His hands skimmed down your neck, and over your shoulders, travelling down to your hips to anchor himself against you. He put a little more pressure into the kiss, feeling your body press flush into his, causing a small gasp to escape and vibrate against your lips from him. He pulled back for a moment, as your arms slid around his neck, guiding him down even more so he could bury his face briefly into your shoulder. He breathed in deeply, letting his lungs fill with the various scents that radiated off of you– the vanilla from your shampoo, the lavender from your perfume, and the sage that constantly stayed on all of your clothes in general–before exhaling shakily, tugging you closer to him.

He guided you backward with a quiet sort of urgency.

”Come here,” He whispered, the words came out so softly it barely made it past his lips.

He led you to his bed, with his hand pressed low at your back, fingers splayed out like it was steadying the both of you. When the backs of your legs met the edge of the mattress you let yourself sit, eyes still locked on his. He was still watching you closely, like you were ethereal, something that shouldn’t exist for him.

You bit your bottom lip, feeling how swollen it was just from the one kiss that you got, and brought your fingers to the hem of your shirt, slipping them under. Bob felt his chest heave for a moment, the beating of his heart only becoming more frantic, as he hung on your movements like it was a sacred text.

You peeled the top off slowly, revealing the curve of your waist, your chest, your shoulders in small increments–it was more than he’d ever seen at once from you. Once you riddled yourself of the article of clothing you threw it to the side, which left you in just a plain white, cotton bra.

Bob’s gaze swept over you modestly, almost like he was too shy to linger on one part of you for too long, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. You saw the way he struggled to swallow for a moment, gulping loudly from the way his throat closed from all the tension that was building up in the room, then you saw his hands move down to the hem of his own shirt.

He awkwardly shimmied out of the fabric, tugging it over his head, messing up his light brown mane of hair in the proces. You could feel your chest tighten, and your mouth dry up, seeing the expanse of skin that was exposed to you.

It was the first time he’d allow you to see him like this.

And god–he was beautiful.

His chest was broad and lean. He was dusted with freckles that went across his shoulders and collarbones, like they were constellations begging to be traced. There were a few scars too–old and pale, stretched and softened with time, because they certainly weren’t fresh. You wondered about each of them. Not necessarily the stories, but how they shaped him as the person you were falling for more and more every day.

He was flushed from neck to navel, the pink hue blossoming over his ribs and all the way up to his ears. His arms hung at his sides for a moment, allowing you to drink in the image, even though he was visibly curling in on himself a bit. You reached out for him, beckoning for him to come closer to you, watching as he sheepishly moved into your space now. Your fingers skimmed gently over his ribs, dragging slowly up the plane of his stomach and across the center of his chest. You looked up at him with a smile plastered on your lips

“You’re breathtaking Bob…” You whispered, seeing the way his eyes softened, hearing the sincerity that laced your voice when the compliment fell from you. He felt lightheaded from it, as you leaned in to kiss the skin just above his navel, your smile shadowing against the flesh.

“I think I’m gonna die.” He responded, choking on his own breaths.

”Now, now…Don’t die yet…You haven’t kissed me again.” That is what unraveled him, seeing you pull away from his stomach, looking up at him with those lust filled eyes that he had seen night after night.

He leaned down slowly this time, and when your lips met, it was warmer than before, like a supernova had exploded between the both of you. It started soft, like the last one, but it built. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of reverence that made your toes curl into the carpet beneath you. His hands skimmed down your sides, thumbs brushing along the soft slope of your waist as he kissed you deeper.

Then one hand drifted lower, tracing over your outer thigh. He paused just for a second to look at you, and when you gave the smallest nod, he gently urged you backward.

You let him guide you down until you back pressed into the mattress as he hovered above you, bracing himself on one elbow beside your head while the other stayed on your thigh, as you bracketed his hips with your legs. You could feel how hard he was trying to rein himself in, watching his shoulders tense when you brought him closer to you.

”A-Are you sure this is okay?” He whispered against your lips, his breath mingling with yours in the thin space between you.

”Bob,” You murmured, tracing your fingers along the freckles on his collarbone, “If I wasn’t sure, I would tell you.” His eyes fluttered shut for a beat, the words sinking into him like a weighted blanket, before he leaned forward to kiss you again, savouring the contact.

You felt the way he trembled just slightly above you, the way he braced so carefully against his arm, like he was scared of putting too much weight on you, or doing something wrong. His lips dragged over yours, warm and open, letting you taste the cool mint again as his tongue flicked out to meet yours when you deepened the kiss.

His breath stuttered as he exhaled sharply through his nose, attempting to keep up, but you could feel how overwhelmed he was already. Your hands slid over his back, fingers tracing along the soft lines of his muscles beneath skin that practically burned beneath your touch. You felt every ripple, every twitch of control that he tried to maintain, and the thought of it–of him holding himself back for you–made you want to pull him even closer.

He groaned softly against your mouth, almost like it was bordering on a whimper.

“Jesus…You feel so good,” He whispered suddenly, like he couldn’t keep it in, like it was something he had been wanting to say all week and it finally burst free. His voice cracked slightly with the confession, and his cheeks burned as he buried his face against your jaw to hide the heat crawling up his neck, realizing how stupid it must’ve sounded.

”S-Sorry, I just…I just-“ You hushed him for a moment, slipping your hand up his back slowly before curling your fingers into his hair.

”Bob…Don’t apologize. You feel good against me too.” You had barely let the words settle between the both of you, when you hooked your legs a little tighter around his waist and gently guided his hips closer to yours.

Bob’s breath caught in his throat.

His jaw slackening and his lips parting in tandem with one another, as his eyes locked onto yours like he was trying to decipher something written across your irises. You could see it in his face–the unraveling, the awe, the absolute vulnerability of someone who wasn’t used to being wanted like this. And yet, he was burning from the inside out.

“What…What are you doing?” He asked, his voice thin and shaky.

Instead of answering, you ground your hips up against him in one slow, aching press.

The noise he made was soft and strangled, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, then snapped open again, and you were able to see the dazed glassiness that shimmered over them. You could see the way the new sensation tore through him, as a full-body tremor made his shoulders tense and his thighs flinch.

He didn’t move at first–he couldn’t. But when you tugged gently on the back of his hair and pressed your lips to his neck, he let go.

His hips rocked forward, not with force but with aching, desperate need, mirroring the movement you’d given him. Your bodies slotted together in a slow, tender rhythm, each motion sending a wave of heat in your abdomen. It wasn’t frenzied or rough—it was exploratory, intoxicating, and so deeply charged you felt like your bones were shaking.

You kissed your way up his neck, feeling his pulse jump under your lips. His hand was trembling against your thigh, while the other one gripped the duvet beside your head. You felt the shudder in his breath again, and the way his hips pressed a little harder this time, a little more urgently. You could feel the outline of him pushing against the thin fabric of your cotton shorts, and it left you breathless, just the thought of being so close almost made your heart stop.

The moment swelled around you–timeless, heavy, and sacred.

Then your fingers trailed down, slow as molasses, brushing over his abdomen and dipping lower, finding the waistband of his sleep pants.

The reaction was instantaneous.

His entire body went rigid, and his eyes snapped open, bright and wide—and in that split second, you saw it. That flicker of gold in his irises. It glinted like sunlit honey, like lightning flashing beneath the surface of a lake.

Then–CRACK.

A sharp, unnatural noise split into the room, and both your heads jerked toward the window, seeing the fracture that had webbed across the glass. It kind of looked similar to when a rock hits a windshield at full speed, only there was a larger impact point. You both blinked at the damage, before your eyes returned to his, seeing that the gold was gone, and he was back to his normal shimmering blue irises that you were enamoured by.

His mouth moved to speak, but no sound came out, then he looked down at himself, and froze. You followed his gaze, seeing a wet spot blooming across the front of his pants.

Then everything happened all at once.

He scrambled off of you, nearly toppling sideways off the bed in the process, and you sat up immediately, reaching for him.

”Bob…Hey…” You said, trying to get him to calm down a bit, but he was already moving.

”Crap…I’m-I’m so sorry.” His voice cracked, as he grabbed his shirt off the floor, pulling it on with frantic hands like he needed to shield himself from you, from the world, from his own embarrassment that floated up into his chest, causing him to shake a bit. He tried to cover up the wet patch as his skin turned a cherry red, spreading all the way over his face and neck. He opened his drawer so fast that it nearly flew off the track as he collected the first pair of boxers and sleep pants that he could find.

“Bob, it’s alright.” You murmured, watching him rush towards the door,

”I-I just…I need…I just need a second.” He whispered before bolting out the door so he could tend to himself in the privacy of the bathroom.

You sat on his bed, still breathless from the closeness, from the way his body had moved against yours, and from the crack in the damn window. But mostly, from the way he looked when he realized what had happened—like the sky had fallen on him. Your heart was aching in the way he reacted, and now that you were sitting alone everything felt amplified.

Your eyes drifted to the window again, staring at the crack that shimmered faintly beneath the golden wash of the lamp–splintering like lightning. Curiosity pulled you from the bed, as you shuffled closer to it, wanting to get a better look.

The fracture was intricate, jagged at the center with spider web veins splitting outward like a slow explosion. You reached up, hovering your hand in front of it.

No air came through, no whistling of wind, and no change in temperature.

You furrowed your brow and pressed your palm against the surface, feeling the cool solidity of the glass. It didn’t flex, nor did it crack even more with the pressure you placed on it, which made you even more perplexed.

You stepped back slightly, squinting at the window. It definitely wasn’t a regular one, it was industrial, reinforced, maybe even bulletproof. The thought made your lips part a little, as you tried to reconcile the softness of Bob–the sweet, awkward, blushing man who mouthed please hurry to you because he wanted to be so close–with the person who had just cracked fortified glass because he was so overwhelmed by your touch.

You huffed out a breath that was caught between awe and amusement, as you continued to stare at the jagged impact, until you saw movement in the glass, noticing Bob trying to sneak in, like you wouldn’t see him. You turned on your heels.

He stood against the door, fiddling with the hem of his shirt as you looked him over. He had changed into navy blue sleep pants, and his hair was clinging to his forehead–you assumed it was from him splashing water on his face to freshen up. He was holding onto a bundle of clothes–the ones he had changed out of–as his eyes scanned over you before dating away. You glanced down at yourself, suddenly remembering that you were shirtless, standing in your bra still.

His face flushed again, but this time it was threaded with much more than just embarrassment. There was remorse in there, maybe even a little bit of fear, like he was worried that you wouldn’t look at him the same because of what happened.

“I…” He started, voice hoarse, “…I’m sorry. Again. I didn’t mean to just…Leave like that, I just–” He swallowed hard, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. Or, I mean–you did, I guess, but–God.” He laughed breathlessly, eyes squeezed shut for a second. “I’m making this worse.” You shook your head gently, cutting him off before he spiraled any further.

“It’s okay Bob…Trust me you don’t have to apologize.” You said quietly, stretched out a hand towards him, “Now, come over here please.” Bob glanced down at the gesture, returning his gaze back up at you, hesitating for only a second before stepping forward, dropping the bundle of clothes on the floor. His movements were so timid, like a wounded animal coming over to look at the mess it made.

When he was close enough you leaned forward and wrapped your hand around his wrist. His eyes were wide and glistening as you tugged him toward you even more, his lashes trembling with the weight of remorse. Not just for bolting from the room or leaving you half-dressed and flushed on his bed, but for losing control…For being too much.

“I see those cogs turning in your head. Your brows are furrowing. Stop thinking for a second, and just look at me Bob.” You said, breaking through the thoughts that kept racing through his head, wrapping your arms around his waist. Bob let out a soft sigh, bringing his gaze down to yours. His hands hovered over your back for a moment before slowly coming to rest against your skin, holding onto you like he was afraid you were going to crack.

“…I truly didn’t mean to do that…” He murmured, motioning to the window, “I didn’t even think about it...It just happened.” You turned slightly in his arms, glancing back at the window for a split second, then returning your gaze back to him. You tilted your head up, brushing your lips softly against the underside of his jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble.

”Pretty sure it’s bulletproof glass too, by the way.” He blinked down at you, his cheeks flushing a deeper red, confused at the statement, and at the way you were smirking up at him, “I must’ve really gotten you going.” You added, trying to lighten the mood. A groan caught in his throat.

”Please…Don’t say that.” He whispered under his breath.

”Why not? It’s kind of hot.” Bob’s eyebrows raised at your comment, letting out a quiet laugh–embarrassed, and flustered, but undeniably touched by the way you were trying to make light of the situation.

”You know…I think you should actually be a little freaked out by this at least,” He stated gently, pulling back just a little bit so the both of you could comfortably look at each other, “I mean…We didn’t even…Do anything and I…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, as he ran his hands along your back, “I’m just saying if I lost that much control just f-from grinding against you, what’s going to happen when we have sex?” He added, his voice laced with worry. You traced your fingers along his spine as you listened, feeling his chest rising and falling against you, the panic simmering underneath all the tension in his muscles. You leaned into him a bit more.

”Well…You don’t really use your powers all that much, Bob.” He raised his eyebrows at you, surprised by what you were possibly suggesting. You continued, gently brushing your thumbs along the hem of his shirt.

“Maybe that’s part of the problem. You’ve been bottling all that energy up without giving yourself a way to release it. Maybe you need to exhaust your powers a little–practice, push yourself in a safe space so you can figure out where the edges are. Then maybe…” You paused mid-sentence, reaching up to him to push his hair off his forehead, “You won’t have to worry about breaking any more windows.” He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling your fingertips trailing down the side of his face to hold his jaw.

“Or…” You added thoughtfully, “We could try some small exercises together. I know there are grounding techniques for people with telekinesis or energy-based mutations–things to help hone it and redirect it before it builds up too much.”

Bob was staring at you now like you were the only stable piece of land in a world that kept shaking under his feet. You ran your thumb along the slight roughness of his jaw, taking in the warmth of his skin.

“Either way,” You said, “We can figure it out together.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“Together,” He repeated, almost like he was testing the weight of the suggestion in his mouth, making sure it was real. His hands gripped you just a little tighter, like he didn’t want to let go, admiring the fact that you were even sticking it out with him.

“And maybe next time,” You whispered, pressing a featherlight kiss to the corner of his mouth, “You’ll crack something a little less expensive.”

That made him laugh for real this time–a breathy, bashful sound as he rested his forehead against yours. “No more windows,” He whispered. “I promise.” You swayed in your spot for a moment relishing in the silence, as your hearts thudded against each other like it shared the same rhythm.

“…Maybe just the bedframe,” He mumbled a second later–so quietly you almost missed it.

There was a pause.

Then his eyes went wide, his entire face lighting up scarlet as the implication hit him a split second too late. “Oh my god,” He breathed, “I didn’t mean—shit—I mean I did but I—”

You broke into laughter, the sound bursting out of you like sunlight, catching yourself against his chest as your shoulders shook. “Robert Reynolds,” You gasped through your giggles, “I didn’t take you as a person to make a sex joke like that…I like it.”

——————

Yelena snapped her fingers in front of your face.

”Helloooo? Earth to Y/N…You’ve been zoned out for like ten minutes, are you concussed or something?” You shook your head, snapping yourself out of your trance, noticing your palms were sweaty, and your pulse was pounding in your head.

”Sorry…I’m fine, I was just thinking about that last round in my head. Trying to figure out how I let my ass hit the mat again.” You lied, grabbing your water bottle, attempting to cool yourself down.

”Uh-huh…” Yelena muttered, clearly not buying it.

Bucky was watching you as well, his expression unreadable as usual, his elbow still propped on his knee. His eyes were sharper now, completely focused.

”Maybe we should wrap it up for the day, I’ve got to go pick up a few things from my old apartment anyways, the renters are getting mad that I haven’t swung by yet.” You looked over at Yelena, who stretched her legs out with a low groan.

“Alright, that sounds fine to me.” She responded, getting up from the bench, cracking her neck before walking to the lockers, leaving you and Bucky alone. You let out a soft exhale, grateful that the plug had been pulled. You were too distracted to go for another round anyways.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You glanced up at Bucky, your eyes meeting his gaze. There was no judgement in his face, just quiet concern. You nodded.

”Yeah, I promise, I just spaced out.” He watched you for just a moment longer, like he was trying to see if you had any tells of a lie.

”Alright,” He said, turning to grab his towel from the bench, “But if you ever want to talk, you know where I am.” You gave him a soft smile.

”Thanks, Buck.” He lingered for a second longer, then gave a quick salute and headed off after Yelena, leaving you alone. You stayed on the bench for a few minutes, gathering your thoughts and swatting around the brain fog that clouded your mind, before finally standing, feeling your muscles groan in protest.

You collected your things and caught a quick shower before making your way back to your room, expecting to divulge the line of questioning that Yelena had for you to Bob, but when you opened the door he wasn’t there. Your brows furrowed in disappointment as you stepped into the room, noticing a little note on his bed. You dropped your bag on the floor, picking up the scrap piece of paper that had his messy handwriting scrawled on it.

“Meet me on the roof, wear a sweater.” You were confused about the sweater part, but you still dug around for one, slipping it over your head once you found one that wasn’t already worn.

———

The rooftop greeted you with silence, except for the low hum of wind and the muffled buzz of distant traffic below. You stepped out slowly, your sweater wrapped tight around your arms, the door clicking shut behind you.

Bob was already there, standing near the edge, hunched slightly, hands buried in the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders curled in like he was bracing against the cold—or maybe against himself. The soft yellow glow from the rooftop security lights carved gentle shadows across his back, catching in his wind blown hair.

“You okay?” You called out, walking towards him, gaining his attention instantly. A small smile came up on his lips, as he wrung his hands together, like he was excited about something.

“I am now,” He responded, meeting you halfway. There was something different about him tonight, he still had that shy uncertainty about him, but it was like he was pushing it off a bit, replacing it with something more…Confident, “I wanted to show you something, if that’s alright of course.” He added stepping into your space, now close enough that his breath was fanning over your face. You tilted your head at him, squinting playfully.

”Are you going to crack all the windows from up here?” Bob let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking his head as a pink flush creeped up the sides of his neck.

”I promised you I wouldn’t break any more windows, and I will keep my word.” Before you could press further, he stepped closer, closing the last inch of space between you, wrapping his arms tightly around your back. It wasn’t hurried or anything, just grounding, and it was done with intention. You inhaled against his chest, the scent of cold air and warm cotton surrounding you as he ducked his head and pressed a kiss to your lips–soft, and gentle, yet brimming with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. He pulled back for one moment, before adding one more peck against your lips, a smile draped across his mouth.

His arms hadn’t loosened around you, and you could feel the steady thumping of his heart under your hands where they rested against his chest.

”Okay…” You murmured, brows lifting at him, feeling your cheeks growing hot under his stare, and from the gentle kiss he had given you, “Now you really need to tell me what’s got you in such a chipper mood. You’re smiling like you’ve got a secret, and it’s starting to freak me out.” Bob’s grin widened–shy, crooked, but deeply earnest. You squinted at him a bit, catching little flecks of gold sparkling in the blues of his eyes.

”Just hold still,” He whispered, voice hushed and warm, “And I’ll show you.”

Before you could ask what he meant, he tightened his arms around you, like he was locking you into place against his chest.

Then you felt it.

A strange, delicate lift in your stomach, similar to how it feels when you’re descending on a roller coaster, only just a little more tolerable. The pressure in your knees disappeared, your weight lessened…And your boots weren’t on the rooftop anymore.

”Bob…?” You said, your voice filling with panic.

”Shh, I’ve got you,” He murmured, eyes fixating on yours, “Just trust me.” He whispered. You took in a sharp breath, and nodded. The movement wasn’t fast or jarring. It felt like being exhaled by the Earth–like rising through a warm, invisible current. The wind tugged gently at your sweater, and your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively brought yourself even closer to him, not daring to look down to see how high up you were.

“Holy shit Bob, we’re flying…” You said, your voice shaking, caught between fear and awe.

”Well technically I’m flying, and you’re just one of my lucky passengers. My first and only to be exact.” He corrected jokingly, you smirked at him, continuing to look over his face. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, as the air around you thickened, warming against your cheeks despite the altitude change. You felt like you were suspended in a dream–held against him, hundreds of feet off the ground, with only starlight above you, and a glittering city below.

“How does it feel?” You asked softly, seeing Bob blink down at you, eyes soft and uncertain, “To have all this power…” You added, your hand slowly unraveling from holding onto his hoodie, splaying it across his chest instead, rubbing along the warmth with a soft smile draped on your lips, “To be able to do this–to lift me off the ground, to break windows without touching them, to float above the world like it’s nothing…” The way you looked up at him–half curious, half lust driven–made something buzz in his bloodstream, something golden and chaotic, and desperate for attention as he felt your fingers trailing up the side of his neck.

Bob swallowed thickly, his arms tightening around your waist even more, his breath hitching as he let out a faint nervous laugh before glancing down at you, seeing your face glowing softly from the city lights that reflected in your eyes.

”It’s…Intense. I constantly have this noise in my head, like it’s trying to break out, and I’m always on edge trying to suppress it…But when you’re around, and you’re able to block it…I have those moments of peace, and I love it…So much Y/N.” He emphasized, as your fingers curled gently into the collar of his hoodie, while your other hand cupped his jaw, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

”You know…I wish you could see yourself the way I do,” You whispered, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the night, “The way you handle everything, the way you care about being gentle, the way you hold back even when you could easily just let go…” You went on, looking up at him with such admiration it made him gulp down the lump that was forming in his throat, “You’re just incredible Bob…And I wish you believed that more often.” Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, like he needed to steady himself from the weight of your words, and when he opened them again, they shimmered with something so raw and fragile it made your heart ache.

“No one’s ever said anything like that to me before,” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it, just disbelief. “It feels like…You’re seeing someone I want to be. Someone I wish I was.” You reached up with your other hand now, pressing it against his cheek.

”You already are.” You whispered, a soft smile coming up onto your lips, as your eyes trailed over his face.

Bob leaned forward, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warming your skin as it mingled with the air that kissed your face. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, he just held you close, taking in the night for what it was giving him so far. His fingers twitched against your lower back, like he was trying to figure out what he was going to say next.

“Can I ask you something…Kind of dumb?” Your lips quirked at his words, blinking up at him.

”There’s no dumb questions…Go ahead and ask.” He let out a nervous breath of a laugh, pulling his forehead off yours so he could get a better look at you, shaking his head a bit as if he was trying to psych himself up.

”I’ve been…Thinking for the past couple of days…And if it’s too soon or too much just–just tell me okay? I can handle it, I promise.” He started, stuttering through his words.

”Okay, “ You whispered, already feeling your heart climbing into your throat, seeing the way he looked at you with such hope, terror, and utter sincerity. He glanced away for a second, feeling his cheeks flushing hot.

“I was wondering if maybe–if it’s something you’d want–if I could, um…” He cleared his throat, then bit the inside of his cheek, finally whispering, “If I could make love to you tonight.” When the words fell from his mouth it felt like the sky was going to split open and swallow him whole, but he meant every word he said, and you could tell it was something that he wanted to make sure you wanted as well.

”I’ve been wanting to ask that for a while now, but I didn’t want to ruin anything or scare you off, or…” His voice faded, as he stopped himself from embarrassing himself any further, “God, I sound like an idiot.” He whispered. You shook your head, cradling his face in your hands, gently tilting his head down so you could look into those soft blue eyes.

”Bob…” You whispered, “You don’t sound like an idiot at all…You sound like someone who cares about me. A lot.” His lips parted like he wanted to protest, but the words never came. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his, “And that’s never something to be ashamed of.” His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as he trembled from the gust of wind that blew by the both of you, and from the nerves that prickled throughout his body.

”I just…” He started, swallowing another lump that began to form in his throat, feeling like he was on the brink of tears, “I’ve never done it like this before…Where it actually means something…Where I feel…So much that it scares the crap out of me.” You pressed your lips together tightly, removing one of your hands from his face.

”Hold me with one arm, I want you to give me one of your hands.” You instructed, and he obliged immediately, keeping you flush against him and giving you his other hand like you requested. You took it and brought it to your chest, laying it gently over your heart.

”Do you feel that?” You whispered, watching him nod slowly, his palm splaying flat over the pounding rhythm the shook the cavity of your chest, “That’s how I feel when I look at you…When you smile at me, when you hold me…When you ask me things like this, with all these nerves going through you…And that’s also how I’m going to feel when we make love tonight.” You added, feeling Bob’s breath hitch in his throat, and for a second he didn’t move. You thought you put him into shock, but then his fingers curled ever so slightly against your skin, like he was tethering himself to you.

”I wanna be good for you.” He replied, his voice breaking around the edges, “I want to be everything you deserve…I want to take my time…I want to see what you look like when you fall apart because of me, and I want to memorize every sound you make and every place you like to be touched and–and I want to hold you through all of it.” Your eyes softened at his words, feeling your heart folding at the edges from the way he said it with such trembling devotion, like he was offering you everything he had without knowing if it would be enough for you.

”I wouldn’t want it any other way Bob…” He breathed out slowly like he’d been holding it for minutes, like your answer reached someplace deep inside him he didn’t know was waiting to be filled. A small, shaky smile tugged at his lips.

“Okay,” He whispered. “Okay.”

You felt his arms shift, the weight of the wind returning to your skin, and together—slow and gentle—you began to drift back down. The city lights rose to meet you, the rooftop coming back into focus beneath your boots. He didn’t let go. Not even once. His hand stayed tucked between your shoulder blades, warm and steady, like he didn’t trust gravity alone to carry you safely.

The moment your feet touched solid ground again, you didn’t speak. You just stood there for a second, forehead still brushing his, eyes locked and dazed with something fragile and full and beautiful. And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed–it wasn’t even desperate…It was just full. Full of promise. Of understanding. Of anticipation humming low in both your bellies. His hand cupped the side of your face so delicately it made your knees weaken, and when he pulled back, you didn’t have to say a word. You just reached for his fingers and laced yours through them.

“Come inside with me,” You said quietly.

And he followed instantly.

————

You left the light on before you went up to the roof, so when the both of you stepped into your shared quarters, the soft yellow hue of the lamp greeted you with open arms and warmed your skin almost instantly.

Bob closed the door behind him with a soft click, the quiet thud echoing between your beds like a held breath. You stepped into the space between them, turning to face him slowly, your hands sliding up to push your hair from your face. His eyes followed the motion, catching every shift of your body like he didn’t want to miss a second, his fingers fumbling with the edge of his hoodie.

“H-How do you want to start?” He asked quietly, his voice threadbare with nerves. All confidence from the roof had dwindled pretty quickly once the reality of the situation really settled in, and now he could feel his chest tightening from the thought of what was going to come next. You could see it in the way he fumbled with whatever he could get his fingers on, it was the most obvious tell of his. You stepped toward him carefully, and held your hand out like you normally did with him.

”Come here,” You whispered. Bob didn’t hesitate this time around, taking a few steps towards you until you could curl your fingers around the hem of his hoodie, slipping your hands under the soft fabric so you could touch his burning skin. His jaw clenched for a moment at first contact, his lashes fluttering at the featherlight touch you always used with him. He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, letting out a shaky breath against your mouth.

”We don’t have to start any particular way,” You murmured, “Just be here with me…” Bob gave a slow, trembling nod, bringing his hands to your waist. You leaned forward a bit, pressing your lips against his, taking his breath away in one quick moment of time. You could feel his shoulders loosen a little, as he sighed into you, his fingers squeezing your clothed flesh gently, pulling your body closer to his. You broke the kiss first, removing your sweater quickly because you were growing warm extremely quickly, just like Bob you ran hot, but only when you were anticipating something, and this was definitely something you were looking forward to.

You threw the sweater to the side with a sigh, pushing your hair out of your face again as you adjusted yourself, seeing Bob’s eyes following your movements, and tracing over the skin that was revealed to him. The light camisole you wore hugged your figure just enough that he could make out the subtle shape of your breasts beneath it, and in the dimmed hue of the room he could see the way your nipples pebbled against the fabric. Before he could even stop himself, his fingers curled under the hem of the covering.

”Can I…?” His voice trailed off, looking down at you with dazed eyes. You nodded immediately, raising your arms up slightly, feeling the way he peeled the fabric up gently, wanting to drink in every inch of newly exposed skin. He slipped the camisole off you, throwing it to the side to join your sweater now, as his eyes returned to your bare chest.

For a second, it was like he didn’t breathe. His mouth parted slightly, and a stunned silence stretched between you before he managed to snap himself out of the trance your breasts had put him in, clearing his throat.

”You’re so…Beautiful. I mean–I already told you that, but seeing you like this–“ He cut himself off, looking down at himself, flustered, “Makes me feel overdressed.” You let out a small giggle, seeing the blush that crowded his face turn an even deeper red.

”Definitely overdressed.” You agreed, keeping your tone light, coaxing a nervous laugh from him. He ducked his head with a shy huff of breath, his hair falling into his eyes.

”S-Sorry. Didn’t mean to get ahead of myself, I just–“

“Hey,” You interrupted, reaching up to cup his face with both hands, forcing his gaze to stay on yours–his pupils already blown out from seeing your bare chest– as you ran your thumbs along his cheeks, “It’s okay…I like when you know what you want and ask for it. I also don’t mind being underdressed in front of you anyways. You don’t have to apologize, okay?” His lashes fluttered at you, as the tension in his shoulders melted just a little.

“Okay…” He whispered back, giving you a small nod, glancing down at himself. He pulled away from your touch, and with shaky hands, he reached for the zipper of his hoodie, tugging it down before peeling the garment off his arms and shoulders, letting it land in the soft pile of clothes that began to grow at your feet. You watched the slow rise and fall of his chest as he hesitated for only a second more before pulling his plain grey t-shirt off as well, letting it join the abyss below.

The second the fabric cleared his torso, your hands were on him–warm palms pressing against bare skin, tracing up along his ribs and over the planes of his chest, feeling the muscles contract beneath your touch, before bringing them up to rest at his neck. You pulled him down to you, fingers curling into his hair gently, as his lips met yours. The kiss this time was deeper–hungrier and desperate. He opened his mouth to you, feeling your tongue slip in, as your bodies aligned with each other again.

His hand slid up along your side, tracing over your ribs, until it found the curve of your breast, cupping it gently within his large palm. You let out a small moan of approval, your hips shifting slightly at the sensation and shivers that twinged up your spine. His thumb dragged over your nipple, circling it slowly before giving the flesh a soft and careful squeeze, not wanting to be too rough at first, drawing out a hum from you, and another gentle pull of his hair.

Bob pulled away from the kiss with a shaky smile, before peppering kisses along your jaw, and down your neck, carving out a wet path all the way to your chest, going to the breast that he wasn’t kneading with his hand still. His lips brushed over your nipple, testing, and teasing, waiting until you leaned toward him to close his mouth around it. A soft moan escaped the both of you, his breath warm and uneven against your skin as he sucked gently, his tongue moving in slow circles before fluttering along the peak. His other hand continued to palm and knead the other one, fingers teasing until both nipples were stiff beneath his attention. He switched sides, not wanting to neglect the other one, which earned another shocked gasp, feeling how more needy he was growing as he greedily sucked and nibbled. Your fingers laced deeper into his hair, trying to ground yourself when you felt your stomach somersaulting from the sensation of his tongue and mouth working in tandem together. Your words spilled out before you could really think–

“Jesus, Bob…” The moment you spoke he froze, pulling off your nipple with a soft, wet pop, lips shiny and slightly parted as he looked up at you. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes–God, his eyes–were wide and hazy, like he was drunk on you and the taste of your skin.

“Are…Are you okay?” You nodded immediately.

”More than okay.” You replied, as your fingers slid out from his hair to trail down his chest, moving with slow precision as you found the tie at the waistband of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze locked on his. You made quick work of it, undoing the knot in one swift pull before pushing at the fabric so it shifted down his hips, exposing more and more skin to you. He straightened up a little, taking his hand off your breast to push them off his legs completely, kicking them off to the side before mirroring your actions–going for your sweatpants too.

He bent down slightly to push them down your legs, and you took the opportunity to steal a quick kiss from him, catching him off guard. The both of you broke into soft laughter, easing your nerves a bit. Once the sweatpants hit the ground you kicked them off your feet, letting them be banished with the rest of your clothes.

Now in just your underwear, the air between the both of you was thick with anticipation. Your breathing slowed, and deepend, syncing with his as he took you in–really absorbing every inch of skin he could see, battle wounds and all–his gaze lingering everywhere. You let your gaze fall for a moment, catching the shape of him beneath the soft cotton of his boxers. His erection was unmistakable, full and straining against the fabric, the outline was thick and defined, which made you nervous, but also excited. The image alone sent a pulse through your belly, and made your toes curl.

When you looked back up at him, he wasn’t staring at your body anymore, he was watching your face. His expression was so open, so filled with awe and admiration that it nearly made your breath catch in your chest. He reached out, his fingers gently cupping your jaw, his thumb running over the skin, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips, savouring the moment with a sigh.

Then, without saying a word his hand slipped from your face and slid around your back, while his other arm slid under your thighs, lifting you to him with ease. You instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck and legs around his waist as he carried you the short distance to his bed, throwing the duvet down to the foot of the bed, before lowering you down onto the cool sheets, letting the mattress form around your figure, pushing you up a bit so he could get on top of you.

Bob settled between your thighs with the softest exhale, like he was afraid to ruin the moment by moving too quickly. His knees sank into the mattress, feeling the way your legs guided him closer to you. His hands remained gentle–one braced beside your head, the other holding the side of your hip, absentmindedly tracing circles along it with his thumb.

You tilted your face up to him, and he dipped his head to meet your lips once again. The kiss was slower this time, deep with care and tenderness. You kissed him back with the heat of a thousand suns, your fingers slipping into his hair, pulling him a little closer as your body arched up into his. His hand on your hip drifted up your side, tickling your ribs with the ghosts of his fingertips, letting the intimacy of the moment wrap around you like a second skin.

Then, he pulled back slightly, just far enough to look at you–eyes searching, lips still parted, breath uneven against your mouth. He hesitated for a moment, his thumb brushing idly over your ribs before he finally spoke.

”I-I want to go down on you,” He said quietly, as if the words were sacred to him. His voice was shaky, but you could tell it was just from the nerves that were pulsing through him in those moments, “I want to…Take care of you first…Want to show you how much I’ve been thinking about this…How much I’ve been thinking about you…If that’s okay?” Your heart thudded so loudly in your chest you swore he could hear it. The look on his face–open, vulnerable–was enough to make your breath catch. His words wrapped around you with such warmth that it rooted deep in your body.

You reached up, your fingers curling around the back of his neck, as you whispered.

”That’s more than okay.” He swallowed hard, and then nodded, giving you a small kiss, before drifting down your skin, his lips reaching every inch of you, peppering wet little marks across you, committing every detail to memory. Your hands drifted to his shoulders, brushing across the solid muscles of his back. He kissed your chest, then your ribs, all the way until he reached the edge of your underwear. He paused, lifting his gaze to yours again, just to be sure.

You gave him a small nod, watching his fingers hook under the fabric. He pulled the fabric down your hips, and thighs, as you helped him by pulling each leg out for him. He let out a sigh, looking at your completely bare figure beneath him now, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth for a brief moment before returning to where he was moments ago, putting your legs over his shoulders.

Bob leaned forward, brushing his mouth along your inner thigh, peppering kisses along the skin, memorizing the taste of your skin, inching closer and closer to where you needed him the most. By the time he reached your core, you could feel your whole body pulsing against him, thrumming with anticipation and desperation.

When he finally brought his mouth to your core, he slowly licked upwards, wanting to savour the first time he got to actually taste you. The feeling of it caught you off guard, which drew a soft moan from your lips–broken and boarding on a whimper. His hands tightened at your thighs, holding you closer to him as he licked you again–more firmly this time–his tongue parting you gently, working up to circle around your clit without touching it quite yet. You closed your eyes tightly, reaching down to lace into his soft brown strands of hair. You could feel his eyes on you, watching every reaction that he coaxed out of you. When his mouth finally closed around your clit, your fingers in his hair tightened, hips rolling into him with a gasp.

“F-Fuck…Bob.” You choked out, and that was all he needed.

He groaned softly in response–just hearing your voice sounding so wrecked like that almost destroyed him–and he settled deeper between your thighs. He dragged his tongue in slow, deliberate strokes, curling it just right at the tip, then flicking it softly against you until your legs trembled around him. He wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking gently, then swirling his tongue with practiced rhythm, giving you just enough then pulling back slightly to tease again, letting you chase the pressure.

Your back arched off the bed slightly, your breath catching in your throat.

”You…Holy fuck Bob…” You whined, not being able to find the words in your vocabulary because your brain was melting from the intense pressure that was building in your stomach. The way you said his name had him clutching at your thighs tighter, grounding himself as he buried his face against you more, like a man starved. He moaned softly, sending another wave of heat through your core, the vibration making you gasp. His tongue flicked, circled, and flattened, lavishing you with such deliberate devotions which drew you closer and closer to the edge.

He shifted slightly, and took one of his hands off your hip, bringing it between your thighs as he adjusted his other hand so it was splayed out along your belly. He traced his fingers through your wetness, dragging two of them along your entrance, teasing for just a second before gently slipping them inside. You bit your lip, suppressing a moan as you looked down at him, seeing how focused he was on pleasing you, his eyes glistening with such intensity that you felt like you were going to die.

His fingers moved slowly at first, letting you adjust to the slight stretch they provided, before curling them slightly, finding the spot inside you that made your back arch off the bed, crying out as your legs tightened around his head. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate, he just groaned again, like your pleasure was the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Oh my god–Bob–Bob please don’t stop…Don’t stop.” You begged, your voice breathless, and trembling on every syllable. Your fingers gripped his hair even tighter, as you felt the orgasm cresting with a pressure so intense it stole the air from your lungs. Your body was unraveling, and your muscles were tightening like a wire drawn taut. He felt it–he felt the way your walls began to pulse around his fingers, the way your hips started to jerk–and he doubled down, curling his fingers harder, sucking your clit in time with your shattering moans.

“Come for me,” He whispered against you, voice wrecked, barely audible but so sure. “Please. I want to feel it.” You broke apart beneath him with a cry, your thighs clamping around his head as your body seized, pleasure rocketing through you in waves so intense they left your limbs shaking. Your core pulsed around his fingers, your back arching off the mattress as you rode out the release, breath stuttering through sobs of ecstasy.

Bob held you through it, fingers still moving slowly inside you as his mouth gently eased off, switching to open-mouthed kisses along your thighs, grounding you, kissing you through the aftershocks. He watched your body tremble beneath him, his own breath ragged with awe.

Finally, when you dropped back onto the mattress with a long, shaky sigh, he pulled his fingers from you slowly, kissing your hip one more time before crawling up over your body. His skin was flushed, his mouth was wet and glistening with your arousal, and his eyes were glazed and dark with want–but there was so much tenderness in his face that it nearly brought tears to your eyes.

He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, before pulling back to caress your cheek, his thumb running just below your eye.

”Are you okay? Did I–“ You cupped his face, and pulled him back down to you, kissing him again, interrupting the words that were about to fall out of his mouth. He let a soft moan against your lips, before you slowly pulled back.

”You did…Absolutely amazing Bob. So fucking amazing.” Bob’s breath hitched the moment you said it, and you watched the praise ripple through him like a tide, flooding his expression with something raw and deeply earnest. He looked almost overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with that kind of affirmation, but he was appreciative of it regardless.

You gave him a second to breathe, brushing his hair back gently from his flushed forehead as he hovered over you, gaze still fixed on your face like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then you tilted your head toward his ear, your voice soft and steady.

“My turn.”

Bob blinked, his lips parting slightly. “Y-You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” You cut him off gently, placing your palms on his chest and guiding him down onto his back. “I really want to.”

He let you maneuver him without resistance, collapsing onto the pillows as you crawled over him, straddling his thighs with slow, deliberate movements that kept his eyes trained on you. Your fingers trailed down his torso, grazing the firm lines of his chest and stomach, watching as his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

When you shifted lower, reaching for the waistband of his boxers, he let out a sharp breath.

“Wait—” He said quickly, sitting up on one elbow, using his other hand to catch your wrist. “I–shit–I want you to just–just use your hands, okay?” You blinked at him, a little surprised by the request and the sudden interruption.

“Why?” You asked gently. His face flushed harder, eyes dropping to the sheets for a second before he met your gaze again, voice low and a little sheepish.

”Because I’m gonna end up finishing too fast if you use your mouth..And I don’t want to finish unless it’s inside you.” He admitted, his breath unsteady. Your thighs flinched at his words, leaving you staggered. You weren’t expecting it, not from him. Not from soft-spoken, anxious, stammering Bob…But then again he had just given you the best orgasm in the world…So he did have a bit more of a wilder side to him that evidently he only reserved for you at this point.

”…Okay.” You whispered, leaning in to kiss him once more, before easing down his body again. Your fingers curled into the waistband of his boxers, and you eased them down his hips, eyes never leaving his as you exposed him to the cool air. His cock was thick and flushed, twitching slightly with need, already glistening at the tip with precum. The sight of him made your mouth go dry, and your stomach turn. You wrapped your fingers around him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightened at your touch, his head falling back against the pillow with a soft moan. Your hand moved in slow, steady strokes, twisting gently at the tip, your palm slick from how worked up he already was.

“Oh…Oh god you’re going to ruin me.” He rasped, breathlessly. You leaned over him, your free hand braced against his chest as you shifted to straddle his thighs properly. The weight of you over him made his eyes flutter open again. His hands went to your hips, as if just having you there made him feel steadier. Then without warning, he looked up at you with glassy eyes and spoke.

“C-Can I sit up against the headboard?” His voice was rough with need, but still gentle—like he didn’t want to disrupt the closeness, only deepen it.

You nodded immediately, helping guide him as he adjusted, both of you moving slowly so nothing between you was rushed. You cradled his shoulders as he shifted upward, his back settling against the cold wood of the headboard with a relieved exhale. The lamp’s soft glow painted his chest in gold, and his hair was a little messy from where your fingers had run through it, his mouth still parted as he looked at you with awe.

You straddled his lap again, keeping one hand wrapped around the base of him as he pulled you closer again. His head tilted forward and he pressed warm, open-mouthed kisses to your chest, lips finding your breast again like he needed it, sucking gently over the flesh, making sure to leave a mark before pausing to let his breath fan across your skin. All the while, your hand kept moving—slow, slick, steady. You felt him throb in your palm, the heat of him pulsing like a second heartbeat. You could hear him panting, but he didn’t tell you to stop, so you continued until he pulled back from your chest completely, his pupils blown wide with something molten in his expression.

”Y/N, spit in my mouth…” He whispered, “I want all of you…I want everything. I want you in every part of me…Please.” He added, his voice on the edge of a whimper. Your breath caught at his words, not from surprise or shock but from the vulnerability the words had to them. His need wasn’t crude…It was devotional, like it was the only way he knew how to show you how dedicated he was.

You nodded once, slowly, with your eyes locked on his. Your free hand came up to cradle his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly beneath his eye before gently tilting his head back, exposing his throat to you. He kept his gaze on you, wide-eyed and trembling as you leaned over him, still stroking his cock while doing so.

With your lips parted and breath warm, you let a slow, steady thread of saliva slip from your mouth–down past his lips and onto his waiting tongue. He didn’t flinch, he just accepted it with a shuddering breath, swallowing it right when it made contact. A flush bloomed even more across his neck and chest. You smiled down at him, seeing how satisfied he looked. He took a deep breath, then surged forward, one arm wrapping around your waist as he kissed you, open and warm, with his lips parting against yours like he wanted to thank you with his whole body.

You deepened the kiss, your chest pressing flush to his as he held you in his lap, the heat of his body radiating against yours like a shell. His hands roamed over your back, your waist, everywhere he could reach, but it wasn’t frantic—it was gentle and slow, like he was memorizing you by feeling alone. And then you pulled back, just enough to speak, your lips barely brushing his.

“I need you inside me.”

The words left you in a whisper, but they hit him like a lightning strike. Bob’s breath stuttered, and his eyes fluttered open to meet yours—glazed, dazed, and swimming in something so deep it made your spine curl. He nodded, a little frantic, the motion jerky as he grasped at your hips again, steadying you, grounding himself.

“You sure?” He asked, drawing his brows together, his voice hoarse, wanting to be sure you were on board with this completely. You nodded, kissing him one more time.

”Never been more sure.” You adjusted your hips with care, steadying yourself as you guided him to your entrance, the tip of him hot and slick against you. Bob’s breath hitched, his fingers flexing hard at your waist as he tried to hold himself still, trying not to rush you. You watched his jaw tense, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you slowly began to sink down onto him, inch by inch, until he filled you completely.

The stretch made your thighs tremble and your breath catch, and Bob let out a strangled groan that vibrated through his whole chest. His head fell back against the headboard with a soft thump, eyes fluttering closed as he murmured something that sounded like your name paired with the words oh my God. You sat there a moment, your hands planted on his chest, letting your bodies adjust, feeling the twitch of him inside you, the way he was already pulsing with restraint.

And then you began to move.

It was slow at first, just the tiniest grind of your hips forward and back, your slick heat stroking along his length. His eyes cracked open, dazed and glassy, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He brought his hands to your hips, guiding you gently, letting you take what you needed at your own pace, and in your own way.

You moved together like a heartbeat–slow, steady, with increasing intensity.

Bob’s hands slid up your back, then down again to cup your ass, helping you ride him deeper, pushing you just enough to make your breath hitch with every descent. His moans became more frequent, low and helpless against your skin, and he whispered your name like a prayer, again and again, until it bled into the rhythm of your bodies.

“God–you feel so good–so so good,” he rasped against your neck. “I don’t think I can–oh shit–”

Your hips were moving faster now, desperation threading into every motion. The room was filled with the sound of skin meeting skin, your quiet moans, and his ragged breathing. You felt like you were both on fire—burning, blindingly alive.

And then, suddenly, Bob shifted.

Without warning, he gripped your thighs and flipped you, your back hitting the mattress with a gasp. Before you could say anything, he was there—above you—sliding back into you in one fluid, aching thrust. You cried out, your hands gripping his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, pulling him in closer.

Bob moaned softly, burying his face into your neck as his hips snapped forward with more force now, losing the gentle rhythm he had from before, exchanging it for something deeper, and more primal. One of his hands found yours and squeezed it tight, pressing it against the pillow beside your head, while the other shot out grip the headboard so he could brace himself.

And then the sound hit.

CRACK.

You barely registered it at first–you were too lost in the crescendo building inside your body, the way he filled you so perfectly, the way your name fell from his lips like he was worshiping you with every thrust. But his body shuddered on top of you, his hips jerking erratically now, the pace stuttering as he reached the edge.

“Oh God–God–Y/N–”

He moaned loudly, something close to a gasp punched from his lungs as his hips slammed into you one final time, and his whole body locked up. His hand crushed the top of the headboard–literally splintering the wood under his palm as he came inside you with a broken, breathless cry. You felt the wave of it, the way he pulsed deep inside, the warmth of him spilling into you, and it sent you hurtling over the edge too, your climax crashing through your limbs like a wave snapping every nerve awake. You cried out beneath him, your nails dragging down his back, your body seizing around him.

Bob collapsed, trembling, his forehead pressed to your shoulder, his breath hot and wild against your collarbone. His hair was a complete mess, damp and tangled and wild across your skin. He was heavy and shaking, still buried inside you, both of you locked in the aftermath–too breathless to speak. You could feel his heart pounding against you–where his chest was pressed against yours.

Then slowly, you felt him lift his head from your shoulder, his cheeks a complete crimson now, lips parted as he gazed down at you with those shimmering blue eyes again, like he was trying to comprehend what just happened.

In those moments he leaned forward and kissed you, like he was saying thank you, or maybe he was trying to determine if this really was happening. You kissed him back with the same softness he gave you, your fingers pushing his hair back from his face. He sighed, and pulled back from your lips, his gaze raising slightly. You could see his mouth drop open slightly, and his eyes went wide.

”…What?” You asked, your brows drawing together in confusion. He didn’t answer. Instead, he gently reached up and tilted your chin, guiding your gaze upward–and that’s when you saw it.

A clean, jagged split ran right down the center of the wooden headboard. Splintered and cracked like lightning had struck it from above. Your mouth parted in shock, and for a beat neither of you said anything.

Then you laughed.

It started soft–with disbelief and surprise–but quickly turned into full, breathless giggles that made your body shake. Bob buried his face in your neck again, groaning quietly.

“At least we still have my bed to move to,” You teased, stroking his hair to calm him down from the embarrassment he was probably feeling. “But maybe we should…I don’t know…Get things that don’t break so easily?”

Bob groaned again into your skin, and you could hear the shy smile behind it. “Y-Yeah…Yeah, maybe,” He mumbled, barely audible.

You could feel the heat creeping back into his cheeks.

“Though…” He added after a pause, voice muffled and sheepish, “If sex is always gonna be like that… I-I don’t think it’ll matter what it’s made of…” You smirked, pushing him off his shoulder so you could look at him–and the adorable way he immediately avoided your gaze. Your heart swelled.

“Sounds like a good time to me,” You whispered, brushing his messy hair back from his forehead before pressing a kiss to it.

Eventually, you cleaned yourselves up, and shifted to your bed, sliding in under the fresh sheets, tucking yourselves into each other. Bob curled around you protectively, your bodies bare and warm together, with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, nose buried into your hair. You fell asleep like that–saturated in the safety of each other, breath syncing, hearts still fluttering.

——————

The morning sunlight slipped gently into the room, illuminating the soft gold glow of the lamp you’d forgotten to turn off.

You were the first to stir.

Bob’s arms were still locked around you, holding you like he thought you might disappear. You turned in his embrace, resting your palm against his chest, letting your fingers trace lazy circles along his sternum, and the little scars that he had around that area that were barely noticeable. His eyes fluttered open not long after, blinking slowly until they found yours.

“Morning,” You whispered.

“Hi…” He whispered back, his voice gravelly from, as one hand moved to push your hair out of your face with the backs of his fingers. “You’re still here.”

You smiled. “Of course I am.”

He returned a smile back to you, cupping your cheek gently before leaning in to kiss you–sleepy and sweet, his soft lips barely moving, while his nose brushed against yours. He pulled back slowly, letting his thumb trace your lower lip. You kissed the pad of it, with a sweet smirk.

”I could stay like this forever,” He murmured, trailing his touch down to the side of your neck, taking in the image of you in front of him, making sure he would remember this moment. You tilted your head into his hand, staring up at him with your heart pounding against your chest.

”Me too.” He grinned, just a little. The kind of grin that was half love-drunk and half processing the events that happened last night, then you remembered what you were going to talk to him about yesterday when you came back to the room, before you found his note.

”Hey I was actually going to tell you something when I came back to the room,” You began, already laughing at the story, seeing the way his attention was on you, hanging off of every word “During training yesterday evening, Yelena and Bucky gave me the third degree abo-“ Just as you were about to tell him you heard Yelena’s voice coming from an already opening door.

”Y/N, missed tra-OH MY GOD! HOLY CRAP!” You jolted, the covers pulling up to your chest as Bob yelped and scrambled to sit up behind you, wide-eyed and clutching the sheets. In the doorway, Yelena stood with her hands over her eyes, then immediately turned and bolted out again.

”I KNEW IT! BUCKY I TOLD YOU!” She yelled. The both of you glanced over at each other.

”…I’m assuming they gave you…The third degree about us?” Bob asked, finishing the sentence you were about to say before the interruption.

“Yeah…” You whispered under your breath, trying to suppress a laugh.

[navybrat817]

The Day After

Pairing: Roommate's Brother!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Your new roommate introduces you to her brother, but you met him last night.

Word Count: Over 2.3k

Warnings: Implied explicit sexual content, mention of hooking up, tension, humor, flirting, slight feels (it's me), Bucky Barnes being a menace (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Calling this AU About Last Night. No one asked for it. Hope you enjoy it anyway! @targaryenvampireslayer @tavners @starlightcrystalline he's such a menace! ❤️ Thanks to the lovely @whisperlullaby for prereading and assuring me it isn't garbage. Any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

You groaned as you saw the time and wiped down the coffee table again. Rebecca Barnes, your new roommate, would be there any minute. You weren’t sure why you were so nervous. She seemed like a sweetheart and was down to earth, the perfect person to take the other bedroom and help with rent. Plus, she had already seen the place and seemed excited to be roommates.

She was doing you a favor by moving in. Your last roommate got engaged and moved in with her fiancé. While you were thrilled for her, keeping a place in this part of town was costly. You had debated downsizing, but there was nothing available. Giving up the place would’ve been tough as well since you did love your apartment and it was close to work.

“It’ll be great,” you said, taking a wipe to the table once more.

Maybe you were on a cleaning spree so your mind wouldn’t keep going back to the guy from last night. The one at the bar with the piercing blue eyes and charming smile. And the beefy frame and soft chestnut hair that framed his face. The same hair you pulled when he laid you down on his bed and kissed down your body and-

You jumped at the knock on your door. Now wasn’t the time to think about the guy who blew your back out. “Just a sec!” you called out, putting the cleaning supplies away before you straightened up your top. With a deep breath, you opened the door with a smile. “Becca, hi!”

Rebecca’s smile was enough to light up the whole place, her brown hair swept back to showcase her beautiful face. You imagined guys, and maybe girls, flocked to her, but she told you she was single and happy that way. You were single, too, minus whatever last night was. “Hi,” she said, balancing a box in her hand before you held your hands out to take it. “How are you?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Good, but I’ll be better once I get everything inside. I didn’t realize I had so many boxes,” she teased.

“I’m happy to help with whatever you need,” you promised, setting the box down by her bedroom door. “Is your car outside?”

“Actually, one of my brother’s friends let us use his truck to haul most of my stuff here,” she said, a worried look crossing her face as she looked your way. “It’s okay that they help move the stuff in, right? I’m so sorry. I don’t think I asked. The furniture is just a bit heavy.”

“It’s fine. You have nothing to apologize for. This is your place now, too,” you assured her. You remembered her saying she had an older brother. Was his name James? “And you shouldn’t have to lug up an entire bedroom by yourself.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. My last roommate would’ve flipped,” she smiled, heading back to the door to stick her head out. “This way, guys!”

The first man that walked in was thick with broad shoulders and a smile as golden as his hair. If you had to imagine an all-American man in the flesh, this guy was it. But the guy that followed inside after him, he was the one who made your heart stop. The one who made your knees buckle. Because you knew those blue eyes.

And as his eyes bore into yours, he smirked.

Fuck…

“This is Steve, one of my brother’s best friends and pretty much like another brother,” Rebecca said, pointing to the blonde as you blinked. “And that’s my brother, James. Everyone calls him Bucky.”

You were very much aware that people called him Bucky. It was the name he made you cry out when he was balls deep inside you the night before. There was still an ache between your legs that reminded you just how thoroughly he fucked you. It was a miracle you were able to walk by the time he was done with you.

Not only did you manage to walk out of his room, you left his place before he woke up.

To be fair, it wasn’t your plan to ditch him after he took you in just about every position you could imagine. You just had to get home, shower, and clean up a bit before Rebecca showed up. And you did leave your number for him.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Steve said as Bucky continued to stare.

The room suddenly felt very hot.

“James, could you not gawk at my new roommate like that, please?” his sister asked, waving a hand dismissively when he continued to stare at you. Thank god she spoke because your words were stuck in your throat. “I’m sorry. He does this weird staring thing sometimes, but he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“It’s okay,” you said, clearing your throat as Bucky raised an eyebrow. Why wasn’t he saying anything? You didn’t know what to say. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”

Bucky’s pretty eyes darkened a shade as he continued to stare you down. You shifted slightly on your feet. Was he upset that you left or that you just pretended not to know him, like last night hadn’t happened? But if you said you knew him, how would you explain it to his sister? You could’ve just said you met at a bar and left it at that. Or blurted out everything.

But how the hell were you to know Bucky was her brother? It wasn’t like the two of you had exchanged last names. Oh, Jesus, what was wrong with you?

The corner of Bucky’s lip tugged in a smile as he said your name. How did he manage to make it sound like honey and something sinful? “Becca was telling us all about you on the drive over. Said you’re very welcoming.”

Blood rushed to your cheeks as he gauged your reaction. “That was nice of her to say,” you said, tearing your gaze away because you didn’t know what else to do. “Becca, I can go to the truck and-”

“Actually, could you show me where the bathroom is?” Bucky casually cut you off, jerking his head toward the door. “Steve, Becca, if you wanna grab a couple more boxes, I’ll be right down.”

“Sure,” Steve nodded as Rebecca narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t bother my roommate,” she warned before she left with Steve.

The brunette swung his head back toward you, a wolfish grin on his face as you gulped. “I won’t be a bother, will I?”

“Bathroom’s this way!” you said much louder than you needed to, your heart racing as you went down the hall. He was right on your tail and you wondered if he would figure out which bedroom was yours and drag you into it. The hall seemed more narrow with him in it. The wonderful smell of him took up the space, too. “Right there,” you said, not looking him in the eye as you pointed to the bathroom door.

He put an arm up to block your exit. “Nice to meet me, huh?” he asked, tsking as he shook his head. “Did I fuck you so good that you lost your memory?”

You inhaled, your cheeks hot. “Bucky!” you hissed, looking over his shoulder to make sure his sister and friend weren’t back yet.

“So, you do remember my name,” he said. The smirk that followed almost had you dropping to your knees. What sorcery did this man have over you and how could you get it to stop? “I mean, you should remember it. I did have you screaming it.”

You stuck a finger in his face as you stepped closer. “Shut the fuck up! If your sister hears, she might get upset and back out of the lease. And I don’t want her to leave. She’s nice and I can’t afford this place without a roommate.”

He gripped your wrist and maintained eye contact as he swirled his tongue around the tip of your finger. An unashamed whimper slipped past your lips that you couldn’t smother, yet you didn’t make a move to stop him. “My sister won't back out of the lease, so don’t worry about that.”

“O-Okay,” you said, trying not to let him distract you as he repeated the motion. Your nipples hardened under your top anyway. Damn him. “But if she stays, how am I supposed to explain that we…”

“Fucked until the sun came up then fucked again? Yeah, you're right. It might be really hard.” He tilted his head as his gaze went lower. Was he trying to kill you? “About as hard as when I had my cock in your sweet, wet-”

You covered his mouth to smother the rest of the statement, but you felt the vibration from the word “pussy” against your skin. He chuckled at your expression. The man was going to drive you crazy.

“Yes, yes. We fucked. Best fuck of my life, okay?” you admitted in a huff.

A genuine smile touched his lips as he lowered your hand. Not a smirk or smug smile, but something lighter like when the two of you chatted over a drink. A smile that made your knees weak. “I was the best fuck of your life?”

You shook your head. You shouldn’t have said that. “That isn’t the point, but I do want to point out that I don’t make it a habit of hooking up with random guys,” you said, hoping that would be the end of it.

Amusement filled his eyes. “I know. You told me that when I brought you home and I believed you,” he reminded you, your breath hitching when he leaned in close. “But you still begged me to fuck you raw. Or did you ‘forget’ that, too?”

Electricity crackled between the two of you slowly exhaled. “I didn’t forget,” you breathed, your tongue darting out to touch your lip. It almost touched his.

How could you ever forget how right it felt when he filled you up?

“Yeah? Then were you embarrassed that you went home with me?” he asked, his voice quieter than before as he took your hand in his. His thumb moved over your skin as your pulse quickened again. “Is that why you left this morning? Or acted like we hadn’t met?”

Your gaze softened. God, did you hurt his feelings? You hadn’t meant to. “No, I’m not embarrassed that I went home with you. Not at all,” you promised. Bucky was like a god and you were a mere mortal that he somehow chose to bless with his presence. “I’m sorry I left. I only did that because I had to get back here.”

“I could’ve given you a ride. Well, another ride,” he said, brushing his fingers along your cheek, his voice still not back to normal yet. “I’m a gentleman like that.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, but I did leave my number,” you said, hoping that would at least soothe the unintended wound. “And I’m not at all pointing fingers, but you didn’t exactly jump to tell your sister we had met either when you walked in.”

He shrugged and looked over his shoulder. “She’ll be back any minute. Let’s tell her.”

“Tell her what?” You asked. The two of you hooked up. There was no label or relationship yet. “We did a lot of things that I don't think she needs to hear about.”

The smile morphed back to the smirk that was getting under your skin in the best way. “Then come to my place so she can't hear the things we’ll do to each other. You know I have a great bed.”

You smiled and considered it for a moment. The handsome menace was single and so were you. Would it be so bad to go with him again? Yes. You couldn’t ditch your new roommate to hop into her brother’s bed, especially on the day she was moving in.

With a shake of your head, you backed away. “You’re unbelievable,” you replied, almost giving in when he pouted. That look probably got him whatever he wanted with most people. “And I’m not going back to your place today.”

“Why not? Like you said, you left me your number,” he said, making a show of holding up his phone. “You obviously wanted to, at the very least, talk to me again.”

“Look, Bucky, can we talk about this later? Please? Your sister’s moving in today. Let’s focus on that.”

His shoulders slumped, but he recovered in the blink of an eye. “Okay, you’re right. But you promise we’ll talk? Because I haven’t stopped thinking about last night.”

You bit your lip. Yeah, you wanted to talk to him again and it warmed your heart that he seemed interested in talking to you, too. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it either,” you told him. But you couldn’t dwell on that when you heard footsteps approaching. “I promise we’ll talk later and figure out whatever this is.”

That appeased him for now since he dropped his arm. “Later then.”

“James! Are you done going to the bathroom? I thought you were going to help?” Rebecca’s voice rang out. “Oh, God, you’re bothering her, aren’t you?”

You giggled as you ducked past him. “He isn’t bothering me.”

“But I am offering to order dinner for all of us if she doesn’t mind the company after we bring the rest of the stuff up. Maybe we can all watch a movie, too,” Bucky said from behind you, smiling when you looked over your shoulder with an exasperated gaze. “What do you say?”

You had to smile back because you knew you’d say “yes” before Steve brought the next box in.

And things were about to get a lot more interesting in your life since Bucky Barnes seemed determined to continue whatever had transpired the night before.

Neighbor!Bucky level of being a menace. 😂 I also like to imagine this is a version of Stud and Smartie in another world had she lived with his sister instead. ❤️‍🔥 How long before Becca finds out? What shenanigans will these two get up to? Do you lovelies want to see the night before? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

The Hoodoo Apprentice

Summary: Amelia packed her things and took a train to Clarksdale Mississippi to reunite with an old friend, Annie. Annie promised she’d teach Amelia the art of Hoodoo. After a month, Smoke and Stack return with a plan to open a Juke Joint.

Warnings: SMUT

Part Two

Elijah ‘Smokes’ truck rolled to a stop. He cut the engine, taking a moment to finish his cigarette before he entered the home he shared with Annie. He could smell her cooking from where he sat, mouth watering. He missed good ‘ol southern cooking, more specifically his wife’s cooking. Smoke tossed his cigarette bud and grabbed a bouquet of flowers that he purchased from Bo Chow before climbing out of his truck. Walking around to the back of the truck, he lifted the tarp and grabbed a wooden crate filled with Irish Beer and Italian Wine.

Smoke made the short walk to the house, ascending the front porch steps before sitting the crate down to open the door. He needed this. No more running away from his problems. He craved his wife in ways he couldn’t put into words. Smoke had a lot of making up to do, and he was a man of action and very few words.

Smoke could hear Ma Rainey playing from a phonograph in the drawing room. He went to let himself in but paused when he’d heard sensual laughter and soft moans. His body moved from the door, down the steps, and around towards the back of the house. He crept stealthily, slowing down when he’d heard his wife’s name in a voice laced with lust…

One hour before:

Amelia held a woven basked against her left hip while she picked a bundle of collards for dinner. Her curly ringlets swept over her face annoyingly. She blew hair from her lips after grabbing the last bit of collards. Amelia makes her way back to the house. She climbed the back steps and through the screen door.

Inside, Amelia looked at Annie who was busy preparing the catfish for frying.

“Got the collards. I’ll go wash ‘em.”

Annie held Amelia’s gaze, “Thank you, Lia.”

Amelia started rinsing the collards off. Annie found herself caught in a trance. Amelia was situated on her knees in front of a bucket of water on the back porch. The motion of Amelia’s hands. The way her curly auburn hair reminded her of cascading stems, twisted leaves, and red, lipstick-shaped flowers.

Annie broke the silence, “Busy day at the shop today.”

“Sure was. Made a good profit too.” Amelia replied.

“…Whatcha think of Smoke?”

Amelia wasn’t expecting that question from Annie. She glanced up through her lashes at her.

“He scares you?” Annie questioned.

Amelia gave Annie a half shrug, “I—He’s a little scary.”

Annie giggled, “A little?”

“He’s a gangster, Annie. Scary comes wit’ the job.” Amelia jokes.

“Smoke is tough, but deep, real deep…he’s a softy.”

Amelia smirked, “Sounds to me you’re his safe space.”

Annie finished prepping the catfish and checked on the frying oil. Amelia brought in the clean collards. Annie situated herself beside Amelia, helping her cut the collards. Amelia stole glances at Annie. Smoke’s coming back did affect Amelia. Ways she never imagined.

“Is this his favorite meal?” Amelia asked.

“Smoke love him some catfish and collards. Throw in some skillet cornbread you got ya’ self a sappy man. Feed him good and put his head between my bosom.”

Amelia laughed lightheartedly. She bumped her hip into Annie’s and Annie reclined her head against Amelia’s shoulder.

“He strikes me as a breast man—”

Amelia stopped herself from talking. She caught Annie smiling at her warmly. Visuals played over and over in her head of the way Smoke sucked on Annie’s bountiful breasts. Like he wanted to fit his entire mouth around all that heaviness.

“He an all up on me man…every inch of me.” Annie spoke with intensity.

Amelia was witnessing in real time the beautiful bond between them. A bond so strong.

“The way he looks at you, it’s just so…so…”

Amelia studied Annie’s face as she tried to convey her feelings.

“…So inspiring.”

Annie’s eyes fell to Amelia’s lips.

“…You saw us havin’ sex…didn’t you?”

Amelia turned away from Annie. She tried to think of a way to respond to her. Too embarrassed to admit it.

“It wasn’t my intention, Annie—I just…”

Annie’s hand pressed against Amelia’s back. Amelia peered into Annie’s eyes. The hand on her back dragged down to her hip and she found herself flesh against Annie. Just like she did Smoke in that Shack, Annie’s lips latched onto Amelia’s ear. Amelia held onto the wash basin to steady herself. Annie’s skillful lips kissing and nibbling on her ear made her legs all wobbly.

“…thing is, I saw ya’ watching, Amelia…I saw ya’ fingering my pussy…”

“Did Smoke—”

“Smoke don’t know nothin’.”

Annie forced Amelia to look at her with a tight hold on her jaw, so tight her lips puckered.

“What happened between us last night…I’ve been fightin’ all damn day to keep from touching ya’. Truth is…I can’t stop…and I won’t stop…”

Amelia melted. Annie stroked her pouty lips with her thumb before sinking it into Amelia’s mouth. Amelia sucked on Annie’s thumb, eyes closed, soft whimpers filling the room. Annie’s thumb slipped away, leaving behind a trail of spit.

“I–I can’t stop daydreaming ‘bout it, Annie. I want ya’ to taste me again…”

Amelia extended a hand and stroked Annie’s cheek with her fingertips. She got up on Annie, breast to breast, and slammed her lips into hers feverishly. The sound of frying oil popping and the insects of the night mingled with smacking lips and soft moans.

Annie groped Amelia’s thick behind through her dress.

“Fuck,” Amelia tongued Annie’s lips, “Let’s go to the room, look how wet I am for you…”

Amelia grabbed Annie’s left hand and snaked it between her legs. Annie stroked Amelia’s pussy through her panties. Soaking wet heat. Annie attacked Amelia’s neck while her fingers pinched her clit through the satin material.

Immediately, Annie could feel her own pussy cat dripping. She wanted so bad to bend Amelia over the wash basin, lift the back of her dress, and ravish her cooze until she cried. Cried for Annie to keep going, cried after each orgasm. Cried like a good little bitch.

Annie needed to stop. If she didn’t, she’d have to eat Amelia on every surface in that house.

“We gotta get this food cooking…”

Annie broke away from Amelia reluctantly. Amelia’s chest heaved up and down. She thumbed away spit from her bottom lip. Annie was right, Smoke could be here any minute. Annie started frying the catfish and Amelia busied herself with the collards. Still, she craved more from Annie.

Sneaky glances, bumping into each other, soft blues with its melancholy instrumental circulating throughout the small home, no matter how hard they tried, neither one of them could resist. Amelia swayed her hips to the rhythm, stirring the pot of collards just the same. Annie had just finished cooking all the catfish and now she was working on the skillet cornbread.

“Shit…”

Amelia glanced over at Annie mixing the cornbread batter. Some of the batter spilled over her hand and fell to the floor. Amelia watched Annie reach for a towel, but before she could use it to wipe her hand clean, Amelia appeared by her side, capturing Annie’s fingers in her mouth.

Annie was paralyzed with lust.

“Amelia…”

Her finger slipped from between Amelia’s pouty lips with a wet pop, “don’t want all that good batter to go to waste.”

Annie’s clit ached.

Amelia trailed Annie’s spit–covered finger down her neck until she circled it around her protruding nipples. Annie’s eyes glossed over with arousal at the sensation of Amelia’s stiff, brown nipples prominently visible through her khaki dress.

“Lia…they so hard…”

Annie regained control of her hands. She cupped Amelia’s breasts and caressed them in a circular motion. Amelia jutted her chest out for more, extending her neck and throwing her head back.

Annie exhales, “You so beautiful, Lia. So soft…so delicious…”

“Not as soft and sweet as you, Annie…”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm,” Amelia stared deeply into her eyes, “A big, beautiful woman.”

She couldn’t take it anymore.

Buttons undone, Annie smoothed the opening of the khaki dress from Amelia’s satiny, chestnut skin. Her cup bra gave her melons extra lift, fleshy mounds like soft pillows. One by one, Annie released a breast, and she caved at the sight of Amelia’s wrinkled areola and hardened nipples.

Annie wasted no time flicking her tongue over each bud with speed. She circled her arms around Amelia’s waist and made love to her nipples with her teeth, lips, and tongue. Amelia chewed on the corner of her bottom lip, watching Annie move back and forth between each breast. She picked it up a notch and spit on her nipples before tweaking them.

“Annie, I’m so sticky between my legs…you’re making me so weak…” Amelia cooed.

Annie tugged on Amelia’s nipples while sucking on her neck.

“I bet that fat pussy is nice and messy…I know it taste good…”

Amelia whimpered when Annie went back to sucking her nipples. Annie forced one hand down the front of Amelia’s dress and wiggled her hand into her panties.

Annie popped a titty from her mouth, “Damn, wasn’t lying about how sticky you are…c’mon, quick…”

Annie quickly helped Amelia out of her dress and panties. She guided her to the back porch and pushed her down onto a chaise. Amelia didn’t have time to spread her legs and bring her feet up because Annie beat her to it.

“You seein’ this?” Annie questioned with a quiver.

Amelia dropped her hooded eyes down between her thighs. She couldn’t believe how soaked her folds are. Like a succulent storing water. Annie didn’t waste another minute. She smacked her lips and suckled Amelia’s pussy with urgency.

“You needed this pussy in ya’ mouth again look how good ya’ eating it, Annie…”

Amelia palmed Annie’s head. Annie strummed her clit with the tip of her tongue.

“Fuuuck…oh, shit,” Amelia moans, “Annie…Annie…Annie…”

Annie’s magical hands shoved Amelia’s thighs back to open her up more. She slurped and lapped at her pussy lips and deeper. Not once did she come up for air. Annie dragged her nails down the back of Amelia’s thighs.

“I’m finna’ cum…”

Amelia stuck two fingers in her mouth to suppress her cries of pleasure. Annie sucked her clit like she was sucking the sweetest juices off. Amelia closed her thighs around Annie’s head.

Smoke remained in the shadows of the Mississippi night and surrounded by evergreen. He had a tight grip on the flowers he’d gotten for Annie. Smoke watched with a twitch of his eyes. Perfectly round and perfectly shaped breasts with brown nipples bounced back and forth. The face of his wife hidden between buttery smooth thighs. The sound of a tongue and the smell of pussy.

His muscles were stiff. Obsidian eyes unblinking. The sharpness of his jaw clenched. Smoke felt all the blood in his veins rush to his dick. Amelia’s face caught the light of the night and it was whimsical. She stroked Annie’s hair affectionately while riding her tongue.

Smoke sensed it. He had a good feeling that Amelia and Annie were fooling around. Now that his suspicions were confirmed, he didn’t know how to handle the way his body felt. A mixture of lust and envy. Lust for the both of them. Lust to taste Amelia off of his wife’s tongue. Lust to join.

Envy because what’s his is on her knees bringing another woman to climax. Envy because whatever they shared, he wanted a piece of. Smoke’s free hand grabbed onto his thick print and squeezed. Tweed material itched his palm. Fuck, he couldn’t believe what he was witnessing. Fuck, he wanted to release his big dick and play with it. The desperation lining his face and the way his tongue smoothed over his teeth, these women sent shockwaves of pleasure through him.

“Annie! I’m cummin’ for you!”

Smoke’s nostrils flared.

“Cum for me, good girl!” Annie praised.

Smoke couldn’t believe the way his dick bulged out.

There was soft laughter followed by Annie surfacing with a wet face and brown eyes drunk with arousal. Amelia cupped her face and flicked her tongue with Annie’s.

“Thank you for that,” Annie kissed Amelia.

“Always,” Amelia spoke against her lips.

They both stood and Annie helped Amelia with her dress. Smoke tip toed away from the yard and pressed his back against the side of the house. He rocked his head back, glancing up at the starry sky. The throb in his dick and balls wouldn’t go away. Kissing his teeth, he drew another cigarette and lit it. His hands shook slightly as he brought it to his full lips.

Amelia.

Her beauty reminded him of a fairy. Something ethereal and magical. Hypnotic. He’d felt it immensely the moment he laid eyes on her. Whatever it is, Annie was under her spell. He’d never known his wife to enjoy some pussy. He had to get himself together before he walked into that house. Shouldn’t be so hard, especially for a gangster with a reputation for violence.

Smoke remained outside for another ten minutes before making his way to the front of the house. He climbed the stairs and twisted the door knob. The door swung open with a creak.

Annie was busy in the kitchen while Amelia plates the table. She wore a different dress, a brightly colored floral dress with a lace–trimmed collar and sleeves. Her long, curly hair was styled in a chic and classic updo with pins. Smoke could tell it was a rush job, because some of the curls framed her face. Amelia’s eyes flicked to Smoke.

Annie looked radiant. She changed into a crushed velvet, dark green dress with chandelier earrings that matched. Her heels click–clacked against the floor boards. Amelia bent over to pick up a cloth that had fallen and the way her backside spread beneath her dress, Smoke’s dick pressed painfully against the seam of his pants. Annie caught his eye and she smiled brightly before making her way over to him. She was wearing her good bra. Those big titties bounced with each step she took.

Smoke gave her a faint smile, holding up the bouquet of flowers. Annie pressed a hand against her bosom and pouted her bottom lip.

“Smoke, these are beautiful!”

Annie accepted the flowers and puckered her lips for a kiss.

“They’re so pretty, Annie,” Amelia said with an elated voice.

Smoke accepted a kiss and then he slipped Annie some tongue. Annie tried to pull away but Smoke placed one strong hand on the back of her neck to keep her tongue in his mouth. The sweet twang of Amelia’s pussy still lingered. Smoke groaned in Annie’s mouth.

Amelia watched them intently while placing silverware on the table. She was absorbed in their intimacy. Smoke caught her eye, staring at her with intensity. Amelia broke her gaze and stroked hair from her face.

He growled.

“Behave,” Annie swatted his bicep, “Dinner is ready. Go clean ya’ hands first.”

Annie turned and Smoke tracked her hips with his eyes.

“Cut all that switchin’ out for I give our guest here a lil’ show.”

That seemed to peak Amelia’s interest. She tried to conceal a smile behind her hand.

“Down, boy,” Annie eyed Smoke up and down.

“Ain’t no boy…”

Smoke tried to stick his fingers in the cornbread. Annie slapped his hand away.

“Go wash ya’ hands, Elijah!”

Smoke pecked Annie’s cheek.

He disappeared to the wash basin.

“Bring anymore wine?” Annie asked.

“Did. It’s on the porch. I’ll go grab some—”

“I got it, Smoke. While you finish washin’ ya’ hands?”

Amelia appeared next to him with an eager smile. Smoke had to collect himself from getting lost in those doe eyes fringed with long lashes.

The very eyes his wife got lost in with a mouth full of pussy.

“Uh, no need, doll. They heavy…”

Smoke wiped his hands on a towel and slipped past Amelia, catching a whiff of her perfume.

Sweet like peaches.

Smoke eyed the table set up, noticing only three plates.

“Shit, forgot to tell ya’ll Stack comin’.”

“No biggie. I’ll put a plate out for ‘em.” Annie replied.

Smoke walked over the threshold and picked up the wooden crate filled with wine and beer. Amelia set up a place for Stack. She walked over to grab an extra chair, but Smoke picked it up before she could. Amelia looked up at him.

“No need, let a man do it.” Smoke said.

“‘Course,” Amelia sauntered back to the table.

Smoke grabbed a bottle of wine.

I’ll put it in the icebox. I know how much you like it chilled.”

Annie brought the food over on serving trays.

Knock knock knock

The door opened.

“Look what the cat dragged in!” Annie said with a laugh.

Amelia’s eyes danced between both men.

Staring at them both, she could tell they were physically identical.

This Stack man just entered the home with a jovial smile filled with deep dimples and golds on his teeth. His eyes sparkled with mischief and foolery.

Amelia gawked at him.

But…their personalities…their auras…vastly different.

Stack removed his red fedora.

“Annie! Sup witcha, woman?!”

“Stack.” Annie said with a smile.

She opened her arms and Stack hugged her tightly.

“Big bro,” Stack dabbed Smoke before pulling him in for a one–armed hug. They did a slick handshake and glided back into a snap, “Woooo, good to see ya’.”

“Just saw ya’ earlier,” Smoke said.

Stack took off his suit jacket and hung it on a coat rack near the front door. His playful, lively eyes fell on Amelia.

Amelia gave Stack a shy wave. Stack strode forward, dapper gait drawing her in.

“Well, well,” Stack nibbled on the toothpick between his teeth and dragged his eyes over Amelia’s frame from head to toe with a tilt of his head, “Who this here, Annie?”

“My friend, Amelia,” Annie’s arm circled Amelia’s waist, “She came all this way from New Orleans to work wit’ me. I’m teachin’ her all I know about hoodoo.”

“She talk?” Stack questions with his brows pinched together and a twitch of his upper lip.

Smoke chuckled low, shaking his head at his brothers antics, “Chill now, Stack.”

“I’m only askin’.”

Stack held his hand out in greeting. Amelia eyed his hand with a slight lift of her brow before extending her hand with the back facing up. Stack wrapped his fingers around her.

“Amelia, huh?

“That’s right.”

Stack pushed the toothpick between his teeth to the side of his mouth. Cute little voice. Sounding like a princess in those fairytales.

“So, you do talk?”

Stack removed his toothpick and leaned in. With her hand still within his grasp, Stack puckered his plump lips and pecked Amelia’s hand like a true gentleman.

“Nice to meet ya’ gorgeous. Hope the Delta treatin’ you right.”

“Is. Thanks to Annie.”

Amelia smiled brightly. Stack stroked the back of her hand with his thumb before finally letting her go. Amelia fiddled with her fingers, darting her eyes away bashfully before swaying over to the table.

Smoke caught his brother’s eye.

Annie cleared her throat.

“Oh, let me clean these hands off.” Stack said.

He walked past the table, rubbing his hands together and licking his lips at the sight of all the food. Smoke pulled out Annie’s chair, and with one hand he pulled out Amelia’s chair. She curtsied before taking her seat. Stack finally joined them, unbuttoning the sleeves to his white shirt and rolling them up his forearms.

“Catfish, collard greens, cornbread, DAMN.”

They each took turns filling their plates.

“Amelia cooked the collards,” Annie shot her friend a look followed by a smile.

“Did she now? Let’s see what we got here…”

Stack and Smoke forked the collards in unison, not even realizing it. Amelia’s eyes danced between them with fascination. Smoke chewed slowly, eyes fixed on Amelia. Stack chewed with his eyes closed, shook his head, followed by a hum of delight.

“Baby girl…you put ya’ foot in this! Gahdamn…”

Annie nudged Amelia with her elbow. Amelia beamed.

Smoke nodded his head before scraping the side of his upper teeth with his tongue.

“They good, Amelia. Real good.”

Amelia twirled the fork in her hand with pride.

“Thank you, Smoke,” She glanced over at his twin, “Stack…”

“Forgot the wine…”

Smoke stood.

“You put a beer in there, Smoke?!”

“I gotcha,” Smoke continued out onto the front porch to grab the drinks.

Stack scarfed down the collards first, fork scraping the plate. Smoke returned and opened the wine, pouring the ladies two glasses full. He unscrewed the cap on the beer for Stack, sliding it across the table where his twin brother caught it with precision.

“Everythang alright, Annie?” Stack asked.

“Better,” Annie locked eyes with her husband, “happy you two made it back in one piece.”

Smoke cut into his catfish with his fork. He added a little hot sauce to it.

“I bet Chicago is nice,” Amelia chimed in, “skyscrapers, broadway…”

“Look nice. Still just the same as the south.” Stack said.

“Did you two stop by to see Sammie?” Annie asked.

Smoke nodded his head, “He good. Still got that guitar we gave ‘em. Daddy doin’ right by ‘em.”

Amelia nibbled on her cornbread drizzled with honey and butter. Stack cleared his plate and sat back to enjoy his beer. He couldn’t help but stare at Amelia. She could feel his eyes on her, looking across the table at him with a piece of cornbread between her fingers and hovering over her pouty lips.

“Amelia. Got a last name?” Stack questions.

“Broussard.”

“Pretty…”

Amelia coaxed the piece of cornbread into her mouth with her tongue. Stack continued to lay on the charm with his deep dimples and attentive eyes. He took a swig of beer as he stared down Amelia like she was the only person who existed.

Smoke glanced between the two of them, fingers digging into his pocket for a cigarette. He grabbed his last one and lit it. Annie sipped her wine and smiled at her husband. Smoke caught her looking and winked at her. Annie placed her hand on his thigh, caressing it.

“We never crossed paths?” Stack questioned Amelia with an expression of betrayal.

“No, Stack,” Amelia giggled genuinely, “Never.”

“You sure,” Stack pointed at her with a finger decorated with a gold ring, “Damn shame. Can’t believe this my first time seeing ya’. Annie, you been keepin’ her to ya’ self?”

Annie gave Stack a coy smile and then locked eyes with Amelia. Both of them looked away quickly, but Smoke was paying attention. He knew everything. She definitely is keeping Amelia to herself. Smoke leaned in to whisper in Annie’s ear.

“You got explaining to do later, baby…”

Annie cocked her head back and dropped her eyes to Smoke’s lips.

“Not as much explaining as you do, Smoke.” She quipped with a roll of her eyes.

Stack filled Amelia’s mason jar with more wine.

“Thank you kindly.”

“Anytime…”

Stack swept his hands down the front of his chest slowly, Amelia shyly pulled her attention to the last bit of food on her plate.

She loved Stack’s energy.

It excites her.

Some time passed and Duke Ellington Orchestra filled the drawing room. While Annie perched her big booty on Smoke’s lap, Stack twirled Amelia around like a merry go round, her dress spinning as she moved. Stack could jive! Amelia grabbed both of his hands and flailed her legs, laughed at Stack’s silly faces, and shook her hips.

Annie tapped her foot to the music. Smoke bobbed his head. Annie’s gyrating in his lap awoke the beast. He looked up at her. Annie felt him poking her rump. She picked up the pace of her hips, teasing him more.

“Annie…”

“What? You sticking me in the ass wit’ that dick.”

“Keep movin’ on me I can’t help it.” Smoke whispered.

“I felt that,” Annie was referring to Smoke making his dick jump, “Elijah…”

There was warning in her voice.

Stack exhaled, wiping sweat from his grow. Amelia fanned herself. Stack held Amelia’s waist as they swayed, hips pressed to each other’s and twin smiles on their faces.

“You the best fuckin’ dancer I ever seen.” Stack said.

“Aren’t you sweet,” Amelia bopped Stack on the nose with her finger, “And you a good time.”

“I try. Gotta make the most outta life with all the other bullshit goin’ on.” Stack replied.

Amelia snaked her arms around Stack’s shoulders.

“You got the sweetest eyes…mind if I call you Princess?”

Amelia chewed on her bottom lip and smoothed her hands down Stack’s chest.

“How much Irish beer you drank?” Amelia asked with a teasing smile, “that liquor got you sweet on me.”

“Not enough,” Stack peeled away from Amelia, “Let me grab some mo’!”

Amelia shook her head at Stack.

Smoke and Annie were dancing now. Amelia took a seat to cool off and removed her shoes. She massaged her left heel and flexed her toes painted red. Stack sought her out and took a seat next to her with a new beer. He slouched in his seat and swung his legs.

Smoke and Annie shared a passionate kiss in the middle of a slow waltz.

Amelia moved her hands up the back of her legs while flexing her ankles. Stack’s eyes were focused on her movements, studying her pretty toes.

“Take a picture. It’ll last longer,” Amelia teased.

“I’d take pictures of you any day. I got a camera back home.”

“So, photography ya’ hobby when you ain’t robbing banks and trains?”

Stack smirked with a single dimple.

“Sum’ like that. Whatchu like to do?”

Amelia pondered, “Reading. I love escaping from reality. Picture myself in a castle in the tallest tower…or going on an adventure…or falling in love…”

Stack studied Amelia. His beer was halfway through.

“We all need a lil’ break from the real, ya’ know?” Stack said.

“Yeah,” Amelia nudged Stack’a shoulder, “If ya’ ever need a good book to read, I’m ya’ girl.”

Stack licked his lips, “I’ll hold you to it, Princess.”

Stack and Smoke shared a cigarette on the front porch while talking closely to each other.

Annie and Amelia had just finished cleaning up. Amelia yawned into her hand. She felt lightweight and relaxed from all the wine.

“Had fun tonight?” Annie asked.

“It was wonderful, Annie. Best time in a long while.”

Amelia wiped her hands off with a towel while staring at the twins in deep concentration.

“Ya’ like Stack?”

Amelia looked at Annie, “He’s a good time. And he’s handsome.”

Annie glanced towards the door. Smoke and Stack had their backs turned. Annie slithered her way over to Amelia, dropping her head to her ear to whisper.

“Careful wit’ ‘em Moore men. They’ll turn your world upside down.”

Annie’s warm breath ghosted across Amelia’s cheek. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She kept her eyes forward.

“And it’s been a while since Nathaniel had ya’ right?”

Amelia clenched her thighs together.

Annie pecked Amelia on the cheek.

“Get you some rest. I’ll see ya’ in the morning.”

“Night, Annie.” Amelia said.

Annie disappeared into her room. Smoke heard the door shut and walked back inside followed by Stack. Stack shut the door behind him. Both men stared at Amelia. Smoke with an unreadable expression and Stack with a flirty smile. She looked away before heading to her room.

“I see ya’ later brother—”

“No, no, no. It’s late stay here.”

“I be aight—”

“Stack. Keep yo’ ass here, understand? Ya’ had too much to drink.”

Stack kissed his teeth, “Then where I’m a sleep, fool? On this hard as floor? In the truck? In your room—”

“Nigga—”

“You can sleep in my room.”

Smoke and Stack looked down at Amelia.

“There’s extra blankets and a pillow.”

“Hm,” Smoke eyed Amelia from head to toe, “See? Now ya’ got an excuse to stay.”

Smoke tapped Stack’s shoulder before backing away to his room. He left his twin brother and Amelia standing there.

Stack was wearing his white button shirt tucked into his pinstriped slacks. The first few buttons on his shirt were undone. A chain hung from his neck with a tiny circular dog tag from WWI. The same one Smoke wore.

“Well,” Stack ushered Amelia towards the room with his hand, “Lead the way, Princess.”

Amelia took slow strides towards the room. Inside, she grabbed extra blankets and one of the pillows from the bed.

“Aye, I got this,” Stack piled the blankets on the floor with the pillow, “I’ll give ya’ a second to change.”

Stack left the room and shut the door. Amelia opened the wardrobe in the room and picked out a lavender chemise with a matching robe. She undressed quickly, slipping on the chemise.

“Stack, you can come in,” Amelia climbed into bed.

The door opened and Stack peeked inside.

“All decent, Princess?”

“Yes,” Amelia slipped beneath the sheets.

Stack walked in, took off his shoes, and his shirt. Amelia chewed on her lip while her eyes swept over Stack’s burly frame. Bulging biceps, a thick yet toned torso, defined pecs. Stack tossed his shirt over a chair in the room and lowered to the floor. He was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Amelia turned off the kerosene lamp, bathing the room in mostly darkness.

“Goodnight, Stack.” Amelia said.

“Sweet dreams, Princess.”

On the other side of the house, Annie watched her husband strip down to his underwear, the fabric of his boxer shorts riding up his well–muscled thighs. His mojo bag sat between his pecs along with dog tags that mirrored Stacks. He tied a pressing cap over his hair to make the brush wave style Stack did last longer.

Annie wore a champagne–colored night gown that left little support for her large and heavy breasts, but it was breathable. Her hair was wrapped in a white scarf. Smoke sat on the edge of the bed. Annie got onto her knees behind him, massaging his shoulders.

“What explaining I gotta do, Elijah?” Annie asked.

Smoke shut his eyes and licked his lips with one swipe of his tongue.

“You sure Amelia just your Hoodoo apprentice, baby?”

Annie huffed, “What? Whatchu mean?”

“Ya’ know what I mean, Annie.”

Annie paused.

“…Smoke…”

Smoke looked up at Annie over his shoulder. Annie couldn’t hold his gaze.

“…How you find out?” Annie questioned with a tremble of her voice.

Smoke didn’t respond right away.

“I heard ya’ name, baby. I heard her moaning ya’ name. Then I saw it…I saw you tongue deep in her cooze…”

Annie’s eyes darted to the floor. She slipped her hands away and sat back on her knees. Smoke stood from the bed, facing her.

“How many times?”

Smoke folded his arms over his chest.

Annie shut her eyes slow.

“Three.” She revealed.

Smoke cocked his head.

“You fuck her three times, Annie?”

“Yes…I did,” Annie fiddled with her fingers, “It just—”

“I neva knew you to cheat on me, let alone wit’ a woman?”

Smoke shook his head in disbelief.

What Annie did next surprised him.

She laughed. Smoke furrowed his brows.

“Oh, Elijah,” Annie shook her head between laughs, “You left me for seven years. What did you think I was gon’ do?”

“I came back to you! I love you!” Smoke fired back.

He lowered his voice.

“Stop. Just stop it, Smoke. Ya’ like it.”

“Huh?” Smoke curled his top lip.

“Ya’ heard me. That’s why ya’ kissed me like that before dinner. Ya’ wanted to taste her.”

Smoke shifted his head and shoulders.

“I coulda’ put a root on that dick but I didn’t. Don’t stand there all tough and shit. I know you.”

Annie stood, walking up to Smoke. She got in his face with her hands on her hips.

“Say it. Ya’ like it.” Annie pressed.

“Annie—”

Annie cut him off, “Ya’ wanna play games, I can play wit ya’. Admit to it, ya’ liked seeing me eat her pussy…ya’ liked the way she reacted to it…ya’ like me being wit’ another woman.”

Smoke growled. He wasn’t trying to give in. Annie pressed up on him, never backing down, eyes glued to his.

“Say. It. Nigga.” Annie pressed with sass.

Smoke clenched his jaw. Annie lowered her searing gaze down between her husband’s legs. She almost whimpered. Thick dick twisted to the side in his boxer shorts and poking out the bottom. A big dick.

“…Fine,” Smoke stared her in the eyes, “Yeah. Yeah. I liked it.”

Annie tilted her head, “Wasn’t so hard, now…was it?”

Smoke clenched his shaky hands.

“Shit,” Smoke glared at Annie, “The way you looked…”

Annie placed her hand on Smoke’s chest. She glided it down his body until she was cuffing his dick. It seemed to pulsate in her hand. Annie curled her fingers around his shaft through his boxer shorts. Smoke worried his brows and parted his full lips.

“How did I look, Papa?” Annie whispered seductively.

“So sexy…”

Smoke grabbed Annie’s face and pressed his lips against hers. Their tongues swirled in a sloppy manner. Smoke lowered the straps to her night gown and Annie pulled his boxer shorts down until it fell around his ankles. Smoke stepped out of them, standing before Annie in all his naked glory.

“You actin’ all upset. For what?”

Annie dropped to her knees. Smoke’s big dick was pointed out and curved to the left. Annie looked up at her husband and then wrapped a warm hand around him, stroking him with a twist of her wrist.

“Alls you had to do was be real wit’ me, Elijah.”

Annie tongued the pre cum from his tip. Smoke placed his hands on Annie’s shoulders. He bowed his head to watch her, bottom lip wedged between his teeth.

“You know I’m right,” Annie dragged her tongue along the side of his shaft, “Don’t ya’?”

“Yeah,” Smoke licked his lips, “Stop teasing me, baby…”

Annie wrapped her lips around Smoke’s big dick and fit him all the way down her throat. Annie began sucking, down to the base and back to the tip. She tightened her jaws and rolled her neck to get a good rhythm. Smoke groaned deeply, hand on Annie’s head. Smoke tilted her head back a little so he could fuck her throat with slow, deliberate strokes.

“Fuck, Annie…deep throat on you…”

She was sucking on his pipe and looking him dead in his eyes.

Annie’s sucking made loud, wet sounds and left saliva all over her chin down to her chest.

“Damn,” Smoke could cum from how good it felt, “I wanna eat your pussy.”

Smoke slipped out of Annie’s mouth, dick dripping with spit and throbbing. Deep veins like loving trails for Annie’s tongue. Smoke picked Annie up and put her on her stomach. Annie arched her back and Smoke got down on his knees. He spread Annie’s big cheeks, keeping her open with a firm grip. He caught a whiff of that cooze and almost drooled down his chin.

“So beautiful…so beautiful.”

Smoke rubbed his face in it.

Smoke slobbered all over it.

Smoke sucked to his heart’s desire.

Smoke spanked those cheeks.

Annie was a moaning mess. She couldn’t form words, only sounds.

“Mm…oof…unh…ooo…ahhh…”

Smoke flipped her over. He pushed Annie’s thighs back so far her titties sat beneath her chin. Annie watched Smoke between her fat titties and round belly. He tongue fucked her, got his nose up in it, munched on it all with his eyes on her. Annie’s toes curled at the way his fluffy lips sucked on her clit.

“Smoke!”

She was loud, and she didn’t give a damn.

He ate her pussy up.

Smoke surfaced. He fisted his dick and then pointed it at Annie’s gushy.

“Had my dick so fuckin’ stiff—”

Smoke pushed in and started stroking. Annie watched Smoke’s hips grind, loving his stroke and how it pressed deep to make her cream.

“I’m creaming it, huh?” Smoke slapped her titties.

“Papa!”

“Uh-huh…”

Annie’s titties swayed in a circular motion. Smoke had her thighs out the way. Annie had nowhere to run. He looked up staring into the mirror situated in the corner. A slow smirk painted his lips. Sharp, calculated strokes had Annie gripping him with her walls.

“Cum on Papa’s dick, baby…”

Annie’s eyes crossed. Smoke’s mojo bag dangled in her face.

“Fuck, Annie! This good pussy!”

Smoke’s hips stuttered out of control. The bed creaked from the withering springs. Smoke shot off a thick nut deep inside of Annie’s womb. He propped himself up, staring down at her as sweat dripped onto her. Annie was experiencing an orgasmic high.

“Just what I needed,” Annie opened her eyes to stare at her husband, “I love you, Smoke.”

Smoke grabbed Annie’s hand that was stroking his face and kissed it.

“I love ya’, baby. I’m not mad about Amelia.”

“Ya’ sure?”

“I is,” Smoke leaned forward to kiss Annie, “Just a lil’ jealous. She got ya’ under a spell, baby. Three times?”

Annie giggles, “It’s that good. She tasted good on my tongue?”

Smoke responded with his lips sucking on Annie’s titties.

“I take it that’s a yes?”

Annie lifted Smoke’s face.

“She gon’ be here a while, Smoke…”

Annie thumbed Smoke’s bottom lip.

“…Then we give her a proper welcome.”

Annie’s eyes lit up.

Smoke let Annie up to get dressed. He decided to sleep naked. Annie turned off the kerosene lamp and Smoke settled behind her. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her against his front. Annie’s backside snuggled against his dick. The pale moonlight bathed their bodies, the sweat on their dark skin glistening.

@eggnox @blackisy2k @thickeeparker @theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @alexbabyyyy @readingaddict1290 @thedondada05 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @sug3rco0k1es @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @blossom3010 @kykylovesblog @desthefanfc @jeurden23janise @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @goddessofthundathighs @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @mynameisnikkinik @girlsneedlovingfanfics @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @pinkprincessluminary @rissa21405 @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @massivewolfslimeturtle @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @intellectualassholee @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @mysteriouslycertaincherrybl-blog @syko-jpg @inkdrippeddreams @rolemodelshit

[hatethysinner]

i've been thinking about an angsty little thing where remmick can hear there's something very wrong with your heart. it started small at first, he'd barely noticed when he met you, but lately it's been getting worse and worse (he can see it in your eyes, too. smell it on you) and it gets to the point where he's begging and pleading with you to just let him turn you - but you refuse every time. would rather die, in fact, than lose your soul. thoughts?

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪɴɴᴇʀ ᴛᴀᴋᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

ᴡᴄ: 5.3k

ᴀ/ɴ: title taken directly from this incredible song. fun fact, i was actually donna in my hs junior year spring musical (second fav role ever). i built my entire performance around meryl streep's i fear. anyway enough about me, YASSSSSS THIS ASK HAD ME SALIVATING HEAVY ANGST MY BELOVED!!! i honestly could've turned this into a full fledged fic but decided against it since i had so much other stuff to work on. i did not hold back y'all WE ALL NEED TO HURT! hopefully it doesn't seem too rushed but i as i said before i wanted to keep it drabble length so i had to consolidate the depression.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: established relationship, angst on x1000 lines of cocaine, this is actually so sad why did i make this, detailed description of heart issues, character death, very minorly playing around with vampire lore, excessive use of dividers

You never minded walking alone at night.

Had done it for years, really. Long before you met him. Something about the quiet made it easier to think, to breathe. The world got small when the sun went down. Just you, the dirt road, the cypress trees, and the warm Mississippi air pressing soft against your skin. Fireflies blinked like slow, patient stars at your feet. The cicadas hummed steady in the trees. And the moon was always so full, so close, you felt like you could reach up and pocket it if you wanted.

Folks told you it was foolish, of course. A woman of your complexion wandering out this late. But you weren’t reckless. You stayed on familiar paths, kept your wits about you. And for a long time, nothing ever gave you reason to be afraid.

Until him.

At first, you didn’t even see him.

The first few nights it was only a feeling. Something heavy hanging just behind your shoulder, close enough to stir the air but not close enough to touch. You’d pause. Look back. Find nothing. But the weight stayed, like a second shadow.

Then the sound started. The faintest crunch of boots against the loose gravel. The careful snap of a branch bending underfoot. Not rushed. Not clumsy. Deliberate.

You’d stop walking, heart thumping loud enough to hear in your ears.

Stillness.

Nothing but cicadas again.

It happened enough that your nerves should’ve snapped. But they didn’t. And maybe that was the strangest part. How the fear stayed distant, never quite blooming fully in your chest. Like whatever was following you didn’t mean you harm. Like it was waiting.

And then, one night, the silence broke.

“Evenin’.”

You nearly stumbled at the voice. Low, smooth, not more than a few feet behind you. You turned fast, breath caught sharp in your throat, and there he was.

Standing just under the curve of an old cypress, one hand hooked casually into his pocket, like he’d been there the whole time.

Pale, though not sickly, warm undertones kissed by the moonlight. Broad shoulders beneath a pressed white shirt, collar open at the throat, sleeves cuffed up just enough to bare strong forearms. His dark suspenders cut clean lines down his chest, and a simple gold chain glinted faintly at his neck. Hair dark, swept back loosely, like it couldn’t decide whether to fall or stay neat. And his eyes, those eyes. A blue so deep you swore they held pieces of the night inside them, pulsing faint beneath the moon’s glow.

He smiled, small and careful, like he didn’t want to scare you.

“Didn’t mean to startle ya, miss.”

You stared at him for a moment too long. Waiting for some signal. A reason to run. But none came.

He raised both hands slightly, as if to offer peace. “I been walkin’ out this way too. Thought I might introduce myself, since we seem to share the habit.”

And somehow, you let him.

His name was Remmick.

And after that night, he started joining you. Not every evening, not at first. But enough. Enough that the strange thing at your back became a quiet presence at your side.

He spoke little those first few weeks. Let you lead the conversation. Let you talk about your days, your small life, the world you carved out for yourself here. He listened with a kind of focus that made you self-conscious at first. Like every word out of your mouth was precious, worth tucking away somewhere safe.

Little by little, you learned how to read him. How his silences were full of thought, how his eyes softened when you smiled. How, even when he stood still, his chest rose and fell just a little slower than it ought to.

And how he never joined you before sundown.

He never offered much about himself. You didn’t press. Not then.

Until one night, cooler than usual, the sky pulled tight with stars, you invited him in. You don’t even remember why. Just that it felt right. The house was warm. The tea was sweet. And his eyes, God, those eyes, looked like they hadn’t seen home in years.

From that night forward, Remmick stayed close.

And now? He was part of your life.

The walks never stopped. But lately, they’d grown slower.

You noticed it first in your legs. The quiet heaviness that settled like wet cloth clinging to your bones. Then in your breath, how it seemed to catch quicker, how the cool night air filled your lungs less fully than it used to.

Still, you pushed forward. Like always.

The fireflies danced around your ankles, little pulses of amber blinking against the dark. You’d always loved them. They seemed softer here, in the night’s embrace. Like old friends keeping you company. You tried to focus on them instead. On the music of the frogs croaking near the creek, the whisper of wind through the tall cypress.

But you couldn’t ignore the ache that pressed into your chest, tight and hot beneath your ribs.

You pressed your hand there, fingers spreading instinctively as if you could ease it somehow, as if your own touch might convince your heart to behave.

Beside you, his voice came low, careful. “Ya alright?”

Remmick’s eyes were already on you. Always on you.

You nodded, too quickly. “Mmhmm. Just... winded, I guess.” You tried to lace the words with something light, tried to smile like you hadn’t just felt your own heartbeat stumble. “It’s been happenin’ more these days.”

He didn’t answer right away. But his gaze flickered.

Not surprise. No. He wasn’t surprised.

Something older moved in him. Something deeper, heavier. Like he’d been carrying this knowledge longer than you’d dared admit even to yourself.

He said nothing of what you both already knew.

Instead, he simply adjusted his pace again, falling half a step behind you, hand brushing your elbow in that soft, familiar way. Steadying without crowding. Comforting without pressing.

“Ya sure y’don’t wanna rest a while?”

You shook your head, biting down on the tightness in your throat.

“I’m fine, Remmick.” You smiled, though your breath came thinner than it should. “The air feels good tonight.”

He didn’t argue. He never did, not out loud.

But you felt it, how his eyes never truly left you. How they flicked between the dark path ahead and your unsteady steps, cataloguing each stagger of your breath, every time your hand drifted to your ribs.

His jaw flexed once. Twice.

And though he said nothing, you could feel it. The quiet storm building inside him.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just your breath.

Not anymore.

The sharp pinches in your chest had been happening more often. Small flashes of pain that stole your breath for a moment, like invisible threads pulling tight beneath your skin. Your legs felt heavier in the mornings, your arms weaker by the end of the day. And when you were alone, when the world hushed itself and the stillness crept in, you could feel it clearest of all: your heart, stumbling through its rhythm. Like a bird with one wing broken, fluttering unevenly.

You hadn’t told him all of it.

You didn’t know how.

But Remmick?

Remmick knew anyway.

He could hear it. He could always hear it.

You caught him listening sometimes, when he thought you didn’t notice.

At night, when you were drifting to sleep, you’d feel his arm tighten around your waist, his head dipping just slightly, just enough for his ear to rest near your chest. Not in search of comfort. Not for closeness. But to listen.

To your heart.

To the quiet betrayals happening beneath your skin.

You could feel his breath hitch when it faltered. You could feel the way his thumb would start to trace soft, anxious circles on your stomach whenever it skipped.

He never said anything.

But it terrified him.

And somehow, that terrified you more.

Because if he was scared, a creature who had walked this earth longer than you could comprehend, who feared nothing and no one, what chance did you have?

The fireflies blinked around your feet again, little golden lights rising and falling like tiny prayers. The trees whispered overhead.

And Remmick stayed close.

Always close.

As if his nearness alone might steady you. Might hold you together.

But some things couldn’t be held.

Not forever.

And you both knew it.

Even if you hadn’t said it yet.

The morning started quiet.

Soft wind curling in through the open windows, carrying the faint smell of honeysuckle and damp earth. Sunlight poured in gentle stripes across the wooden floorboards, warm and golden, like the house itself was still waking up alongside you.

You hummed a little under your breath as you moved through the sitting room, fingertips trailing lightly across the old lace curtains as you straightened them. Dust motes spun in the light like tiny dancers, catching on the fabric of your dress as you bent to tuck a stray corner of the rug back into place.

It felt good to move. To do something.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Remmick, of course, didn’t agree. He never did.

He was only a few paces behind you now, arms folded across his chest, leaning lazy against the doorway. But you could feel his stare, heavy as a hand at your back. Watching every little thing. Waiting.

“Sugar, I told ya, I can get that,” he drawled softly. “Ain’t no sense in you strainin’ yourself none.”

You waved him off with a small smile. “I’m not strainin’. Just tidyin’.”

His brow twitched, jaw shifting like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the place to press.

You weren’t fooling him.

You never really did.

Still, you moved carefully to the small table near the window, adjusting the vase there, fingers brushing over the wildflowers you’d gathered days before. They were already starting to droop a bit, their colors dulling under the weight of time.

That was the thing about delicate things.

They didn’t always last long.

Remmick stepped forward as you fussed with the tablecloth edge, voice gentle but firm. “Darlin’, truly. Let me.”

“I got it.”

You heard the faint exhale through his nose. A sound halfway between patience and worry. “You always got it. But that don’t mean you should.” His tone thickened a touch, slipping into that old softness when he got like this.

You didn’t answer. You just kept smoothing the fabric, pretending your fingers weren’t trembling slightly where they rested.

And for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But then,

It hit.

Sudden.

Fast.

Like your lungs forgot what they were made to do.

You felt it first as a tightness, sharp and squeezing, high in your chest, and then the air simply wouldn’t come. Your head went light. The room spun soft at the edges, colors bleeding like watercolors left too long in the rain.

Your knees buckled before your mind even caught up.

But you never hit the floor.

Because Remmick was there.

Quicker than any man ought to move. Like he’d known, heard, the shift inside you before it even fully arrived. His arms caught around your middle, pulling you up against him in one swift, desperate motion. The vase tipped from the table and shattered somewhere behind you, but neither of you looked.

“Easy, easy now, I got ya, I got ya,” his voice broke, fruitlessly attempting to mask its own panic as he lowered you gently to the floor, cradling you upright against his chest.

You gasped, mouth open, searching for breath that wouldn’t come. The pressure in your ribs pulsed like a fist tightening around your heart.

“Oh, Christ almighty- breathe for me, sweetheart, please, come on now,” His hand moved to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking fast and shaky against your cheek. “Stay with me, hear? Just stay with me.”

Your vision narrowed, tunneling to the sharp blue of his eyes. Wide. Wild. His pupils blown so wide the color barely held. There was fear there, deep and raw, more than you’d ever seen from him before.

He was scared.

Truly scared.

And Lord, if that didn’t scare you more.

“I c-can’t-” you managed to wheeze, voice thin and breaking.

“Yes ya can. Yes ya can, baby. You’re right here with me. That’s it. That’s it, c’mon.” His arm tightened around you, steadying your weight as his free hand moved, pressing flat and careful against your sternum, like he could calm the storm inside you if he just touched it right. “Slow now, easy. Don’t fight it, breathe with me, darlin’.”

He rocked you gently as he spoke, his voice low and rhythmic, trying to guide your body back to itself. You felt the faint tremble in his limbs. He was shaking.

“Look at me,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “Eyes on me, sugar, okay?”

You did.

Because you didn’t know what else to do.

The panic gnawed at your chest, but his voice, barely managing to keep itself together, laced with something old and desperate, cut through enough to ground you.

“That’s my girl. That’s it, there ya go.” His breathing exaggerated, slow and deep, trying to pull you into his rhythm. “In through the nose now, c’mon. Just like we do. Easy.”

Your chest hitched.

Then, finally, air.

Ragged and shallow at first, but air nonetheless. Enough to make the black at the edges of your vision pull back slightly.

“There it is, there she is,” Remmick exhaled, his whole body seeming to sag with the weight of it. “Good girl. Good girl, that’s it.”

You clutched weakly at his shirtfront, fingers curling into the fabric as your breathing steadied inch by inch. Tears pricked your eyes, partly from the panic, partly from the sheer relief of it.

“I-I don’t know what-”

“Shh. Don’t you worry ‘bout none of that now.” His hand never left your face, thumb brushing away a tear that slipped free. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

But you could hear the strain behind his words.

Could see it in the way his throat worked, the way his jaw clenched and unclenched like he was fighting something back.

For the first time since you’d known him, Remmick looked like a man barely holding on.

“Remmick…” you whispered, voice still hoarse. “I’m sorry.”

His face broke then, like the word wounded him. “Ain’t nothin’ for you to be sorry for, sweetheart. Don’t you dare.” His voice cracked again as he blinked back tears of his own. “You scared me half to death.”

“I didn’t mean to-”

“I know you didn’t.” He swallowed hard, pulling you tighter against him. “That’s why I’m here. I got you. Always got you.”

The house had gone so quiet you could hear both your heartbeats.

Yours, still uneven.

His, pounding fast as a hammer.

The evening light bled soft through the windows, painting the little house in long streaks of gold. Cicadas buzzed outside, low and steady, a hum that sat heavy beneath the quiet between you.

You hadn’t moved far from the spot where he caught you earlier.

Even now, hours later, you sat curled against him on the small settee, your head resting on his chest, his arms locked tight around you like he was still scared you might slip through his fingers.

You didn’t have the strength to pull away.

Truth was, you didn’t want to.

The air between you had held nothing but silence for what felt like forever. But you’d known this was coming. Could feel it building behind his ribcage with every breath.

And finally, when the last threads of daylight slipped below the trees, he spoke.

“Y’know there’s another way.”

You closed your eyes.

There it was.

His voice was low. Steady on the surface, but trembling beneath, like something brittle pressed thin. The words caught now and then, like his throat couldn’t quite carry the weight of them.

“Y’don’t have to suffer like this, darlin’.” His hand rubbed slow along your arm. “I can stop it. You know I can.”

You swallowed, lips pressing tight together. “Remmick…”

“I mean it.” His grip tightened, almost instinctively. “I can keep ya safe. Keep ya here. No more of this. This sickness eatin’ at ya, takin’ little pieces more each day.” His chest hitched beneath your cheek. “Ya wouldn’t have to feel like that no more.”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. They shone too bright in the dim room, already wet at the corners, like just saying it out loud had cracked something open inside him.

“I don’t want that,” you whispered.

His face broke a little right there, like the words wounded him sharper than any knife could’ve.

“Y’don’t know what you’re sayin’.” His voice shook, barely more than breath. “Y’don’t- sweetheart, y’don’t see what I see. Y’don’t feel it.”

“I do.” Your voice was soft but firm. “I’ve thought about it. Long before now. And I know it sounds easy. Temptin’, even. But it ain’t livin’. Not for me.”

His breath hitched again, faster now. “Y’don’t know what it’s like. What it’s like for me, watchin’ ya like this. Every time ya stumble, every time your breath catches, I hear it. I hear your heart struggle. I hear what’s comin’ before ya even feel it.” His hand cupped your face suddenly, his thumb trembling where it brushed your cheek. “And one day I won’t hear it quick enough. One day I’ll be too slow.”

“Remmick-”

“Please.” The word broke out of him, so earnestly it made your throat ache. “Don’t make me watch ya go.”

Tears slipped free down his face now, unchecked. His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven breaths as his hands clutched you tighter like the world itself was trying to pull you away from him.

“I can fix it. I can. Just say it. Say y’want me to, and it’s done.” His voice dropped to a whisper, wrecked and desperate. “I’ll be gentle with ya. Ya won’t even feel a thing. You’ll be safe. Forever.”

You reached up, pressing your hands over his where they held your face, trying to steady him.

“No,” you whispered. “Remmick, no.”

His whole body shuddered beneath you like the word shattered him all over again.

“Why?” His voice cracked on the single word, the sob behind it splitting straight up his throat. “Why won’t ya let me keep ya?”

“Because it’s not meant for me,” you whispered. “You know that.”

“I don’t care.” He choked on the words, burying his face into the crook of your neck now, clutching at you like something drowning. “I can’t lose you. I can’t, darlin’. Please, please, don’t ask me to stand by and watch ya fade. Don’t ask me to bury ya. Not again.”

His shoulders heaved with the weight of it, his sobs spilling out ragged and broken into your skin.

You held him.

Ran your fingers through his hair as his body trembled against you.

“I know you’re scared,” you whispered. “Lord knows I’m scared too. But I need you to love me enough to let me go when the time comes.”

“I-” he gasped, breath catching again. “I don’t know how to live without ya.”

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the salt of his tears soak into your dress. “You won’t have to. Not yet.”

He clung to you tighter still, as though each passing second might be stolen if he loosened his grip.

The house stayed quiet.

Only the sound of his breathing and your heartbeat filled the room, steady for now.

And so you held him, as the night stretched long and heavy, wrapped together in the slow ache of what neither of you could stop coming.

You wished it had killed you quickly.

That would’ve been easier. Cleaner.

Something swift, something merciful. Something that hit like a bolt of lightning in the middle of a sentence, gone before the thought even finished forming. You’d prayed for that, in quiet, exhausted moments. You’d begged for it, even. A sharp end, a quick fade. No drawn-out aching. No time for goodbyes.

But instead, it dragged you slow toward the end. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. Like the sickness wanted to savor its work.

Some mornings it started behind your eyes, a dull pressure you couldn’t blink away. Other days, it sat like lead in your spine, turning each small movement into something heavy and hollow. There were hours when you felt like a husk of yourself. Nothing inside but heat, and pain, and the weight of what was slipping through your fingers.

The mornings blurred together. Then the afternoons. Then the nights.

Meals became sips of broth. Then just water. Then even that burned going down. The world outside the bedroom slipped further and further out of reach. The sound of the creek, the light breeze from the back porch, the smell of wet grass after rain, gone now, like dreams too faint to hold onto. Each day stole more than the last. More air. More strength. More pieces of yourself.

Until all you had left was this bed.

And him.

Remmick never left your side. Not for a second. Not once.

He was always there, his silhouette hunched near the headboard, one hand gripping yours like a lifeline, the other on your torso, like he needed to feel the steady rise and fall of your chest to remind himself you were still breathing.

You’d lost count of how many nights he sat upright beside you, shoulders stiff and unmoving as stone, his frame outlined in the faint, flickering light of the oil lamp he kept burning low on the dresser. His clothes grew rumpled. His hair stayed uncombed. Days passed, and still he didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Like his body had surrendered to the same rhythm as yours. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He cradled your hand in both of his like it was the last piece of you he could hold on to. Like if he held tight enough, if he laced your fingers between his and pressed the back of your hand to his chest, he might somehow keep your soul from slipping loose.

He barely spoke anymore.

No more half-jokes about your stubbornness. No more soft stories about the land or the creek or the way you used to look at him when you thought he wasn’t paying attention. That steady hum of his voice, the one that once wrapped around you so tenderly and completely was gone now, tucked deep beneath the weight of his silence.

Just watched. Listened. Waited.

The house was dim, curtains drawn to keep the light soft on your skin. He’d done that himself. He said the sun hurt your eyes. Said the light made your cheeks too flushed. But mostly, he did it so he could sit with you in a room that didn’t ask for anything else. So the world outside wouldn’t press in.

The only sound was the steady rasp of your breathing, thin and fragile as a thread pulled too taut.

You could feel it.

The end wasn’t far.

It sat just beyond the horizon of your chest. Looming, certain. Like a tide finally rolling in to claim what it had been circling all along. You felt it in the cold weight at the base of your spine, in the dull flutter of your heart as it labored harder for less. It wasn’t fear you felt, exactly. Just… clarity. Like the world had stilled enough to let you see it for what it really was.

Your eyes fluttered open, lashes sticking to the heat beneath them. You searched for him even though you already knew where he was.

Right there.

Always right there.

He looked up the moment your gaze found him, like he’d been waiting for that small flicker of movement all day.

His hands tightened around yours the second he saw your eyes open. Not hard, just firm enough to steady himself. Like if he didn’t hold on, he might fall apart entirely.

His face was pale, drawn thin from the weight of too many sleepless days. The angles of his cheekbones had sharpened. His jaw looked tense enough to crack. The skin beneath his eyes had hollowed into deep shadows, bruised with the kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from a lack of rest, but from a soul stretched too far for too long.

Grief was already carving its place inside him. You saw it in every angle of his face. Every shallow breath he took like he was afraid it might be his last with you.

And still, he held your hand.

Still, he stayed.

Still, he looked at you like nothing else in the world mattered. Because to him, nothing else ever would.

“Hey, darlin’.” His voice broke as he whispered it, low and rough.

You turned your head with effort, the motion slow and small like everything else these days. Still, you managed a soft smile just for him. It didn’t stretch far, didn’t brighten the way it once had, but it was real.

“Hey,” you breathed.

Remmick leaned in closer, close enough for his shadow to fall across your face. His fingers found your hair and ever so gently played with your curls, like he was afraid even that might be too much. His hands never used to shake. Now they trembled like he couldn’t hold anything steady, not even this moment.

“Y’still with me?” he asked, voice tight with held-in breath.

You gave the faintest nod. “I’m still here.”

He let out a shuddering breath and gripped your hand tighter in his. His thumb rubbed across your knuckles, over and over again, like maybe he could ground himself there. Keep you anchored with the rhythm of it.

“I-I don’t think I can do this,” he said, barely audible. “I don’t think I can sit here and just… watch ya fade away.”

You brushed your thumb along the back of his hand, your touch weak but steady. “You don’t have to watch. Just stay beside me. That’s all I want.”

Remmick blinked fast, but it didn’t stop the tears. They came anyway, slipping past his lashes in silence. He shook his head, his whole body trembling like something inside him was unraveling.

Because it was.

“I could stop it,” he whispered. “Y’know I could. I’ve been beggin’ you for weeks now, but... sweetheart, please. Please just let me. One word, and ya won’t have to go.”

He leaned his forehead to yours, breath hitching between words.

“I can fix it,” he said, broken and full of hope so fragile it barely stood upright. “I swear to God, I can fix it. Ya’d never feel like this again. Ya’d stay. We’d have time. Real time. Just say yes.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as you took a long, tired breath, letting his voice wrap around you like a favorite song. You wanted so badly to take the ache from him. To make it all better.

But your heart had already made its peace.

“Remmick,” you whispered, your voice soft as you could manage. “I know. I know you could. And I know you’d give up everythin’ to do it.”

He clutched your hand tighter against his chest, like he could keep your warmth there a little longer. His tears spilled freely now, streaking down his cheeks, wetting the pillow beneath you both.

“Then why?” he asked, voice cracking around the edges. “Why won’t ya let me? I can’t lose ya, sugar. I don’t know who I am without ya no more.”

You opened your eyes, and the sadness in his face nearly broke you in two.

“Because it wouldn’t be me anymore,” you whispered. “Not really. Not the way I am now. And I want you to remember me like this. Just me. Alive. Human. Yours.”

He shook his head again, wild with grief. “I don’t care what ya’d be. I’d still love ya. I’d love ya through all of it. I’d follow ya into hell if I had to.”

You smiled through the tears. “I know you would.”

Your breath hitched softly, chest fluttering like a bird trying to lift its wings one last time. He was already leaning close, so you reached up with what little strength you had and brushed your fingertips along his jaw. He caught your hand halfway and pressed it to his cheek like it meant everything.

“I love you, Remmick,” you whispered, so warm and sure it made his eyes squeeze shut.

He folded into the words like they gave him somewhere safe to fall.

“I love you more,” he sobbed, voice so thick he could barely speak. “More than life. More than anythin’. You hear me? You were always my breath, my light, my- my whole damn world.”

You smiled again, the edges weak but sweet. “Will you kiss me?”

His answer didn’t come in words, only in motion.

He bent toward you, lips trembling as he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft. Full of everything he didn’t know how to say. The shape of every goodbye wrapped in one final touch. You could taste the salt of his grief, feel the way he poured every last bit of love into you.

When he pulled back, you leaned your forehead to his, your breaths mingling.

“I’m not scared,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes shut tight.

“I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not goin’ anywhere.”

And you smiled for him.

One last time.

Your eyes drifted closed.

Your chest rose, slow and shallow.

Then stilled.

The room fell silent.

The quiet stretched long.

Longer than time.

Longer than grief.

Nothing moved.

Nothing breathed.

Not for him.

And then,

You gasped.

Eyes flying open. Chest heaving. Sharp and full and wrong.

The world slammed back into you like a storm door flung wide. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. You choked on the first breath like it hurt, because it did. It burned. Your lungs screamed with it, your body flooded with sensation you’d already let go of. Air. Heat. Sound. Blood in your veins that thudded too hard and too fast.

And there he was.

Remmick.

Hovering above you, eyes wide and wet and terrified. His mouth trembled as it formed your name, soundless at first, then barely whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter something sacred.

Your body was still wrapped in his arms.

Still warm.

Still here.

He was staring at you like you weren’t real. Like you might vanish if he blinked. His whole frame shook against yours, every muscle tensed to breaking. Until it wasn’t.

Until something in him gave way all at once, and he collapsed forward.

You caught him out of instinct, what little strength you had now cradling him back. But it was strange, how heavy he felt. How fast his body sank against yours.

And then you saw it.

His mouth.

Red.

Not the dry red of old blood. Not the glossy red of smudged lipstick or split skin.

Fresh red. Your red.

His fangs, half-bared and still slick, glinted faintly in the low light. His lips stained deep like wine on white linen. No attempt to clean them. No shame.

Only relief.

A smile had begun to form on his face, shaky and unsure, like a man standing at the altar of a god he’d never believed in until now.

You knew what he’d done.

Before you could feel anything about it, not anger, not sorrow, not horror, he sank deeper into your chest, arms going slack but clinging all the same. Like his body couldn’t decide whether to faint or hold on forever.

He’d spent everything.

Poured it all into you.

And now,

Remmick was trembling, wracked again and again with guttural sobs. Breathing, but just barely.

You lay there, dazed and aching, one hand caught in the back of his shirt, the other pressed gently to his damp hair.

The silence that followed was not peace.

It was something else.

Heavy.

Stained with love and betrayal and devotion and grief, all tangled so tightly together they might as well have been the same thing.

And you...

You held him anyway.

[sinsxo]

handle with care. —blue lock

ft. itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro.

synopsis. a few of the blue lock boys with their clumsy girlfriend! apparently, she comes with a handle with care label (quite literally).

cw. drabble, they’re your boyfriends, fem!reader, fluff

wc. 954 words, not proofread.

itoshi rin ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

after what felt like a thousand years, you and rin finally got time off — no work emails, no last-minute overtime. and for once, rin wasn't being held hostage by his endless cycle of tournaments and training sessions. peace. no responsibilities, no alarms, just the couch and an entire bag of snacks.

you sat down and unpacked the snacks, spreading them out on the coffee table while rin stood in front of the tv, scrolling through the netflix library like there was nothing worthy of his time.

then, your eyes landed on his favourite chips — a very sacred object — the one he usually kept hidden like a national treasure. you smirked like a villain and reached for the bag, trying to quietly open it without catching his attention.

“what do you wanna watch?” he asked, still scrolling through the options.

you didn’t answer, too busy fighting with the chip bag like it personally offended you.

“hey, what do you—”

POP!

the chips were everywhere, it scattered like confetti. all over your thighs, the couch, the floor. and rin turned around just in time to catch you looking guilty with a half-open bag in hand and an awkward little smile on your face.

“uh... so—”

he sighed before putting down the remote and walking over, brushing chip dust off you.

“you’re always so clumsy. what were you trying to do?” he muttered, as he brushed the chips off your lap. “i never said you couldn't eat it.”

“i didn’t think it’d explode.”

“well, clearly. you always think things won’t explode until they do,” he said as he swept the chips off the couch and onto the floor. “you could've just asked.”

“but it’s your favourite…”

“you were gonna eat it all anyway. this just saved us a step,” he sighed again. “come on, let’s clean up. you, and the couch. in that order.”

itoshi sae ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

“sae, have you seen my phone?” you called out, already flipping cushions on the couch.

without looking up, he held it out to you. “here.”

“…why is it cold?”

“you left it in the fridge. again.”

“oh, again? why was it in the fridge?”

“mhmm, i want to know too. that’s what i’ve been asking myself since last week.” he was sitting on the couch, still drying his hands from washing the dishes earlier. “it was right next to the pickles. very efficient.”

you plopped down beside him, mildly offended. “it was a moment of distraction.”

“or maybe the fridge is your new handbag.”

“okay, funny,” you said, then your eyes widened. “wait— i left my bag in the car. and the groceries. the ice cream’s in there!”

“i already brought them in. and your bag’s in the bedroom,” he said, turning to glance at you. “not like you ever carry the groceries in anyway.”

“yeah well, carrying groceries isn’t my role in this relationship.”

“right. you just leave your phone in a cold storage and call it a day.”

“shh, you act like i do it all the time,” you said as you got up to get a glass of water. in the kitchen, you reached into the cabinet for a cup and accidentally nudged a few mugs.

before one could crack your skull, sae’s hand shot out from behind you, steadying them like it was a reflex.

“whoa, thanks,” you said casually, like you didn’t almost startle him into a heart attack. “that was close.”

“you really live on the edge, huh? you’re really shaving years off my life,” he muttered, watching you like you were an earthquake — sudden and unpredictable. “at this rate, i’m gonna end up with grey hair at 30. i swear, i’ve aged ten years just from being around you.”

“i’m not that clumsy.”

“right, right,” he said as he followed you back to the living room.

you immediately plopped back down on the couch and kicked your legs up onto the table like the girl boss you are.

“hey, watch your feet,” he said, catching your ankle mid-air before you accidentally dropkicked your glass of water onto both your phones. “barely two minutes. two. and there goes another three years of my life, easy. ”

nagi seishiro ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

“head,” nagi mumbled.

you blinked. “huh?”

nagi’s arm hovered over your head as you stepped out of the car, shielding you from the car roof like a sleepy yet strangely effective bodyguard.

“arm,” he said, catching your elbow before you could trip over absolutely nothing on the way out of the car. “stay,” he added, like you were a puppy as he took the shopping bags from the backseat.

“let’s go,” he carried them like they were as light as air, fingers still loosely tangled with yours as you crossed the parking lot. and once you got to your apartment, he set the bags down and helped you out of your heels before you could stumble over them.

every time you turned a corner, his hand was already there, guarding the sharp edge like a bumper sticker.

“you don’t have to shield me from every corner, y’know?” you said, amused.

“you bump into a random corner at least twice a day. your hips haven’t been bruise-free since we met. at this rate, they’ll never heal.”

“it’s not that bad. they’re healing just fine,” you argued as he picked up the bags and took them to the bedroom.

“sure,” he said while you followed behind him. “until you hit your head. or drop something in the kitchen. or bump into the car door. or—”

thunk.

you stubbed your toe on the bedframe mid-sentence.

“or stub your toe. thanks for the live demonstration and proving my point,” he said, absolutely unfazed.

“ow.”

“mmm, told you.”

© all written works are created and owned by @sinsxo. do not plagiarise, modify, repost or translate any of my content on other platforms under any circumstances.

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

[millermouth]

joel miller x you

not that anyone asked but here's a fluffy drabble because my social battery has been so low from a weekend of social shit that today I literally couldn't wait to leave and wished joel miller could come save me. gooooodnight. sometimes I write these little drabbles and never post cause idk they're not smutty or even interesting. but I just love picturing joel in my regular life. so yeah. here you go I guess! warnings: brief mention of hard relationship with extended family

It was exactly as your Aunt Kathy launched into her third, inexplicably detailed anecdote about her goldendoodle’s latest grooming fiasco that you felt the last flicker of your social battery sputter out and die. You’d seen it coming, the warning signs blinking dimly in the corners of your mind like a low fuel light you always swore you’d heed earlier next time: the long, barely-stifled sighs, the aching behind your eyes, the zoning out during conversations. You had tried, by God, you really did, to stretch it a little longer, to hold out for dessert or maybe just until Sarah got tired enough to want to leave too. But it always crept up the same way, that sensation of being entirely alone in a room full of fifteen people who had known you your whole life and still couldn’t seem to really see you. The same people who spoke over you with affection or obligation but never understanding.

You were already shrinking into the lawn chair, your elbows heavy on the plastic arms, your gaze unfocused and blank as your cousin’s husband droned on about his golf swing, when you felt the warm weight of a hand settle on your shoulder—the only hand in the world that made your shoulders loosen instead of stiffen. Joel had moved in beside you without a word, like a second sense had guided him from across the yard straight to you. The denim of his jeans brushed your bare arm and you tilted your head to rest the side of his leg, seeking him like shade on a sun-drenched afternoon. His hand drifted from your shoulder to the bottom of your neck, fingers parting the hair there, scratching slow and absent-minded. 

And then he pulled a little harder at the nape: You okay? It meant. How bad is it? Do you want out? Do you need me to be the bad guy and make an excuse? Because I will.

You tilted your face up to look at him. His cheeks were flushed red from running around the yard with Sarah and your nephew, his forehead damp with sweat, the neck of his t-shirt clinging faintly to his collarbone. There was a sheen on him that reminded you of something feral and sweet all at once. He was so sun-warmed and masculine, worn in and beer-laced breath with barbecue smoke woven into the threads of his shirt. Vaguely, your tired brain entertained the thought of what the salt on his skin would taste like if you had even a single ounce of energy to lean forward and lick it clean. But alas, you were running on fumes at this point, so instead, you just tilted your head up and looked at him. 

Get me out of here, you begged with your tired eyes.

His fingers kept grazing the base of your skull, and then, lazily, his long middle finger curled around to pinch your earlobe. You smiled, lips twitching upward in something involuntary and grateful. He caught it and sent one of those conspiratorial little winks down at you over the rim of his beer can. 

He turned only to scan the yard, “Hey, hon?” he called, eyes settling on Sarah as she trotted toward the garden with your nephew in tow. She glanced up at her dad, cheeks pink from the sun, braid coming loose, the whole day written across her in sweat and sugar.

“You ready to go?” 

Her face fell a little, a flicker of disappointment at the corners of her mouth. Before she could say anything, your mom swept in from the patio, asking if Sarah might stay a little longer for dessert, maybe keep the kiddo occupied. Sarah looked hopefully back at her dad, and Joel, bless him, sighed, already caving.

“Alright, but you help clean up if you stay,” he said with a soft point of his finger. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Sarah grinned.

“Why, you headin’ out already?” your mom asked, voice raised just enough for the rest of the family to turn and notice you both rising to leave.

Joel answered before you had to, holding your hand and pulling you out of the adirondack chair with a groan, “Think it’s about that time. Early wake-up.”

You nodded in agreement, offering your mom a tired, apologetic smile, and let yourself be folded into the leaving ritual. There were Tupperware containers shoved into your hands, leftovers you didn’t ask for but would be glad to eat tomorrow night in front of the TV. There were quick hugs, soft goodbyes, a kiss to the crown of your nephew’s curly head, and Sarah giving you a side-hug before Joel leaned down and kissed her cheek.

“I’ll come get ya in a bit.”

“Grandma said I could stay over,” she chirped back.

Joel raised a brow, eyes narrowed. “We’ll talk,” he said with a hint of amusement.

And then you were walking down the driveway a few minutes later, the summer heat still clinging to your skin and the sun low and honey thick behind the trees. Joel didn’t say much, but he stayed close, hand resting lightly against your back until you reached his truck. He opened the door for you and you climbed in slowly, arms full of food and mind heavy with fatigue. Instead of shutting the door on you, he leaned in against the door frame.

“Alright?” he murmured, eyes scanning your face. 

You looked up at him, all warm light and soft affection, the fading sky painting him in peach and pale blue. His silhouette was golden, haloed in evening light, and for one moment, he looked so stupidly beautiful it made your chest flutter. You reached up, ran your hand along his bearded jaw, thumb brushing the scratchy edge of his cheek.

“Better now,” you said with a small smile.

He grinned back and leaned down into the cab to press his mouth to yours. It was long and gentle, almost lazy in its heat. You sighed against him, drinking in the taste of beer and smell of charcoal, the quiet hum of safety he always seemed to carry with him. When he pulled back, there was a glint in his eye, something playful beneath the concern.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you faked bein’ on your last legs just to get me outta there.”

You smirked, still touching his face. “On the contrary, Miller. I was genuinely suffering. You just happen to be the only thing I can’t ever resist.”

His chest shook with quiet laughter, and he kissed you once more, quicker but no less affectionate, before finally closing the door and rounding to the driver’s side. He hauled himself in with a groan, the seat creaking beneath him.

“Let’s get you home. What’s on the docket tonight? Love Island?”

You hummed, head tilted against the window, already letting the starting hum of the engine soothe you. “I’m thinkin’ Titanic. In the mood to watch some rich people sink.”

He groaned lightly but nodded, already resigning himself. “Titanic sounds… great, baby.”

You shot him a sly look. “Wow. Must really love me to cave that easily.”

His eyes flicked toward you at the stop sign, the amber of the sunset caught in them.

“I sure do,” he said with a wide smile.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Don't move away

Living in Gotham was already hard enough, but being one of Bruce Wayne’s adopted kids made life even more complicated. Sometimes, their protective instincts were just too much. The constant surveillance, the way they always needed to know where you were… You knew they loved you, but it was suffocating.

So, you started pulling away.

At first, it was subtle—replying to their messages less, skipping out on visits to the Batcave, avoiding training sessions. Then, you took bigger steps—going on patrol alone, disappearing without notice. But the Batfamily never lets one of their own go so easily.

One Evening…

You were hanging out with Harper Row, one of the few people who actually understood you. But when you got home, the entire Batfamily was waiting for you in the Batcave.

Bruce stood with his arms crossed, his gaze stern as always, but there was concern underneath.

“How many times are we going to have this conversation?” he asked, his voice deep and steady.

Dick stepped forward, his usual gentle but disappointed expression in place. “Why won’t you talk to us? We’re not trying to control you, but you’re putting yourself in danger.”

Jason let out a sharp laugh. “Just let them go. Maybe they want to be away from the family.” His tone was laced with sarcasm, but there was hurt there too.

Tim, eyes tired but observant, studied you. “Is this just about wanting to be alone, or is there something else going on?”

Damian was the quietest, but his furrowed brows showed his disapproval. “You’re making yourself weaker,” he stated. “Distancing yourself from us won’t make you stronger.”

All eyes were on you. You had to say something—but your brain short-circuited.

Then, as if fate itself had it out for you, it happened.

You took a step back in panic—

And your foot caught on some cables.

“Oh, no—”

Before you could finish your sentence, a chain reaction began:

You stumbled backward, knocking over a water bottle on the table.

Water splashed onto the Batcave’s main computer console.

Sparks flew as alarms blared. “EMERGENCY! EMERGENCY!”

In your frantic attempt to regain balance, your arm swung wildly—sending Alfred’s freshly brewed tea soaring through the air.

The cup’s contents landed right onto Tim’s laptop.

“NO! My notes!” Tim yelled, frantically trying to save his screen.

Panicking, you backed up—only to bump into a shelf.

The impact sent all the Batarangs flying.

“GET DOWN!” Dick shouted, diving to the floor with Jason.

Damian, with ninja-like reflexes, pulled out his sword to deflect the incoming projectiles. One Batarang missed Bruce’s head by an inch, embedding itself into the wall behind him.

Bruce took a deep breath, pinched the bridge of his nose, and closed his eyes in what could only be described as extreme patience.

Jason, still lying on the floor, looked at you in disbelief. “How? How do you do this?”

Face burning with embarrassment, you tried to steady yourself—only to accidentally knock Damian’s Robin mask off the table. It hit the floor with a soft plop.

Silence.

“I… uh…” you started, but Bruce finally spoke.

“Alright.” He opened his eyes, surveying the absolute disaster around him. “We are all going to sit down and talk. But first,” his gaze swept over the chaos, “we’re cleaning this up.”

Dick sighed. “New record, Y/N.”

Jason was still laughing. “You could literally destroy Gotham with your clumsiness.”

Tim, aggressively drying his laptop, muttered, “Seriously, how?”

Damian scowled. “Is this a skill or a curse?”

You looked down, utterly mortified. “I… was trying to get away from the family. I guess I failed?”

Bruce rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of a smile. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

And in that moment—despite all the chaos—you realized something: No matter what you did, no matter how much you tried to push them away, they weren’t going to let you go.

Cleaning up the mess took longer than expected. Tim was still salvaging his laptop, Dick and Jason were gathering the scattered Batarangs, and Damian—still glaring—was carefully placing his sword back in its sheath.

Bruce? He just stood there, arms crossed, watching you.

“Do you have anything you want to tell us?”

You cleared your throat. “Uh… no?”

Jason burst out laughing. “Still trying to escape? Just admit it—there’s no way out of this family. You’ll take down the whole city in the process.”

Dick shook his head. “But seriously, why are you pulling away from us? Yeah, we can be a lot sometimes, but we care about you.”

You avoided their gazes. “I know… but sometimes you guys are just too much. I need space.”

Tim sighed. “So… you want us to leave you alone?”

Before you could respond, you accidentally knocked over Damian’s coffee.

Damian’s eyes widened in horror as the liquid spilled across his files.

“THE REPORT I PREPARED FOR THE TITANS!” he yelled, scrambling to salvage his documents. “Y/N, seriously?!”

Jason had collapsed onto the floor, laughing hysterically. “Oh, this is gold! No one is safe around you!”

You took a step back, utterly mortified, but Bruce just shook his head.

“Y/N, if you want to leave, fine. But know this—you can run as far as you want. We’ll always find you.”

Dick nodded. “And no matter what you do, we’ll always forgive you. Even if you cause total destruction.”

Damian scowled. “Or… at least, we’ll train you.”

Tim suddenly looked thoughtful. “Actually… if we harnessed Y/N’s clumsiness, this could be a huge tactical advantage. Imagine—taking down enemies accidentally.”

Jason was still laughing. “YES! Gotham’s greatest weapon—THE MASTER OF CHAOS!”

Your eyes narrowed. “Do not turn that into a superhero name.”

But it was too late.

Dick and Jason dramatically posed. “CHAOS!” they shouted in unison.

Bruce sighed, massaging his temples. “There is no discipline in this house.”

Despite your embarrassment, you couldn’t help but smile. Maybe… distancing yourself wasn’t the solution after all. Because no matter what kind of chaos you brought, this family wasn’t going to let you go.

And, honestly?

This was probably just the beginning.

[luvvrgl]

Magically Attached (Please Help)

Pairing: Dante x GN!Reader

Summary: You are a grumpy apothecary who hates loud, flashy hunters like Dante—until he becomes your most frequent (and irritating) customer, constantly busting through your door with injuries.

Authors Notes: This is my first attempt writing, so please bear with me 💔 Please give me some tips and feel free to give some criticism

The apothecary preferred silence. The kind that hummed between glass bottles and bloomed in the scent of crushed sage. So when the front door slammed open with all the grace of a hurricane—nearly snapping off for the third time that week—and a bleeding man staggered in with a shit-eating grin, you were tempted to throw an entire jar of ghost pepper salve at him.

“You again,” you spoke up flatly, not bothering to look up to see who just came in. You already knew who it was with how they opened the damn door.

“Miss me?” Said the injured devil hunter, Dante. His voice rang out through the room, sounding far too casual for someone whose arm was currently bleeding.

You looked up from the potion you were working on, eyes slightly narrowing as your gaze landed on Dante. “That’s the fourth door this week, and I just reinforced it. You owe me a new hinge.”

Dante swaggered in, leaving muddy boot prints all over the carefully swept floor. “I’ll add it to my tab.”

You held your tongue when you saw Dante leave foot prints on the floor that you had just cleaned minutes ago. “You mean the one you haven’t paid in three months?”

He grinned. “That’s the one.”

With a sigh, you motioned him to sit on the exam stool—well, it was originally meant for calm tea-sipping clients, not devil hunters bleeding onto the rug..but this was your life now.

You watched as Dante settled onto the stool with a wince as he dramatically groaned, shrugging his tattered coat off and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. You winced as the dirty fabric hit the floorboards, unfortunately giving you more to clean up later.

“Bleeding on the rug and shredding like a stray mutt.. You’re really out to test me these days, aren’t you?”

Dante leaned back as he casually rested one boot on the edge of your carefully organized desk with arranged healing salves and herbs, earning a silent death glare from you.

“Come on, Doc.. Don’t act like you never miss me when I’m gone. I bet this place gets real boring without me.

You rolled your eyes as you grabbed a rag and tossed it at Dante’s head, “I make sure to cherish every moment of silence when you’re not here to visit.”

Dante swiftly caught the rag before it could hit his head and pressed the fabric over his wound, letting out a small chuckle at your words. You watched as the white rag got stained red with the hunter’s blood before you went to get some medicine to heal his wounds.

You put on some latex gloves before you walked over to the cabinet from across the room, carefully grabbing a vial there with some sort of magic purple liquid in it. You went to go behind your desk and grab some moonflower dust from the drawer beneath there, sprinkling some of that into the vial.

You then came over to Dante who was still wiping his blood off him and held your hand out. “Give me your arm.”

Dante blinked at you for a moment before he held out his uninjured arm.

“Other arm.”

His lips formed into a small “O” in realization before he held out his injured arm.

Your grip on Dante’s wrist was gentle but firm as you put the vial down onto the table and inspected the wound, “You know, if you didn’t leap face-first into every demon that blinked at you funny, you might actually stay in one piece.”

Dante winced as you prodded at his arm, smirk slightly faltering. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You raised an eyebrow as you reached for the vial. “You call this fun?”

Dante winked, “I call you fun.”

You poured the liquid from the vial into the wound with no warning as you glared down at him.

“Ack— You damn sadist!” Dante hissed, though there was no clear hate in his tone.

“Brat.” You murmured, more to yourself..

The potion fizzed on contact with Dante’s wound, glowing faintly with violet light. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and something sweet, like sugar. You didn’t flinch at the sound of his pained groan, continuing to pour the liquid onto the wound until the vial was empty.

“You know,” Dante muttered through clenched teeth, “normal doctors use bandages.”

“I am not a doctor,” you replied dryly. “Now stop squirming or I’ll pour some more straight into your mouth.”

Dante dramatically sighed at your words, head falling back as if you had just stabbed him. “You wound me, Y/N. More than a demon does, honestly.”

You rolled your eyes again—it was starting to feel like they’d fall out of your skull if Dante kept this up. “Then maybe next time I’ll just let you bleed out in the alley.”

“Now that’s the grumpy bastard I know and love.” Dante smirked.

You paused, just for a second, before brushing it off like a speck of dust on your apron. “You’re lucky I have a professional obligation to keep you alive..”

“Ah, so it’s just business, then?”

You stayed quiet as usual. You just wrapped a bandage around Dante’s arm a bit too snugly for comfort.

“Ah, there’s the affection.” Dante said as he flexed his fingers. “Tight wrap. You trying to cut my arm off or get me to stay longer?”

“Neither. I’m trying to keep you from bleeding all over my floorboards.”

Dante settled back against the stool as if he owned it. “Y’know, I come here for the customer service.”

“And I keep wondering why you don’t stay dead.” You muttered.

“Maybe I like the company.” Dante spoke, his voice quieter now. Still teasing, but the edges had dulled.

You stepped back, peeling your gloves off. “There. Don’t use that arm for the next two days. Which means no fights, no lifting anything heavy, and absolutely no breaking down any more of my doors.”

“Awh, come on! I just got invited to a big nest-clearing near the city walls. Easy job. Two hours tops.”

You shot him a look sharp enough to curdle blood.

“Okay, okay. No fighting. Just resting.. got it.” Dante said, reaching for his coat, wincing a bit.

“You’re pushing harder than usual.” You suddenly spoke up.

Dante raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, pretending not to understand. “Demons don’t kill themselves, Y/N.”

You paused, not looking up just yet. “They don’t need to. Not when you’re this damn determined to do their job for them.”

For once, Dante didn’t have a snappy comeback.

Silence lingered between them, rare and strangely heavy.

You walked over to a small wooden shelf in the corner. You grabbed a small glass jar with blue powder inside and returned to Dante’s side, unscrewing the lid carefully.

“This will numb the pain and speed up the healing,” you explained, more quietly this time. “It’ll sting like hell for a second.”

“Already stinging, Doc.”

“Not a doctor.” You muttered again, then gently smeared the powder across the wound. A sizzling hiss filled the air, followed by Dante swearing under his breath.

“Yup. Definitely a sadist.”

“Keep talking and I’ll stitch your loudmouth shut with your shoelaces.”

Dante let out a breathless laugh, the tension in his frame easing slightly. “Bet you say that to all your favorite patients.”

“I say that to all the idiots who won’t stop wrecking my door every damn week and staining my floorboards with their blood everyday.” You corrected.

A beat passed.

“Same thing,” Dante said with a half smile, watching you work. “You just don’t wanna admit that you’d miss me if I just suddenly stopped showing up one day.”

You didn’t look at him, sprinkling the last of the powder onto the wound.

“Maybe I would,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Dante blinked.

Then you stood up straight and turned away swiftly, already reaching for your broom to deal with the mess Dante made on the floor. “Now get off my stool before you bleed on something else. And fix the damn door on your way out.”

“..Sure thing, Y/N.” Dante said, a little more quietly this time, his eyes lingering on your back before he slowly pushed himself up.

Dante paused at the threshold of the store, stopping in the middle of the doorway, watching you clean up the remains of yet another chaotic visit. The broom swished rhythmically against the wood, as if you were trying to sweep him out too, like he was some persistent pest who kept bothering you.

“Y’know,” Dante leaned against the doorframe, “for someone who pretends to hate me, you patch me up with a lot of care.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s because if you die in here, I’ll have to clean that mess too.”

Dante smirked. “You sure it’s not because you like me?”

You paused at the hunter’s words, stopping your sweeping.

You stood there for a moment, broom in one hand, gaze stuck on a spot on the floor like it held the secrets of the universe. Then, very slowly, you looked up until your gaze landed on Dante.

“I like quiet.” You slowly spoke, “I like organized shelves. I like not getting half of my store covered with some guy’s blood mixed with chunks of demon ichor.”

You set the broom aside.

“But..” You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter, tilting your head at Dante, “I don’t hate the way this place doesn’t feel… dead anymore.”

Dante blinked.

“Not dead, huh?”

You shrugged, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It used to be quiet because no one really came in everyday, until you came..”

Dante blinked yet again, watching you like he wasn’t sure if he really heard that last line or if he had imagined it. You, as usual, didn’t wait for him to catch up, you just turned back towards the cabinet, rummaging through a drawer for something as glass and wood gently clattered against each other.

“What about now?” Dante prompted, stepping in again, a hint of curiosity in his usual smirk.

“Now it’s quiet between the noise,” You muttered. You pulled out a wrapped bundle of dried herbs and set them down on the counter, keeping your back turned. “That’s different.”

Dante folded his arms, his teasing grin widening. “Y/N…is that your poetic way of saying you enjoy my company?”

“It’s my very restrained way of saying I’ve gotten used to your stupid face showing up at random times,” You muttered, gently biting your tongue before you spoke any further. There wasn’t any heat in your voice—just that tired fondness that slipped in when you forgot to watch your tone.

Dante chuckled, taking another step inside and letting the door creak shut behind him, gentle this time. “Careful, Y/N. If you get any softer, I might actually think you care.”

You turned around to finally face Dante, gave him a deadpan stare, and shoved a small paper pouch into his chest. “Here, this will help for the fever you’re definitely going to pretend you don’t have in about two hours.”

Dante blinked in surprise.

“Boil them in water. Drink it. Go sleep, maybe somewhere that isn’t my shop.”

Dante looked down at the pouch in surprise, then back up at you. “..You made this already, didn’t you?” His smirk grew.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course I did. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re about to be a stubborn idiot.”

Dante held the pouch against his chest like it was something rare and unobtainable. Maybe it was.

“Y/N,” his voice was quieter now, “you’re kind of a miracle, you know that?”

Your mouth stayed shut.

But the tips of your ears turned the faintest shade of red as you grabbed your broom again and muttered, “Get out of my shop, Dante.”

“You’ll miss me tomorrow.”

“I’ll miss the peace.”

Dante opened the door carefully this time, leaning against the frame before leaving. “Try not to miss me too much, Y/N.”

You huffed and turned back to the counter. “Don’t make me to lock you out next time.”

“Like that would stop me.”

You muttered something unintelligible under your breath—but waited until the door shut (gently, for once) before you allowed the faintest smile to pull at your lips.

“Idiot..” you murmured,

“Don’t die out there.”

[remlionheart]

hiii !! may seem a bit basic, but chuuya picks up reader after a stressful day at work with his motorcycle fluff and smut 👾.

thank you, u're the best !!

୨ৎ❀ hey, there’s nothing wrong with simple! i appreciate you sending me a suggestion ♡ it's been awhile since we've visited my fave ill-tempered redhead anyway and he deserves all the attention ୨ৎ❀ fluff. smut. deep throating. praise. rich-boyfriend!chuuya x fem!reader. quick lil 1.9k word drabble. lemme know whatcha think, luv u ୨ৎ❀

♡ MDNI ♡

Me 'n My Girl ｡˚☽

so proud to be in your world, just me and my girl ⋆.˚

⋅˚₊‧ ୨୧ ‧₊˚ ⋅

A warm mid-evening breeze swept through your hair as you stepped out of large doors of your office building and let out a sigh. The smell of petrichor bounced off of the pavement while a light rain cascaded over downtown Yokohama.

Under normal circumstances, it would’ve been your favorite weather, but the stillness of it was just another reminder of the unrelenting storm of anxiety that’d been plaguing your mind all day.

Nothing had really happened. Work went okay. Your commute there was okay. Your coworkers were okay. Your lunch was okay. Everything was seemingly okay, but that's what made it worse. You couldn't pinpoint the source of your discomfort. Couldn't place the blame on any one single thing for making you feel so off. It was a phantom annoyance. A problem that didn't seem to exist to anyone else besides you.

"Shit." you mumbled, feeling your purse slip from your shoulder as it, along everything it was holding, fumbled out of your reach and spilled out into the middle of the sidewalk.

You were halfway down the stairs, your pumps clicking against the concrete when your hand suddenly reached for the railing. The heel of your shoe breaking clean off, almost knocking you completely off balance.

It wasn't the time to cry. You'd made it so far - managed to hold it together for your entire shift and you were finally at the finish line, but your capacity to handle any more minor inconveniences was well beyond its limit. You swallowed down the lump in your throat, unable to fight back the hot, frustrated tears that streamed down your cheeks while you took both of your shoes off and you gathered up your belongings in defeat.

Chuuya rounded the corner not a second too soon, the loud vroom of his engine coming to a gradual halt as he kicked his foot out to put the motorcycle in park before stepping off.

He smoothed down his disheveled hair, his smirk quickly fading the closer he got to you.

"Baby..." he said softly, looking at broken pair of shoes in your hand and the haphazard way your bag had been slung over your shoulder. "What happened?"

"Nothing," You lied, shaking your head. "It's fine."

He knew you too well though. Knew that if he simply nodded and waited a minute, it would pour out of you without him having to pry. He put a hand on your shoulder, letting you avoid his stare until you finally caved.

"Today was just stupid," You sulked, "Everything was horrible for no reason and then my fucking heel snapped and now," You were fighting an uphill battle against your emotions. More tears pricking at your eyes as your gaze caught his. "And now I can't even ride on the back with you because I'm barefoot and everything is ruined."

Even though he hated seeing you get this worked up, he couldn't deny that there was something so fucking cute about how pouty and helpless you became when things didn't go your way. He took pride in knowing that you needed him, that he was the one you relied on to pick up the pieces when life got too stressful.

"Stay here," he said, taking his leather jacket off and draping it around your shoulders. "I'll be right back, okay?"

You nodded at him, watching him tuck his hands into his pockets as he crossed the street. It was easy to forget who he was sometimes. How merciless he could be with other people when he was so gentle and attentive with you. He was a Port Mafia executive who doubled as a golden retriever boyfriend when no one was looking. Calloused and feared by some of the scariest people in Yokohama and yet for some reason, physically incapable of saying no to you.

You wiped your tears away watching him flick his cigarette onto the sidewalk, an unexpectedly large Chanel bag hanging from his wrist.

"C'mere," he said, taking your hand as he led you to the Ducati.

You plopped down on its leather seat with both legs dangling off to one side while he knelt down and opened the bag, sliding a gorgeous pair of black open-toed suede heels onto your feet.

"Gimme the broken ones."

You pulled them out of your purse with a small smile, letting him throw them away in a nearby trashcan before returning back to you. "Better?" he asked.

"You know there's an Adidas store right around the corner?"

He smirked, placing both hands at either side of you, his mouth grazing yours with a whisper. "My girl had a terrible day at work and you expect me to make it worse by buying her cheap shit?"

Your heart fluttered, another slight grin tugging at the corners of your mouth as you breathed in the comforting smell of his cologne. "Your girl is really lucky to have you."

"Yeah, well…" he mused, "I have a feeling she'll be makin' it up to me later.”

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪

The ride back to his house was peaceful with hardly any traffic for a Thursday night.

There was something about being on the back of his motorcycle that made you feel so indescribably close to him. From the way your body pressed against his to the way he'd tell you to hold onto him tighter. You loved the looks people would flash the two of you as you'd speed past them. The butterflies that flooded your stomach each time he'd start to go faster than he should've. Even if he had a bad habit of occasionally breaking the speed limit, you still trusted him entirely. He was well aware of the difference between having a little bit of fun and being reckless and he'd never cross that line when he was with you.

You felt infinitely better by the time you pulled into the garage, carefully letting your legs fall as he shut off the engine. Your bad day felt like a distant memory - your mind now comfortably occupied with the thousand-dollar shoes that were decorating your feet and the way his eyes lit up as he helped you down.

It was hard to process sometimes that he'd been waking up next to you almost every day for the last year and still looked at you like you had put the stars in the sky.

You grabbed his arm before he could make it inside the house, gently pushing him back onto the seat of his bike. He raised an eyebrow, but didn't stop you as you hovered above him and began undoing his belt.

"You always make me feel so good." You whispered, reaching up to let your lips catch his while your hands continued to unbutton his pants. "I wanna return the favor."

You could feel him growing hard as his tongue swirled against yours with fervor. A gloved hand resting on the back of your neck to pull you in closer while you reached for his zipper and freed him from the fabric that was separating the both of you.

He let out a low groan when your palm met the base of his cock, delicately wrapping your fingers around it as you started to move uppp and downnn at just the right pace, earning even prettier noises from him.

His grip tangled into your hair, moving your head to the side so that he could descend down your neck. Kissing and nipping away at your soft skin while you continued to stroke him. His movements were getting harder to control the faster you went, squeezing him so fucking perfectly that he nearly ripped the front of your shirt open.

You let out a small yelp as he roamed across your chest, lightly slipping your nipple between his teeth while his blue eyes travelled up to yours. "Get on your knees for me."

You nodded, keeping your stare locked with his. Your hand still going in the same motion as you repositioned yourself, kneeling in front of him so that your face was front and center with where he wanted you. You pulled his pants down further, your core aching as you obediently slid your tongue along his base.

"Fuck," he hissed, his mouth dropping open at how tantalizingly thorough you were, "God, that feels – hah – that feels… so.... good."

You took your time, coaxing more heady praises out of him as you made your way up his length, letting a generous amount of spit trail down his shaft while your hand held him in place. His pink tip was practically dripping with pre-cum by the time you reached it, begging to have your pretty little mouth wrapped around it.

You smiled against him, looking up at him with doe-eyes before giving in to his body's needs. "It's all mine, right?" You asked, causing him to twitch in your hand.

"All yours." He groaned, doing everything he could to stop himself from shoving your head down onto him. He wanted you so bad it hurt, but even in the midst of his clouded thinking, he was still more concerned about you. If you needed to hear him say it, then that's exactly what he'd do.

"It's all yours, baby." He exhaled. "I'm all yours… Every inch of me is all – fucking...your...s"

His words were quickly taken from him though, stolen by the way you’d flattened your tongue and pressed it firmly against his tip.

You watched his eyes roll back as his hand gripped your hair, the two of you working to find the perfect rhythm.

You loved the breathy noises he made for you. The way his hips thrusted forward while he buried himself into the warmth of your mouth. The feeling of him getting harder with each slurp and squelch that echoed across the garage as you struggled to take the whole thing.

"Keep going." He grunted, still fighting the overwhelmingly feral urge to slam into you. "Doin' so good f'me."

You went as deep as you could, easing him into the back of your throat while your tongue continued to glide across his shaft.

His movements became more frantic, his voice breaking the faster you went. "God – damn..."

You kept up the same unrelenting pace, drool spilling down your chin as your eyes locked with his again.

"Fuck," his moans turned into guttural whimpers, his body thrusting desperately in search of release. "Just like that," he choked out, "just like that, don't – fucking stop, please baby... don't stop, I'm –"

He looked lost, completely entranced by the hold you had over him as a lewd warmth coated the back of your throat. More carnal obscenities pouring from his lips as he slowly regained control over his breathing and pulled out of you.

"Next time –" he panted, helping you to your feet before leaning in to kiss you. "I'm buying you the whole fuckin' store."

⋆.౨ৎ˚.⟡˖ ࣪

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/ Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Lonely Hearts Club

Mr. Wayne never brought his partner home. You saw no swingers' parties, orgies, or even a single panty on the floor to hint at the wealth of lovers he supposedly had. In a way, you were disappointed, because you found nothing more entertaining than soaking up the drama that billionaire playboys could offer.

Alas, Mr. Wayne was boring. 

He went to work, played with his kids, attended charity balls and galas, and was a good, boring single father and philanthropist. The only interesting part about him was his troubled relationship with Selina Kyle (and some messy drama with Damian’s mother that Alfred refused to delve deeper into), who had been slowly creeping back into Bruce’s arms. When Alfred told you, you were a little surprised since it seemed he, and the children, were affected by the breakup. 

It was a little past two in the morning when you ventured to the kitchen for a glass of water, and the entire house was relatively quiet. There was the pitter-patter of rain against the windows and the shuffling on your feet, but, distantly, you could hear a conversation between Mr. Wayne and a woman. 

You tried to mind your own business, but, as you poured ice into your glass, you heard Mr. Wayne say, “Selina, please.”

“No, Bruce, we can’t keep doing this,” Selina’s voice was clear, almost stern. 

With how loud their voices were, you assumed that they were in the side hall. You paused, partially due to fear of being caught in an awkward position but mainly because of your curiosity. There was a witty back and forth before Bruce loudly demanded for her to go. It went silent after the door slammed shut, and then you heard Mr. Wayne make his way toward the kitchen.

Panicking, you hurried to fill your glass with water so you could get out of there lest he think you were listening in. Just as it was filled and you started to leave, Mr. Wayne entered the kitchen. He seemed surprised to see you, and you were so scared by the sight of him that you dropped the glass—sending it to shattered pieces. 

“Mr. Wayne,” You gasped, kneeling to clean up the mess. “Sorry, about the cup.”

He shook his head, rushing over to urge you to stand up. “No, don’t use your hands. You’ll cut yourself. Give me a moment, I’ll find the broom.”

Now that you were looking at him, there was a flush on his cheeks—Wait, you thought, could he have been embarrassed? You never knew he could have such a feeling. He also seemed disheveled and smelled a bit like perfume mixed with cigarette smoke. 

“Here it is,” Mr. Wayne said after opening nearly every closet and cupboard in the kitchen. “Move, I’ll do it.”

You sidestepped, eyes flickering between Mr. Wayne and the broken glass on the floor. By the way, he swept, it was clear he was rich. That man looked like he had never held a broom in his life, and, with how much Alfred did for him, you wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t. 

“No,” You said, hand going to the broom handle. “Let me do it. It’ll be quicker.”

“Are you saying I can’t sweep,” Bruce spat. 

You looked up at him, tired and agitated all of a sudden. “Yes!”

Bruce let go of the handle and huffed, moving across the kitchen to find a glass. He then turned to the cabinet under the island to pluck out a bottle of scotch. He watched you momentarily before rounding the island while holding his hand out expectantly. 

“I’ll do it,” He said plainly. 

You laughed. “Mr. Wayne, I’m nearly done. Plus, we already established that you can’t sweep.”

“Can’t sweep,” Bruce mumbled under his breath. “Ridiculous.”

“Don’t be so upset,” You remarked. “It’s hardly your fault for being born with a silver spoon.”

“I’m not upset!” He said, raising his voice enough to scare you a little. There was a little silence before he sheepishly apologized. “It’s been a stressful night,” was the excuse he gave you. You wanted to be angry at him for raising his voice, but you quickly got over it. 

After throwing away the glass, you looked at him before moving to sleep. You stopped halfway to return to the island where Mr. Wayne stood. 

“Get me a cup?” You asked. 

Bruce stared at you before doing as you asked. When the glass hit the table, he quickly grabbed the bottle to fill it. You were never one for alcohol, but you were always one to rise to the occasion. 

“What happened?” You asked. 

“Relationship troubles,” He said plainly. 

“I used to say the same thing,” You said. “It’s never just relationship troubles, Bruce.”

The two of you stared at one another for what felt like forever until he let out a long, tired sigh and said, “I don’t know. I thought I loved her, and I thought she loved me—but…I think we want different things. I want her to be a part of my family, but she’s afraid of risking her independence.”

“You can’t fault her for that,” You said, not sure of what else you could say. 

“No, I can’t. No matter how much I want to hate her for it to make myself feel better, I know it’s still her choice.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he threw back the entire glass before reaching for the bottle to pour another. He cleared his throat, before asking, “What happened with you and, uh, whatever his name was?”

“Ah, yes, him,” You said, looking down at the glass and swirling the scotch around inside it. “I thought he was great. He was kind, loving—”

“He was a man,” Bruce said, cocking an eyebrow. 

You chuckled. “Believe me, I know, but I was in love with him, Bruce. I wanted to marry him, ya know?”

“Too bad he fired you,” He said. 

That stung a bit, and Bruce must have seen it on your face because all of a sudden was mumbling an apology. Sucking in a breath, you pulled the bottle toward you to pour yourself more scotch. 

“How’d you know that,” You asked, trying to hold back tears and act like your usual humorous self. “I don’t remember mentioning I was fired in my interview.”

“You didn’t mention much in your interview at all, but you honestly didn’t expect me to look?” He scoffed. Yeah, you should have guessed that he would do some sort of background check since he was a crazed control freak. Sniffling, you tried to keep your gaze on the bottle to keep from crying as you thought about your ex. You hated the man, but part of you missed loving him and, in turn, being loved. “I’m sorry to have upset you,” Bruce said, reaching out to awkwardly rub circles on your back. 

“No, no. I don’t mean to cry,” You said, laughing lightly at yourself. “I shouldn’t be crying in front of my boss, anyway.”

“I don’t mind,” Bruce mumbled. 

“I found out the other day that he’s getting married, too,” You mumbled, voice cracking. “Kind of makes me wonder why not me?”

Bruce was quiet, and you took that all the emotion made him uncomfortable. Quickly, you began to suck your feelings back in. You already felt foolish enough, especially when you felt your nose start running. When you began to excuse what you had said, Bruce quickly stopped you from doing such a thing. 

“Every time Selina and I would break up,” He started, “I used to wonder what I had done wrong, and I don’t think I ever realized that it wasn’t just me until tonight. It was just us.” 

“Maybe,” You said quietly. “I hope you find your person one day, Mr. Wayne. You’re a good man.”

He looked down at you, a ghost of a smile on his lips, “Thank you…and I hope you find your person, too.”

Silently, you agreed with the sentiment. You hoped to one day find that person and prayed that he wouldn’t be your employer this time. 

[thedensworld]

Logical Project | C.Sc

Genre: fluff, humour, backstreet au

Summary: Illogical project dismissed! Now, Seungcheol had to face a new problem, Jiyeon and Jeonghan.

Read the first part here

Tomorrow is my first day working at a new place! Wish me luck (and won't get any treatment like Y/n)

“That’s it?” Seungcheol’s voice cut through the silence, snapping you out of the whirlwind of thoughts spinning in your head. You blinked up at him, taken aback by the question. That’s it? What else was there to say when someone just confessed their feelings out of nowhere?

Do a cartwheel?

Definitely not.

“Do you… want to come inside?” The words slipped out before you could stop yourself.

Wait, what? Panic flared in your chest. You mentally slapped yourself. Why did you say that? You glanced back at your apartment, suddenly remembering the chaotic mess you’d left behind. The dishes were still piled up in the sink, and cooking equipment was strewn across the kitchen counter from your failed attempt to make breakfast earlier. The last thing Seungcheol needed to see after baring his soul was the state of your post-breakdown kitchen.

“I—I mean,” you stammered, desperate to recover from your blunder. “We could go to a nearby café instead… Or—if you’re more comfortable—we can talk in my… living room?” You cringed inwardly, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks as you realized you’d just invited him inside again. Twice. As if you were trying to send some sort of signal.

Get it together, Y/N.

“Sure,” Seungcheol replied with a casual nod, as if you hadn’t just awkwardly fumbled your way through an invitation to your personal space. He didn’t look the least bit phased by your internal meltdown.

“Uh—great!” You cleared your throat, feeling your face flush. What kind of person invites their boss—well, former boss—into their messy apartment right after he drops a confession like that?

You spun around and led the way back into the building, too afraid to turn around and see the expression on his face. You could only imagine what he must be thinking. Maybe he was silently judging the disarray of your life, or worse—contemplating running for the hills before he got dragged into your chaos.

Is this really okay? you wondered as you fumbled with your keys, forcing yourself to unlock the door to your apartment. When the door swung open, you hesitated, peering into the living room as if expecting to find an even bigger mess than you remembered.

“So… I didn’t exactly get around to cleaning up,” you mumbled as a way of apology. Seungcheol stepped in beside you, taking in the sight of scattered notebooks and the remnants of an unfinished dinner on the coffee table.

“Don’t worry,” he said, his tone light, as if you’d just invited him into a pristine penthouse suite instead of an apartment that looked like a mild hurricane had swept through. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

You scoffed softly, shaking your head. “Are you sure? Because I’m pretty sure even the couch is giving me a look of judgment right now.”

He chuckled—a deep, genuine sound that took you by surprise. “Well, if the couch starts talking, then I’ll be worried.”

A snort escaped you before you could stop it, and you quickly clamped a hand over your mouth. This entire situation was surreal. Here you were, standing in your barely-presentable living room with the Choi Seungcheol, exchanging banter like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“Let’s just… sit,” you suggested weakly, gesturing to the slightly cluttered couch.

You both settled down, the cushions sinking under the weight of unspoken words. Seungcheol leaned back, glancing around your place before his gaze landed on you.

“So… what now?” he asked softly, his eyes never leaving your face.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of the intensity in his gaze. “I don’t know,” you murmured honestly. “I didn’t really… expect any of this.”

Seungcheol smiled slightly, a hint of uncertainty flickering in his expression. “Me neither.”

You both lapsed into silence, each of you lost in your own thoughts. The awkwardness from earlier hadn’t entirely disappeared, but now there was something else—something tentative and hopeful—hovering between you.

No, maybe inviting him in wasn't a good idea after all.

*

Your clothes were neatly pressed, your hair smelled faintly of some overpriced conditioner that probably didn’t work any better than regular shampoo, and your smile? Absolutely radiant. You practically glowed as you approached the front entrance of the towering office building.

This was it. You were back in the workforce, and nothing—absolutely nothing—was going to ruin your mood today.

You swiped your shiny new ID card through the scanner and watched the security gate slide open with a satisfying click. Ah, that sound.

You flashed the security guard a broad smile, even though he looked slightly alarmed by your level of enthusiasm so early in the morning. With a cheerful nod, you made your way to the elevator and squeezed inside with the rush-hour crowd.

As more people piled in, you found yourself gradually nudged to the back of the elevator, squished up against the corner like a sardine in a tin can. You stood there, beaming, as someone’s elbow jabbed into your side, and another person’s backpack thumped against your shoulder.

It doesn’t matter, you told yourself. I’m working again! I have a job! I have an income!

The elevator finally reached your floor, and you stepped out with a polite nod to everyone else crammed in the space. Walking into the office with your head held high, you approached the reception area and introduced yourself.

“Everyone, please meet Ji Y/N,” Mr. Kim, your supervisor, motioning toward you with a grand flourish that felt a bit too theatrical. “She’ll be joining us as the new staff.”

You turned to the team, offering them your best smile and a small wave. A few people returned the gesture, while others exchanged knowing looks.

“It’s nice to meet you all. I’m excited to work with everyone,” you said brightly, trying not to sound too eager. But for some reason, the room was oddly quiet.

Just then, Mr. Kim cleared his throat and continued, “Oh, and, uh, a quick note: I think it’s fair to mention that Ms. Ji is… well, she’s related to our CEO.”

A murmur of recognition rippled through the group, and you suddenly found yourself at the center of what felt like a mini gossip fest.

Oh no, oh no, oh no, you chanted internally, feeling your earlier excitement waver. You blinked at Mr. Kim, a polite, confused smile plastered on your face as you struggled to process what he’d just said.

“Related?” someone whispered. “Isn’t that a bit of an understatement?”

“She’s the CEO’s sister,” another voice added helpfully.

Well, that’s one way to let the cat out of the bag.

You forced a laugh, though it sounded more like a strangled cough. “Yes, well… It’s not really—”

But the damage was done. The team’s expressions shifted from curious to knowing, and a few eyebrows arched in interest.

“So, you��re our boss’s little sister, huh?” one of them asked, his tone light but laced with something else you couldn’t quite place.

“Must be nice to have connections,” someone else muttered, though it was low enough that you could pretend not to hear it.

You opened your mouth to respond but couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound defensive or self-deprecating.

“Um, yeah,” you managed awkwardly, shooting a glance at Mr. Kim, who looked like he was one second away from shrinking into the carpet. “I just… I’m really looking forward to contributing and learning, and—”

“—and working for your brother?” another voice teased, and you nearly groaned out loud.

You swallowed hard, keeping that tight smile in place as you nodded. “Exactly! Working… like, all of you. Just… like you all are.”

Mr. Kim let out a nervous chuckle. “Alright, everyone. Let’s welcome Ms. Ji and give her some space to settle in. I’m sure she’s eager to get started.”

As you turned to follow Mr. Kim to your desk, you tried to shake off the lingering embarrassment. You took a deep breath, pasting your earlier smile back on. So what if they know? It doesn’t matter! You’re here to work, and that’s what matters!

*

You stepped out of the office building with a small sigh of relief. It had been a long day—no, scratch that—an agonizingly long day of trying to prove yourself to people who were convinced you were only there because of your brother.

Your gaze landed on the sleek black car parked discreetly at the end of the street. The sight of it made you smile, if only for a moment, before you quickened your pace and slipped into the passenger seat.

As soon as the door closed, you sank back into the leather seat, letting out a dramatic sigh. Seungcheol glanced over from the driver’s seat, his expression a mix of amusement and concern as he watched you pout.

“You look absolutely exhausted,” he remarked softly. His eyes traced your features—the drooping eyelids, the slight frown, the way your lips were pressed into a tight line. All in stark contrast to the cheerful, lively voice note you’d sent him that morning, declaring how excited you were for your first official day on the job.

“Drive before my brother sees your car.” Your voice came out grumbly, the weariness apparent as you glanced around.

Seungcheol chuckled softly. “Alright, princess,” he murmured, a small, affectionate smile playing on his lips as he turned the ignition.

You glanced at him out of the corner of your eye as he pulled out into the street, the soft hum of the car filling the silence between you.

“Bad day?” he asked gently, not pushing, just offering you a chance to vent if you needed to.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest like a sulking child. “More like an ‘everybody’s-still-staring-at-me-like-I’m-a-spoiled-brat-who-got-hired-because-of-my-brother’ day.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow,“I’m sure you did great,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “You always do.”

You gave him a sideways glance, your lips twitching slightly. “That’s easy for you to say, Mr. CEO. You don’t have to deal with your brother’s employees eyeing you like you’re about to break into a spoiled tantrum every time you say something.”

He let out a low laugh, the sound wrapping around you like a comforting blanket. “True, but I do know how hard you work, Y/N. You don’t need to prove yourself to them. They’ll see it eventually.”

His confidence in you was touching, but it only made you sigh. “Yeah, well, it’d be a lot easier if a certain someone hadn’t barged into the office, grinning like a Cheshire cat and announcing to everyone that I was his precious little sister.”

Seungcheol’s grin widened as he glanced at you again. “Jeonghan really said that?”

“Basically, yes,” you muttered, the memory of your brother’s teasing smile flashing through your mind. “He might as well have held up a giant banner saying, ‘She’s here because of me, everyone!’”

Seungcheol snickered, shaking his head slightly. “Your brother does have a flair for the dramatic.”

“Understatement of the century,” you grumbled, but there was a small smile tugging at your lips now.

Silence settled between you, a comfortable one this time. The kind that only came when you were with someone who knew you well enough not to fill the quiet with meaningless chatter.

It had been like this between you and Seungcheol ever since he’d shown up at your apartment that night and confessed—awkward and unexpected, but somehow, so undeniably right. From there, things had developed naturally. Texts became calls, calls became late-night coffee runs, and soon, he was sneaking you out for lunches and dinners, or showing up at your place just to talk.

But your brother? He still had no idea. And considering how protective Jeonghan was, he’d probably lock you in a tower if he knew you were dating his best friend.

“What are you thinking about?” Seungcheol’s voice broke through your thoughts, his eyes glancing at you with that familiar, gentle look that always made your heart flutter.

“Just… us,” you admitted quietly, resting your head against the seat as you looked at him. “I like this. Being with you like this. Even if we have to keep it a secret.”

Seungcheol’s gaze softened, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel as he turned down a quieter road, away from the main streets. “I like it too. More than I thought I would, actually.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You mean you didn’t expect to like sneaking around with me?”

“Not exactly what I meant,” he replied with a laugh. “But I didn’t expect to feel this… happy. With you.”

The sincerity in his tone made your heart skip a beat. You looked at him for a long moment, taking in the way his hair fell softly over his forehead, the way his jaw tightened slightly whenever he was thinking hard about something.

“Cheol…” you began, but the words died in your throat. What were you supposed to say? That you were falling for him? That you’d fallen long before he’d confessed? That the thought of him made everything else bearable?

Before you could find the right words, Seungcheol slowed the car to a stop. You glanced outside and realized he’d pulled over to a small, quiet park. There was no one else around—just the two of you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. “I know it’s not easy, keeping this from Jeonghan. But I promise, when the time’s right, we’ll tell him.”

You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your bag. “And what if he doesn’t accept it?”

Seungcheol’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then I’ll keep fighting for us until he does.”

His words hung in the air between you, the weight of them sinking into your heart and settling there.

You smiled then, a real smile this time, and leaned over, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Alright, Mr. Choi. Let’s see how long we can keep this up before my brother catches on.”

Seungcheol chuckled, his hand reaching over to take yours, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Challenge accepted, princess.”

*

Seungcheol looked up from his computer screen when his office door swung open without warning. He leaned back in his chair, watching as Jiyeon stormed inside, her steps frantic, shoulders tense. It wasn’t hard to guess who had set her off like this. With a subtle sigh, he shifted his attention fully to her.

“Jiyeon,” he greeted her, his voice calm in contrast to the energy she was emitting. “You look... restless.”

“Restless?” she snapped, stopping right in front of his desk. “More like infuriated!”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, not looking particularly surprised. “I’m guessing this has something to do with Jeonghan?”

Jiyeon’s mouth opened and closed, a mixture of frustration and disbelief flashing across her face. “He just canceled our lunch date—again. No warning, no apology, just a brief message saying he’s busy.” She took a deep breath, and for a moment, Seungcheol thought she might scream. “He’s always busy, Seungcheol.”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk, the corners of his lips lifting into an amused smile. “What did you expect? It’s Jeonghan we’re talking about.”

“Not this!” Jiyeon exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. “It’s been two years, Seungcheol. Two years since we got engaged, and not once has he shown even a shred of genuine interest in me. "

Seungcheol listened to Jiyeon ranting on and on about Jeonghan, but he couldn’t help his mind from drifting elsewhere. He kept nodding at the right moments, offering occasional comments when she paused for breath, but a part of him was completely distracted.

“I thought things would change after the accident, you know?” Jiyeon’s voice was strained, on the verge of breaking.

Seungcheol blinked, his gaze refocusing on her face. “Jeonghan… he’s always been good at playing his part, hasn’t he?”

Jiyeon stared at him, her lips tightening. “You’re making it sound like a game, Seungcheol.”

“It’s not a game,” he said softly. “But you know how Jeonghan is. He compartmentalizes things. This engagement was always about business for him, nothing more.”

She let out a humorless laugh. “Business… Everything in our lives seems to come back to that, doesn’t it?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. He watched her, a faint furrow forming between his brows. He could see how much the engagement weighed on her, the toll it had taken over the past two years.

Part of him wanted to offer her some comfort, to give her some sort of answer that could make this all easier. But another part—the one that had become more prominent ever since he confessed to you—kept whispering something else. Something selfish.

If Jiyeon and Jeonghan finally called it quits… It would benefit him, wouldn’t it?

It would give Seungcheol the space to focus on his relationship with you without constantly looking over his shoulder.

Because if anyone found out about you and him… Well, the repercussions wouldn’t be small. He knew that better than anyone.

“Why do you keep putting yourself through this?” he asked, his voice softer now, a touch of genuine concern in it. “If it’s hurting you this much, why not just call off the engagement?”

Jiyeon’s eyes narrowed slightly, and Seungcheol knew she was scrutinizing him, searching for any ulterior motives. He kept his expression open, neutral, but inside, his thoughts were spinning.

Did this make him a terrible person? Maybe. But then, wasn’t it Jeonghan’s fault for treating Jiyeon like a mere business obligation in the first place? And wasn’t it Jiyeon’s fault for allowing herself to be strung along like this?

And wasn’t it his right to be a little selfish, after everything?

“Call it off?” Jiyeon echoed, her voice small and disbelieving. “You’ve never been this supportive of me calling it off before. Why the sudden change of heart?”

Seungcheol watched her, feeling the weight of the question. He should have expected this; Jiyeon was sharp—sharper than people often gave her credit for.

He took a deep breath and offered her a small, wry smile. “People change. Perspectives change. You’re my cousin, Jiyeon, and if this engagement is making you miserable, I don’t see the point of dragging it out.”

Jiyeon’s gaze narrowed further, suspicion glimmering in her eyes. “You’ve never cared this much about my happiness before, Seungcheol.”

Ouch. He had to give it to her—she didn’t hold back when she sensed something was off. But Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Instead, he shrugged lightly.

“Maybe I’ve just gotten soft.” He tilted his head slightly, letting a hint of a smile touch his lips. “Or maybe I’ve started to realize how pointless it is to force people to stay in places they don’t belong.”

Jiyeon continued to stare at him, her gaze calculating. “Are you… seeing someone?”

The question hit him harder than he expected, but he managed to keep his face composed.

“Jiyeon, my personal life isn’t what’s important right now.”

“Oh, it is important if you’re seeing someone, and that’s why you’re pushing me to call off my engagement,” she pressed, voice lower now, more intense. “If this is about someone else, then I deserve to know.”

Seungcheol sighed, shaking his head slowly. “It’s not about me,” he murmured. “It’s about you. And what you want, Jiyeon. Jeonghan’s my friend, but you’re also my family. I don’t want you stuck in something that’s not going anywhere, no matter what’s happening in my life.”

There was a flicker of something in Jiyeon’s eyes—hesitation, maybe. Uncertainty. She held his gaze for a long, tense moment, then finally exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly.

“Fine,” she muttered, rubbing her temples as if trying to soothe a headache. “But I’m not done with this conversation.”

Seungcheol’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile. “I didn’t expect you to be.”

*

You sat across from Jeonghan at the bustling barbecue joint, poking at the sizzling meat on the grill with a pout. This wasn’t exactly what you had in mind when he texted you about dinner. You’d envisioned fine dining, A5 Wagyu steak, and maybe a glass of an expensive, aged wine. It would have been a perfect way to celebrate one month of officially working at your brother’s company.

Instead, here you were, in a casual barbecue restaurant with loud chatter all around, the smell of grilled meat clinging to your clothes. Though, you had to admit—maybe reluctantly—the food did look good. And Jeonghan had been thoughtful enough to order all your favorites.

“Eat up,” he said, flipping a piece of pork belly onto your plate. “You’ve lost weight.”

You shrugged, choosing to ignore his comment. Of course, you had. You’d been strict about your diet lately. You didn’t want to show up in front of Seungcheol looking like a stuffed dumpling on a random day. But that didn’t mean you were going to deny yourself a good meal tonight. If nothing else, you’d at least get something out of this dinner.

Jeonghan glanced at you, probably noticing your half-hearted expression. “I heard you’ve been doing well at work,” he said, his tone light but watchful.

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a look. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me?”

He smiled, unbothered. “Of course. I had to make sure my little sister wasn’t causing trouble for the marketing team.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a bite of the pork belly. Despite your initial annoyance, you couldn’t help but appreciate his support.

“Everything good with you and Jiyeon?” you asked suddenly, steering the conversation away from yourself. It had been months since you last saw Jiyeon ever since the car accident.

Jeonghan’s shoulders tensed slightly, but he nodded. “Yeah… we’re good.”

His words were casual, but you noticed the way his gaze dropped to the grill, avoiding yours. You tilted your head, watching him intently. “The feelings still the same?” you pressed gently, knowing you were treading on delicate ground.

Jeonghan took a deep breath, lifting his eyes slowly. His lips twitched, a shadow of his usual confident smirk appearing and then disappearing just as quickly.

He looked up, meeting your gaze squarely. “Jiyeon’s… pretty,” he said, almost to himself. “She’s smart, driven. She’d make a great partner for anyone.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. He glanced down at his hands, shaking his head slightly. “It’s just… there’s something inside me that stops me from falling for her. And I can’t put it into words.”

The frustration in his voice was palpable. It made your chest ache for him, this man who’d always been so sure of himself, now struggling to grasp his own emotions.

“It’s alright, Jeonghan,” you murmured, your voice soft, comforting. “You don’t have to force yourself to feel something that isn’t there.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond, his eyes drifting away as if searching for answers in the smoke curling up from the grill. The silence between you was heavy, filled with words unspoken and pain unaddressed. He’d been there for Jiyeon, done everything a good fiancé would do. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? He was only playing the role of a fiancé—not really living it.

And as you sat there, you couldn’t help but think back to Seungcheol’s words from earlier that day.

“If Jeonghan and Jiyeon finally decide to call it off… it wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know?”

You hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. But now, looking at Jeonghan’s weary expression, the way he forced himself to be the person Jiyeon needed, you began to see it.

Maybe, just maybe, calling it off would be the best thing—for everyone involved. Including Seungcheol, who’d seemed a little too relieved at the thought of the engagement ending.

You shook your head, trying to push away the unsettling thought. No, it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about what Seungcheol and you might gain. It was about your brother’s happiness.

You sighed, turning your attention back to the grill. The meat was starting to char at the edges, and you quickly flipped it over, frowning at the burnt bits.

Maybe Seungcheol was right. Maybe some things weren’t meant to be fixed, but to be set free.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time for Jeonghan to let go of the life he thought he was supposed to live… and find one where he could finally be happy.

*

Jeonghan removed his engagement ring and placed it on the table in front of Jiyeon’s parents. The sound of the metal touching the wooden surface seemed to echo in the otherwise silent room. Jiyeon’s parents stared at the ring, disbelief etched across their faces as they looked back and forth between their daughter and Jeonghan. Jiyeon remained silent beside him, her gaze fixed on the table as if she could avoid the weight of the moment entirely.

Before her parents could voice their outrage, Jiyeon took off her own ring and set it beside his, an unspoken affirmation that this decision had been made together. The rings, once symbols of a future they were supposed to build, now lay side by side, abandoned.

“I realized that I’m not ready to settle,” Jeonghan said, his voice steady but soft. He looked directly at Jiyeon’s father. “My priority right now is my sister. I don’t want to keep hurting Jiyeon by holding on to something I can’t fully commit to.”

Jiyeon’s father, a man usually composed and measured, narrowed his eyes. “And you’re prepared for the consequences of this?” he asked, voice low with an edge of warning.

Jeonghan met his gaze unflinchingly. “Yes, I’ve thought it through. I’m aware of what this means for both our families, and I’m sorry for how this will affect our businesses. But it’s the right thing to do.”

A heavy silence settled in the room. Jiyeon’s mother let out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, while her father’s stern expression remained unchanged. They knew what Jeonghan was referring to—the contracts and collaborations between the two families that would likely dissolve now that the engagement was off. But none of it mattered anymore. Not when Jiyeon’s empty gaze mirrored Jeonghan’s.

Jeonghan’s lips twitched, offering a small, remorseful smile. “I apologize once again,” he murmured, bowing his head. It was a gesture not just of respect, but of finality.

The drive home felt like a blur. The city lights outside the car window blended into a sea of color as he navigated through Seoul’s busy streets. He should’ve felt lighter, relieved even. But all he felt was a hollow emptiness, a void where expectations and duty used to reside.

When he finally stepped into the house, he was greeted by the quiet stillness that came with being alone. The maid offered a polite smile and a nod before retreating, leaving him in the large, empty living room. His eyes wandered to the framed family photo on the wall—the one taken two days before everything changed.

A little you, perched on your father’s lap, smiling brightly at the camera. His younger self stood beside your mother, his expression carefree, with no trace of the weight he’d eventually carry. That picture captured a moment frozen in time—before the car accident that took your parents, before the responsibilities of the family business fell on his shoulders.

He’d been so young, barely an adult himself. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t prepared for the endless days and sleepless nights that followed, learning how to run a business while grieving. But he had to be ready. For you, for the legacy left behind. He pushed himself harder than anyone could imagine, hoping that if he tried hard enough, he’d find happiness at the end of it all.

But it never came. He never found it.

Until you came back to Seoul after graduation.

You’d breezed into his life like a whirlwind, bringing color and laughter back into a world that had been gray for too long. Your presence reminded him of what it felt like to be happy again. He cherished seeing you smile, watching you rediscover life with the kind of enthusiasm he’d long since buried.

Then he saw you, smiling at Seungcheol at the Heidos Group Anniversary. It was the first time he noticed that familiar spark in your eyes. The same one you’d had back in college, when he’d shown you a photo of his roommate and you’d teased him with a mischievous grin.

“Wow, you have a handsome friend. Why don’t you introduce us?” you’d joked.

He remembered the look on his face back then—the way he’d sworn he’d never let you two meet. Your crush on Seungcheol was a topic he never took lightly, though he’d played it off as an overprotective brother act. He hated it, seeing that giddy, admiring look on your face, even if he’d never said a word.

And then, he watched you grow up, choosing paths that always seemed to lead back to Seungcheol—whether it was working at Heidos Food or insisting on attending the same events. When you’d finally landed a job at Heidos Food, the excitement in your voice had made his chest tighten with something close to fear.

“The time has come,” he’d thought bitterly.

Jeonghan knew he couldn’t stop you. He couldn’t stand in the way of fate, no matter how much he wanted to. Because if there was anyone who could give you the kind of love and happiness he couldn’t, it was Seungcheol.

The day when he saw Seungcheol’s car parked in front of your house, he realized he’d been right all along. He’d sensed that whatever it was between you and Seungcheol was finally unfolding, blooming into something he couldn’t control.

And now, as he stood in the dimly lit hallway of his house, staring at that old family photo, he felt a strange sense of peace. Letting go of Jiyeon, refusing to force himself into a life he didn’t want, had been the right decision.

Because he couldn’t stand to see you unhappy. And if Seungcheol could bring you joy, then everything—letting go of his engagement, enduring the aftermath—would be worth it.

Jeonghan turned away from the photo, his gaze lingering on the empty, silent house. Yes, he thought, his heart aching but resolute. Letting go was never easy, but some things needed to be set free so that something new could begin.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time for him to start letting go of the life he thought he should lead… and find one where he could finally just be.

*

The early morning light peeked through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Seungcheol shifted slightly, careful not to wake you as he looked down at the sight that had become his favorite—your peaceful face resting against his chest, hair slightly mussed from sleep.

You’d stayed the night, and now, as he watched the rise and fall of your breathing, he couldn’t help but smile. This moment, the quiet intimacy of waking up with you in his arms, felt almost too perfect to be real. He’d often catch himself wondering how he got lucky enough to have you here, tangled up with him in sheets that were no longer cold and empty.

Slowly, as if sensing his gaze, your eyes fluttered open. You blinked, squinting against the morning light before looking up at him, a small pout forming on your lips.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep.

You shifted, stretching slightly but not moving away from his hold. “Morning… I should probably get going, though,” you mumbled, glancing around as if remembering where you were. “I don’t have any clothes here.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, an amused smile tugging at his lips. “You don’t need to rush off so soon. The lady who cleans the house brought over a bunch of women’s clothes the other day. Said she thought they might come in handy.”

Your eyes widened a fraction. “Wait, seriously? Why would she do that?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm in the quiet room. “I might have mentioned something about a ‘guest’ staying over occasionally. Ever since then, she’s been pampering me with questions and insisting on stocking up on things.”

You groaned softly, burying your face back into his chest. “Seungcheol…”

“What?” He pretended to look offended, though his grin only widened. “I didn’t exactly ask her to do it, but I have to say, she’s been very thoughtful.”

“Still… it’s embarrassing,” you muttered.

He let out a low hum, running his fingers gently through your hair. “I like it,” he admitted softly. “I like having you around. Everything just… feels better when you’re here.”

You lifted your head slightly, meeting his gaze. There was something in his eyes, a softness and sincerity that made your heart skip a beat. He was serious. Everything was better with you.

Reluctantly, you nodded. “Alright. I’ll stay for breakfast, but I’m going home after that.”

“Deal,” he agreed easily, pressing a light kiss to your forehead before you finally untangled yourself from his arms.

A little while later, you were sitting across from Seungcheol at his kitchen table, the two of you sharing a simple breakfast. Despite the everyday setting, something about it felt special. The clink of utensils against plates, the smell of coffee filling the air—it was a scene you could get used to.

Seungcheol watched you from over his cup, unable to stop the smile that crept onto his face. Eating breakfast alone was something he’d grown accustomed to, but with you here, everything was different. The eggs tasted richer, the toast more buttery, and even the morning sunlight seemed warmer.

“I could get used to this,” he mused aloud, his voice light but with a hint of something deeper.

You glanced up, eyebrows raised. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast. Mornings. Everything,” he said, leaning back slightly as he took in the sight of you. “When you’re here, the food tastes better, the air feels fresher… even the cold water in the shower isn’t as bad.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Such a sweet talker, Seungcheol.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “You make everything better.”

Your cheeks warmed at the intensity of his gaze, but before you could respond, he was already standing up and gathering the empty dishes. You moved to help, but he waved you off.

“Stay. I’ll do the dishes,” he said firmly.

“You cooked,” you protested. “It’s only fair I help.”

He hesitated, then sighed, relenting. “Alright, fine. But I’m drying.”

The two of you fell into a comfortable rhythm at the sink. You washed, and he dried, his presence close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. Every so often, his arm would brush against yours, sending tiny sparks up your skin.

It was just the two of you, sharing a simple, quiet moment in his kitchen. Or at least, it was supposed to be.

Seungcheol’s arms suddenly wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against his chest. You squealed softly in surprise, your soapy hands hovering awkwardly over the sink as you turned your head to look at him.

“Seungcheol, what are you doing?” you asked, your voice a mix of exasperation and amusement.

“I just… needed to hold you for a second,” he murmured, resting his chin on your shoulder. His hands splayed across your stomach, holding you close as if he couldn’t bear to let go. “You’re always so busy, and I just wanted a bit more of you before you go.”

Your heart melted at his words. He sounded almost childlike, his usual confident demeanor slipping away to reveal the vulnerability underneath.

You turned slightly, reaching up to cup his cheek. “You know I’m not going anywhere, right?”

His gaze softened, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. The kiss was slow, lingering, as if he was savoring every second. You sighed against his mouth, your hands reaching up to wind around his neck.

One kiss turned into another, then another, each one deeper than the last. The dishes were forgotten, the only sound in the room the soft hum of the fridge and the ragged breaths you both shared.

“Seungcheol…” you breathed out as his mouth trailed down your jaw, leaving a hot path of kisses along your neck. His hands gripped the edge of the counter, trapping you in place as he pulled you closer.

But before things could go any further, the front door swung open.

You both froze, heads snapping toward the sound. Footsteps echoed through the hallway, drawing closer. Panic seized you, your heart racing as you looked up at Seungcheol with wide eyes.

“Who could that be?” you whispered frantically.

“I—I don’t know,” he stammered, releasing you and stepping back hastily.

The footsteps stopped, and a familiar figure appeared at the entrance to the kitchen.

“Jiyeon?” Seungcheol blurted out, his voice a mixture of shock and confusion.

Jiyeon’s eyes widened as she took in the scene—your flushed face, Seungcheol’s disheveled hair, the obvious tension lingering in the air.

For a moment, no one spoke.

“Uh… hi?” you offered weakly, your voice sounding embarrassingly small.

Jiyeon raised an eyebrow, looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did I… interrupt something?”

Seungcheol cleared his throat, scrambling to regain his composure. “What are you doing here?”

Jiyeon shrugged casually. “I came to talk. But it seems like you’re… busy.”

Her eyes twinkled mischievously, and you could see the teasing smile threatening to break through.

Seungcheol let out a long, exasperated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Right. Let’s… talk.”

You shifted awkwardly, glancing at Seungcheol. “I should probably—”

“No,” Seungcheol interrupted firmly, taking your hand. “Stay. Whatever she has to say, she can say it in front of you.”

Jiyeon’s smirk widened. “Well, this should be interesting,” she murmured, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe, clearly enjoying the situation a bit too much.

As Seungcheol’s grip on your hand tightened, you couldn’t help but feel that whatever was coming, you’d face it together.

*

The brunch spot you’d chosen was a cozy little café downtown, known for its long queues on weekends. You glanced around nervously, feeling a bit guilty for dragging Seungcheol out here on a Sunday morning. He’d already spent the night taking care of you, and now he was stuck in line with you, waiting for pastries and coffee.

“I’m sorry for making you wait around like this,” you murmured, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “I know you probably had better things to do than—”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, cutting you off with a gentle nudge. “Stop apologizing. I’m happy to be here. Besides,” he leaned in closer, his breath tickling your ear, “I’d rather spend a few hours queuing with you than not see you at all.”

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to be overly interested in the menu board. “Still… I feel bad that I’ve been so busy. It’s like everyone at work just dumped all their projects on me.”

“Maybe you should start messing with their work,” he suggested with a cheeky grin.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “As tempting as that sounds, Jeonghan would not be happy about it.”

Seungcheol’s smile faltered a little at the mention of your brother. “Your brother needs to cut you some slack,” he muttered. “You’re doing more than enough for that company.”

“Speaking of which…” You glanced up at the counter where the bakery display was set up. “I think I should get more almond croissants. Just in case Jeonghan decides to visit my place.”

Seungcheol’s frown deepened. “He should stop visiting your place so often. Doesn’t he have anything else to do?”

You tried to stifle a laugh. “No, he only has me.”

“Ugh,” Seungcheol groaned, rubbing his temples dramatically. “Right, I forgot. Your brother’s territorial complex. I don’t think he’s ready to share you yet.”

“Not at all,” you teased lightly. “Which is why you’re right—we should probably wait until our second anniversary to tell him, not the first.”

He sighed, a smile tugging at his lips despite his grumbling. “You’re going to make me wait even longer, huh?”

“Just a little bit,” you hummed, flashing him a playful smile.

It didn’t take much longer for the line to move forward, and soon enough, you were walking out with a bag full of fresh pastries and two cups of coffee. Seungcheol insisted on carrying everything, his hand lightly brushing yours every so often as you walked back to his car.

The ride back to your place was filled with easy chatter and laughter. Seungcheol had this way of making even the most mundane moments feel special, his presence so warm and comforting that you found yourself wishing you could stay with him all day. But you knew you couldn’t; there was still a mountain of work waiting for you at home.

When you finally reached your building, Seungcheol parked the car and turned to you, a small, reluctant smile on his face. “I’ll walk you up.”

“You don’t have to,” you protested lightly, though you secretly loved that he was always so considerate.

“I want to,” he insisted. He carried the pastry bag and followed you to your door, his hand finding its way to your lower back as you fished for your keys.

The second you unlocked the door, Seungcheol pulled you into a gentle hug, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Promise me you’ll take breaks while working,” he murmured softly.

You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his embrace. “I will,” you whispered, your arms tightening around him.

“And text me when you’re done, alright?” he added, tilting your face up so he could press a lingering kiss to your lips. “I want to know when I can steal you away again.”

You nodded, smiling against his mouth. “Okay, I’ll text you.”

But before you could say anything else, the door behind you swung open, startling both of you. You turned around, eyes widening in shock as you found yourself face-to-face with Jeonghan.

His gaze shifting between you and Seungcheol. His eyes narrowed, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he processed what he was seeing—his little sister standing on the doorstep with Seungcheol, lips a bit too swollen and hair a bit too messy to be innocent.

“What’s this?” Jeonghan demanded, his tone icy as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Care to explain?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but Seungcheol beat you to it. He took a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from Jeonghan’s cold glare.

“I can explain,” Seungcheol said calmly. “I know this looks… unexpected, but I can assure you that everything is fine. We’re fine.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Fine?” he repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. “You’re standing outside my sister’s apartment looking like you’ve been making out for hours, and you’re telling me everything is fine?”

You winced, but Seungcheol remained unflinching. “Yes, because that’s exactly what happened.”

Your eyes widened at Seungcheol’s boldness. He shot you a quick, reassuring glance before turning back to face Jeonghan, his shoulders squared confidently.

“I like her,” Seungcheol stated firmly, his voice unwavering. “I’ve liked her for a long time. And I’d like to keep liking her—with your permission, of course.”

Jeonghan blinked, momentarily caught off guard by Seungcheol’s directness. He glanced at you, his gaze softening slightly before he looked back at Seungcheol.

“You like her?” he echoed, as if testing the words on his tongue. “Since when?”

Seungcheol hesitated, his jaw clenching slightly. “Since… well, since before I knew I wasn’t supposed to.”

Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed, but there was no malice in his gaze, only a protective wariness. “And you,” he turned to you, his voice softer now. “Is this what you want?”

You swallowed, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze squarely. “Yes. I want this,” you said quietly but firmly. “I want to be with him.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy in the air, the tension almost palpable. Then, slowly, Jeonghan let out a long breath, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction.

“Well… I guess I can’t really stop you,” he muttered, his lips quirking up in a reluctant smile. “But I swear, if you hurt her—”

“I won’t,” Seungcheol interrupted, his voice filled with quiet determination. “I promise, I won’t.”

Jeonghan eyed him for a long moment, then nodded, a small sigh escaping him. “Alright. But don’t think I’m going to make it easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Seungcheol replied with a grin.

Jeonghan rolled his eyes, but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching up. He turned to you, his expression softening. “And you—don’t think this gets you out of our lunch plans tomorrow.”

You laughed softly, relief flooding through you. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jeonghan shook his head, muttering something under his breath about troublesome siblings before stepping back inside. “Just… behave yourselves, okay?”

You nodded, smiling as you watched him retreat into the apartment.

Once the door clicked shut, Seungcheol let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. He turned to you, his eyes shining with a mix of relief and amusement.

“Well, that went better than expected,” he murmured, pulling you into his arms again.

“Yeah,” you agreed, leaning into his embrace. “Way better.”

“Now,” he whispered against your hair, “let’s finish that kiss properly, hmm?”

You laughed, tilting your head up to meet his lips again, this time with no interruptions, no worries—just the sweet, undeniable feeling of being exactly where you belonged.

*

It was well past midnight, and your living room was dimly lit by the soft glow of your laptop screen. Papers were strewn across the coffee table, along with empty coffee cups and a half-eaten sandwich you’d forgotten about hours ago. You sat hunched over your work, typing furiously, as if sheer speed could somehow help you finish everything your colleagues had dumped on you.

Seungcheol sat quietly beside you on the couch, his presence a steadying comfort. He had come over a few hours ago after seeing your “busy” message and the growing bags under your eyes during your video call. You didn’t ask him to stay, but you didn’t have to—Seungcheol knew you too well to leave you alone on a night like this.

He glanced at you, his brows furrowing slightly in concern as you groaned softly and ran a hand through your hair, tugging at the strands in frustration.

“I swear, I won’t work there anymore—even in my next life,” you muttered under your breath, your eyes glued to the screen.

Seungcheol’s lips curled up into a small smile. He shifted closer, one arm wrapping around your waist as the other began to gently rub circles on your back. His touch was warm and soothing, slowly melting away some of the tension that had built up in your shoulders.

“You’ve been saying that for months, you know?” he teased softly, his hand moving up to trace comforting patterns across your tummy. “Yet here you are, still working your ass off.”

You sighed, leaning back against him slightly, grateful for his quiet support. “This is why I hate nepotism. It never works fairly! It’s either you become the evil one, or you get eviled.”

Seungcheol pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a moment. “It’s unfair,” he agreed softly. “And I hate that you have to go through this. But you’re strong—you’ll get through it, like you always do.”

“Only because you’re here,” you murmured, turning your head to look at him. “You know, I could’ve accepted your offer to go back to Heidos, but…” You trailed off, shaking your head. “But I chose this. I chose to stay with my brother’s company. Maybe this is my karma—maybe I deserve all this headache and exhaustion for turning down your offer.”

Seungcheol’s expression softened, his gaze filled with nothing but love and understanding. He shifted slightly, cupping your cheek with one hand as he leaned in closer. “Hey, none of this is your fault,” he murmured gently. “You don’t deserve any of this stress. And just because you chose to help your brother doesn’t mean you have to keep suffering like this.”

Before you could respond, Seungcheol kissed you softly, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache in the best way. He pulled back just enough to speak, his forehead resting against yours.

“I can make you feel better, though,” he whispered, his voice low and soothing as his thumb caressed your cheek. Then, without waiting for your answer, he kissed you again—deeper this time, slow and lingering, like he was trying to pour all his love and support into that one kiss.

You sighed into the kiss, your shoulders relaxing for the first time that night as you melted against him. All the stress, the exhaustion, and the frustration seemed to fade away, replaced by the warm comfort of being in Seungcheol’s arms.

“Thank you,” you whispered against his lips when you finally pulled away, your eyes meeting his in the dim light. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Seungcheol smiled, his hand sliding up to tangle gently in your hair. “You don’t have to worry about that, because I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “I’ll always be here—for every late night, for every breakdown, for everything. I’m with you, always.”

And in that quiet, intimate moment, you knew—no matter how tough things got, no matter how much work was thrown your way, as long as you had Seungcheol by your side, you could get through anything.

The night stretched on, but with Seungcheol’s arms around you and his comforting presence beside you, the workload didn’t seem so daunting. You could finish it, you would finish it. And when you finally shut your laptop hours later, you curled up against Seungcheol’s chest, his steady heartbeat lulling you to sleep.

The last thing you heard before drifting off was his soft whisper in your ear.

“I love you.”

:)

[tamurilofrivendell]

Crush | Legolas x Reader

Pairing: Legolas x Female Reader

Summary: Reader is a royal guard who Legolas becomes enamoured by.

Word count: 2,990

requested by anonymous (happy (late, I'm sorry) birthday, I hope this was okay for you)

tags: @coopsgirl @birbixo0912 @desert-fern @ancient-rime @silverose365 @lady-of-imladris @asianbutnotjapanese @deadlymistletoe @thewulf @whiteladyofithilien

It was a recent change, you becoming a royal guard. Once an opening had become available, of course, you lunged at it. You had wanted for a very long time to attain such a position and thankfully your ambition and your skills had not gone unnoticed. You got what you wanted and soon settled straight into the role. Some days your duties seemed endless but you felt like you were protecting your home, helping to defend the realm you so loved, and it made even the most exhausting of days worth it.

This particular day, you were following the king himself around as he went from place to place tending to various different things. Usually Feren himself would have accompanied Thranduil, however he was away from the halls at a nearby settlement and you had been plucked from the rest to be the guard who went with the king this day and you did not think you could be more excited and more eager to not mess up.

It was a long afternoon.

You had gone to a meeting about various boring politics which you had zoned in and out of as you stood at the back of the room behind his chair. Then he'd trailed around various rooms checking on the armoury, the production of various things you didn't expect him to care much about such as cloth and flour, and also to the cellar to check on the wine stores. Now, you were walking away from the orchard, where the Orchardist had given a very unnecessarily in-depth talk about his apples and the large yield of the trees. He'd seemed exceptionally proud, which was nice, but he talked a lot longer than was necessary when it came to something like fruit.

"I think... he certainly knows an awful lot about apples." Thranduil mused as the two of you stepped onto the path. "And now I, too, certainly know an awful lot more than necessary about apples."

You stifled a laugh, not wishing to be rude but truthfully you had been bored stiff the entire time. Thranduil had not looked anything but attentive while you'd been fighting to keep your expression neutral, but he just had more practice than you did.

"It is good that our stores will not run low any time soon." You replied as diplomatically as you could, though the king caught the deeper feelings in your tone and he smirked a little in amusement.

"Indeed." It was, after all, a good thing that the trees produced such large quantities. Not just the apples, either. It meant their crop continued to thrive and they would not starve if he needed to close the gates for any reason. Not that he anticipated anything. "Anyway, I think I will be alright to return to my chambers alone, thank you. You may go."

"As you wish." You nodded, falling out of step with him and watching as he swept away and disappeared round the corner back into the part of the building that led to his private quarters. You stayed where you were for a moment, wondering what to do now, and then you turned around to head back to your own chamber. Perhaps a bath would be a nice idea after such a long day of trudging around and being on your feet.

As you turned, your eyes fell upon another figure a short distance away, sitting underneath a large tree in the courtyard with a bow between his fingers. Prince Legolas seemed to have already been looking at you when your gaze was drawn to him and you blinked, a bit taken aback by that fact. A beat passed and then you stepped towards his direction but his eyes immediately dropped to the bow in his hand as he went back to cleaning it, acting as if you no longer existed. Oh. He must not need anything after all then. You'd thought maybe he recognised your role when you'd been walking with his father but... no matter, you decided, turning away and heading away back down the path.

What you didn't see was the way Legolas' eyes flickered back up to watch your retreat. He had been sitting out here for about an hour now, taking his time while cleaning his bow and enjoying the mild weather. The bow had once belonged to his mother and he took more care of it than he did with his others. He had noticed his father coming through but he had not wanted to draw much attention to himself, the older elf had looked quite worn out. It wouldn't show to anyone else of course but to Legolas it was clear. He almost hadn't paid you any attention at first. When he had, he'd done a double take.

She's beautiful, was his immediate thought, something which brought a faint blush to his cheeks and so he was glad that nobody was paying too much attention to him. You'd made his father smile too, he noticed that, which only raised your merit in his eyes. After a few moments, when you were out of sight, he looked down again and went back to his bow. Interesting.

Three days later, you were one of the guards standing somewhere below the throne, keeping a careful watch while the king went through the rigmarole of people coming before him in audience to ask him for things or bring forward suggestions for his court and the realm.

Legolas walked into the room just as the last elf was escorted out. He strode right up the walkway towards the throne, intent on reaching his father to give him an appraisal of the forest beyond. For a brief moment, his eyes flickered towards where you stood... and he paused, coming to a stop altogether.

"Legolas." His father's deep voice shook him from his trance after a moment and he blinked up at Thranduil, who was looking down at him with a raised eyebrow.

Legolas shook his head, clearing his throat as he forced one foot in front of the other. "Ah... yes." He muttered, willing his cheeks not to flush, which luckily they did not. He launched into a rundown of what he'd seen in the forest and you could only stare at him for a long moment, confused at the prince's unusual behaviour, before you turned your eyes away, focusing them on the entrance to the throne room.

He was gone again quicker than you would have imagined but he stole another glance over his shoulder on his way out, eyes settling on you once again, just for the briefest of seconds, before he disappeared.

As you stared at the space in the doorway he had just occupied, you heard the sound of a snort being smothered from somewhere behind you. Turning, you looked up at Thranduil, who cleared his throat and looked stoic as ever but something about him almost looked amused. A glint in his eyes maybe?

"That is all, you may go." Was all he said as he rose, descended the steps and vanished just as his son had, leaving you staring after him as well. After standing frozen for a long moment, blinking in confusion, you left the room and decided to just put it from your mind. You must be imagining things.

The next two weeks passed in much the same manner. Legolas kept seeing you around everywhere he went as if you were haunting him. It was strange, he thought, that he'd gone so long without a glimpse and then suddenly you were everywhere. He thought he must just be an idiot. Overthinking it. You had not shown any interest and he felt like a bit of a weasel staring at you the way he had. Besides, he did not have time for anything, did he? He had things to do. He was a prince of the realm and he had duties...

...however, his mind did not let him rest. It tormented him with the image of you and eventually he decided he had to just say something, get it out of his system, and then he could go back to the way things were.

So, a day later, he approached you.

You had the day off and you were still trying to figure out how to spend it. You didn't feel like reading, you didn't feel like training, you didn't feel like doing much of anything but you were so bored that wandering around in the halls was driving you a bit mad.

"You look lost." Came a voice from behind and when you turned you saw Legolas standing there. You were startled, not answering immediately because it was the first time he had ever actually spoken to you.

"Mh?" Was your first very clever response, which made your face redden and, in turn, made him laugh. "I mean... uh..." You continued, scrambling to form actual words. He was smiling at you, kindly yes, but it was clear he was amused.

After another moment you laughed as well and the tension seemed to evaporate. "I am bored." You admitted.

"I see." Legolas chuckled, nodding as he turned his head to look around. The realm was quiet today, the halls barely occupied. "I was actually going to go into the forest." He turned his gaze back to your face, telling himself not to get lost in your eyes. "If... if you wanted to join me."

You couldn't be certain but it seemed as if the prince had stammered over his words a little. As much as you had not spent a lot of time around him, from what you'd seen that seemed unusual. A beat passed and then you smiled, nodding. "I'd like that."

His small, almost bashful, smile was enough to send your heart fluttering in your chest as he turned and gestured with his head for you to follow.

The forest was quiet too but in a different way than the halls. There it had felt a little suffocating in your boredom. Here it was peaceful. The change of scenery seemed to do your mind some good... though perhaps the company had something to do with it too.

Legolas was funny, you came to realise, once you got past his quiet, sometimes almost shy-seeming demeanour. He was charming... handsome, but that was not something you only found out today, no you'd thought that for quite some time already.

He took you on a mini tour of his favourite spots and then you both found yourself sitting up in a tree above a small pond, just talking. Getting to know Legolas made your heart stir in a way you would not have imagined. There was something about him, the way he spoke, the way he looked at you, the intent look on his face as he listened to your responses as if he truly did not want to miss a single word, that had your stomach in knots and your eyes glued to his face.

You met him again the next day, and then the next. It became routine that the two of you would spend time together during time off from your duties. You even started sparring together in the training grounds and Legolas seemed impressed by your skill with a blade. You went on walks through the forest. You talked about your lives. He became such a close friend that it was a wonder to you that you had ever not had him in your life in this capacity at all.

One day, while you were both sitting by the river in the afternoon sun, you noticed that he was a little quieter than normal.

"Is everything alright?" You asked him outright after a moment of studying the way the tiniest bit of tension had crept onto his brow where usually there was nothing.

Legolas blinked, turning his eyes from the flowing water to your face. "Hm?" He asked, as if he had not even heard you.

"I asked if everything was alright." You repeated.

Legolas shook his head in response, contradicting himself when his response was a simple: "Oh. Yes, everything is fine."

You did not buy it. A beat passed in which you just stared at him with a raised eyebrow and he shifted under your gaze before letting out a sigh.

"Alright, I confess. There is... something on my mind." He said.

"What?" You asked, watching him glance down at the stick in his hands that he had been fiddling with for a time now. "Legolas." You prompted after a moment.

Legolas swallowed, as if nervous, though you could not understand why he would need to be that way around you. Until he spoke, of course.

"I have been thinking a lot lately." He said, his voice soft, gaze on the river before he gathered the courage to turn his face to look at you once more. "About us."

Us. It was like a magic word that sent a shiver through you as you stared back at him. Did he mean... as in...? You swallowed now, feeling your own nerves rise. "Us?" You asked in a way that urged him to continue.

Legolas nodded slowly, blue eyes studying your face closely. "Yes. Us." He repeated, wishing he had planned out what he wished to say in his mind, but of course he had not planned this moment with you today at all. He had not intended for his thoughts to become visible. "You see, I..." He glanced down, breaking the stick in half before discarding the pieces and looking back up at your face, the one that had plagued his thoughts since that first day he saw you with his father.

In that moment, he decided to just say it. All of it. Just tell you because somehow keeping it inside unspoken was worse. "I like you very much. As... more than just a friend."

The world almost seemed as if it stopped for a moment. A second where everything just froze, your gaze locked with his. Was this actually happening or were you still asleep and this was all some trick of the mind? "What?" Not what you'd wanted to say but it's what came out of your mouth.

Legolas, unfortunately, took this as a bad sign and he looked away again, clearing his throat as a slight crease returned to the space between his eyebrows. "I... I just mean that..." He went quiet.

"No, no..." You said quickly, shaking your head. Damn it! "I meant... well, since when?" You had not dared to think that the prince's interest in you would be anything but platonic. He had never shown any interest in you beyond that!

However, as you thought about it now, yes he had. In the way he spent almost all of his free time with you. The way he listened so closely and intently to every single thing you said, hanging off your every word. The smiles, the lingering glances. The time he'd picked a flower from the forest floor and tucked it behind your ear without saying a thing but the look in his eyes that you'd ignored had said more than any words ever could.

You'd turned a blind eye.

"I like you very much too." You managed. "More than a friend."

Legolas blinked in a way that made him look completely stunned, quickly turning his face back so he could look at you. He was quiet for a moment and then a smile started to spread over his face. "You do?"

You nodded quickly, desperate now not to make him think any longer that you had absolutely no interest. "Of course, yes, I... I was just surprised to hear you say it, I didn't think-"

"I thought I was quite obvious." Legolas half mumbled, chuckling as his cheeks turned slightly pink.

"Oh, you were." You joked, laughing softly. "But... I think... I was not paying attention."

A small, comfortable silence passed between the pair of you as Legolas kept his eyes on your face and you forced yourself not to look away either. His smile widened.

"Then..." He continued after a moment. "If I asked if I could... court you-"

"Yes!" The word flew from your mouth before he could fully finish his sentence, causing colour to creep into your own cheeks as you watched him chuckle with amusement at your eagerness.

"In that case," the prince said, standing up and offering you his hand to help you to your feet. "Tomorrow, we begin properly." His minds eye filled with images of a picnic in a beautiful spot, of getting to know you better than he already did but this time in the capacity he most wished... maybe a kiss, but he would not get too ahead of himself.

"But I have duties." You said, taking his hand and allowing him to pull you up onto your feet, your heart racing at the contact as it always seemed to do, an extra thrill of excitement in it this time. "I stand the throne room tomorrow."

Legolas paused and then waved his hand, turning to lead you back down the trail towards the halls once more. "Leave that to me." He was determined to spend the whole day with you, to begin this courtship properly.

After some prodding as to why Legolas wished to wrangle a day off throne room duty for one of the guards, Thranduil found out about the change in the relationship between you and his son. However, he did not look the slightest bit surprised as he poured some more wine into his cup with a barely concealed smirk.

"I did think it would have taken you a little less time to ask her, my son... but better late than never." Was all he said while Legolas did his utmost not to shift in uncomfortable embarrassment under the amused glint in his father's eye.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind the Lens | Joe's POV | Part One

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

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

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

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 24.7k

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

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

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility 

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

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

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

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

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

Then the assistant fumbled the football.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The camera clicked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting 

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

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

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

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he'd found one.

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

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

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What's that?"

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

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

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

"Which ones?" Joe asked, genuinely interested.

"Which ones what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

November 22, 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

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

Then Ryan Kerrigan destroyed his leg.

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

He already knew who he wanted to do it.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heard you're documenting the comeback tour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 - Rehabilitation Center 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned. "Yeah?"

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she was going to spend Christmas alone.

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

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

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

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

* * *

December 20, 2020 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

But he dialed anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see. And you mentioned Christmas delivery?"

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

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

Brief pause. "Two identical snow globes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, send them, Joe replied quickly.

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

Perfect. Go ahead with it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

January 2021 - Rehabilitation Center 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Off the record," she said simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You tore your ACL?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She turned back. "Yeah?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2021 - Joe's Home 

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

Instead, Joe felt restless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You watching?

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

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

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

Predictions?

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

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

Smart. But off the record?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tell her thanks and hey back.

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

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

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

Like I said, LSU connections matter.

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

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

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

Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"In ways that what?" Joe prompted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The recognition felt dangerous. And increasingly unavoidable.

* * *

January 2022 - Post-AFC Championship Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early 2022 Season - Bengals Facility 

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

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

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

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

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

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Redistribute?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pulled out his phone.

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

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

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Appreciate that. See you at practice.

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

* * *

November 2023 - Baltimore Ravens Game 

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

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

Not again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect. See you next week.

* * *

February 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did you have in mind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sorry," Joe said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

Early March 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia said.

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

"Is there someone else?"

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

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

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

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

"But there is someone," she said.

Joe felt heat rise in his neck.

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

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

"Nothing has happened," Joe said immediately.

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

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

"How long have you known?" Joe asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it.

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

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

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

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

* * *

March 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe hit the call button before he could overthink it.

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

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

"It's Joe."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

April 2024 - Local Cafe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?" Joe asked, settling back down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

May 2024 - Joe's Home 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such a simple question. Such enormous implications.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2024 - Alo Sponsorship Event, Los Angeles 

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

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

"Excuse me, are you Joe Burrow?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But simple felt like settling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

July 2024 - Training Camp 

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

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

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

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

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

"Good," Joe said, rolling his shoulder.

"Wrist's holding up better than expected."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Touché."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

November 2024 - Team Flight Back from Dallas 

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

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

Security breach at residence. Police dispatched. Contact immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you hurt? Did you see anyone?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank you," Joe said when she finished. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Something flickered across Y/N's expression at that—a flash of pain quickly suppressed. Joe realized too late that his gratitude for her professional distance might sound like relief that she wasn't demanding explanations he didn't want to give.

"That's my job," Y/N said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

The response was perfectly professional and completely devastating. Y/N was retreating behind job descriptions, creating distance that felt like punishment even though Joe knew he deserved it.

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing strategy, but Joe felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Y/N was helping him protect his privacy while probably wondering why he'd never trusted her with the truth.

As they finished, Joe found himself desperate to bridge the growing gap between them.

"You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

It was true, but as soon as he said it, Joe realized how it might sound to someone who had just discovered he'd been hiding a relationship from her for months.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed, her voice carefully controlled. "Even you."

Something in her tone—resignation, maybe, or hurt acknowledgment—made Joe want to explain everything. But before he could find the words, it was time for the press conference.

* * *

The Press Conference

Standing at the podium, looking out at the room full of reporters waiting to dissect his personal life, Joe felt a familiar calm settle over him. This was the part he could control—his response, his boundaries, his narrative.

He caught sight of Y/N in the back of the room, her expression focused and professional as she monitored his performance. Knowing she was there gave him the confidence to speak from the heart rather than from their prepared talking points.

"I know there's been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours," Joe began, his voice steady and clear. "Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I'm going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"I'm here to talk about football. That's what I'll be answering questions about today."

The boundary was clear and non-negotiable. Joe held firm as reporters tried various angles to return to the personal story, calmly redirecting every question back to football. When it was over, he looked toward the back of the room, catching Y/N's eye for just a moment—a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

* * *

Later That Day - Y/N's Office

Joe stood outside Y/N's office for several minutes before knocking, trying to find the right words for a conversation he should have had months ago. When he finally entered, Y/N looked up with that same professional composure, but Joe caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Y/N replied, though something in her tone suggested this was the last conversation she wanted to have.

Joe closed the door and sat across from her desk, studying her face and finding nothing but polite professional attention. The easy warmth that had characterized their friendship was gone, replaced by careful distance.

"I went off script," he said, testing the waters.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she approved, followed immediately by sadness that they were discussing his press conference performance rather than the personal earthquake that had brought them to this point.

"I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning," he continued. "Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N just shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

The silence that followed felt loaded with everything they weren't saying. Joe could sense Y/N's hurt beneath her professional composure, could feel her pulling away even as she maintained perfect courtesy.

"The coverage should die down soon," Y/N said, gesturing to her monitor with the kind of efficient subject change that indicated the personal portion of their conversation was over. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

But Joe wasn't ready to retreat to safe professional ground. Not when he could feel Y/N slipping away.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, and Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing that suggested his attempt at honesty was causing her pain. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe struggled to find words. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. Joe watched Y/N's face as he said the word, noting the slight flinch she couldn't quite hide. It wasn't the right word for what they'd been to each other, but it was the only safe word he had.

"It's really okay, Joe," Y/N said, her voice carefully modulated. "I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face, looking for any opening to explain that his relationship with Ellie wasn't what the media was making it seem, that it had been a mistake born of fear rather than genuine connection.

"It's complicated," he said finally. "More complicated than what people are assuming."

Something flickered in Y/N's expression—curiosity, maybe, or hope—before she deliberately suppressed it.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

The response was perfectly appropriate and completely devastating. Y/N was giving him space to explain while making it clear she didn't expect his explanations. She was protecting herself while still protecting him.

Joe felt desperate to bridge the gap between them, to return to the easy connection they'd shared before he'd ruined everything.

"I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon," he said, the invitation spilling out before he could stop it. "Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The offer hung between them, and Joe watched Y/N's face carefully, looking for any sign that she might accept.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," Y/N replied, her tone neutral but her message clear. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

It was a gentle rejection, professionally worded but final nonetheless. Y/N was drawing boundaries, protecting herself from the kind of emotional confusion Joe had created.

"Sure," Joe said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Just let me know."

As he stood to leave, Joe realized he'd lost more than just Y/N's friendship. He'd lost her trust, her easy companionship, the person who understood him better than anyone else in his professional life. His attempt to avoid complications by choosing Ellie had created far worse complications.

Walking back through the facility, Joe's phone buzzed with messages from teammates, family, media contacts. Everyone wanted to know about Ellie, about the relationship that had been exposed.

But the only person whose understanding he actually wanted was the one he'd already lost through his own emotional cowardice. And the text he most wanted to send—explaining everything, apologizing for the secrecy, asking for another chance—felt impossible to write.

* * *

Game Day Scene

Joe spotted Y/N on the sidelines during warm-ups, camera in hand, moving with that focused efficiency he'd watched for four years. But something was off about her positioning—she was deliberately staying in areas where their paths wouldn't cross, keeping her lens trained on everyone except him.

She was avoiding him. Not just the awkward small talk or professional distance—she was actively managing her movements to minimize contact.

He jogged over during a break in drills, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Avoiding me?" The words came out more direct than he'd intended.

Y/N turned, and for just a split second he saw something raw cross her face before the professional mask slid back into place. "Of course not. Just focusing on the content plan."

Bullshit. Joe had been reading Y/N's expressions for four years. He knew the difference between her being busy and her being careful.

"You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Her composure never wavered, but he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

The diplomatic response rankled more than anger would have. This was what she did with difficult players, with media members she didn't trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around a steel wall.

"Right," he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game." She cut him off, her tone gentle but firm. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

The dismissal stung, but she was right about the timing. His head needed to be in the game, not on whatever this distance was about. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.

"We're talking about this later."

He started to turn away, then heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He looked back, hoping for something—an opening, a crack in that professional armor.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite his frustration. Even when she was pulling away, she couldn't help caring about his performance. It was so fundamentally Y/N that it made his chest tight.

"Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

As he jogged back to the quarterback group, Joe tried to shake off the conversation and focus on the game plan. But part of his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's careful positioning, the way she'd deflected every attempt at real connection.

During the game, he found himself glancing toward the sideline more than usual, tracking her movement between plays. She was doing her job with the same excellence she always brought—capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating content that would bring fans closer to the action.

But there was something different in her body language. More contained. Like she was holding herself apart from the energy of the game in a way she never had before.

When he threw the touchdown pass in the third quarter, his automatic reaction was to look for her reaction. But Y/N was already turning away, camera focused on the celebration around him instead of him directly.

The post-game interview felt hollow without her usual follow-up questions or the brief eye contact that had become their private ritual. She was there, professional as always, but the easy connection they'd built over four years felt severed.

Back in the locker room, Joe's frustration finally boiled over. He pulled out his phone and typed without overthinking it.

We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

He watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before her response came.

I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

The deflection was so obviously a delay tactic that it would have been insulting if it wasn't so unlike her. Y/N didn't run from difficult conversations. She met them head-on with the same directness she brought to everything else.

Which meant this wasn't about professional boundaries or busy schedules. This was about him.

If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

The response took longer this time.

We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Joe stared at the message, recognizing the careful balance between acknowledgment and distance. She was giving him credit for his performance while firmly maintaining the boundary she'd established.

As he drove home that night, Joe replayed every interaction they'd had since the break-in. The way she'd handled the crisis meeting with perfect professionalism. The careful preparation for the press conference. Her composed reaction when he'd tried to explain things in her office.

He'd been so focused on managing the situation, on containing the damage to his public image, that he'd missed what was happening right in front of him. Y/N hadn't just been doing her job during those conversations. She'd been protecting herself.

From him.

[mywomankatarina]

𝐇𝐢𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧

Katarina x f! reader - Arcane

Synopsis:

You knew Katarina would overreact. She always did when it came to your safety. That’s why, after a mission gone slightly wrong, you made the conscious decision not to tell her about the injury you sustained. It wasn’t that bad—just a deep cut along your ribs. Nothing life-threatening, nothing you couldn’t handle.

So, you did what any reasonable person would do: you cleaned it up, wrapped it tightly, and went about your day like nothing had happened.

You thought you had gotten away with it. You thought Katarina would never notice.

You were very, very wrong.

Because when she did find out, she didn’t just get mad—she lost it.

And suddenly, the cut on your side wasn’t the biggest problem anymore.

The moment you stepped back into the house, you could already tell Katarina was in a mood.

She stood in the center of the living room, arms crossed, her emerald eyes locked onto you the second you walked through the door. Her gaze swept over you with calculated sharpness, assessing, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.

You kept your face neutral, your movements steady.

“Finally,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders. “You were gone longer than expected.”

You shrugged, making your way toward the bedroom. “Got held up.”

That was technically true. You had gotten held up—just not in the way she thought. The mission had been simple, but things had taken an unexpected turn, and in the chaos, you had taken a blade to the side. It wasn’t deep enough to be life-threatening, but it was deep enough to be a problem if you weren’t careful.

But you had been careful. You had cleaned the wound, wrapped it tightly beneath your shirt, and made sure to move as normally as possible on the way home.

You had this under control.

Or so you thought.

Because the moment you stepped past her, Katarina’s fingers shot out, wrapping around your wrist in a firm grip.

Your stomach dropped.

She frowned, her eyes narrowing as she pulled you back toward her. “Why are you walking like that?”

Shit.

“I’m not walking like anything.” You forced a casual expression, willing yourself not to wince as her sharp gaze flickered over you again.

Katarina’s eyes darkened slightly. “You are,” she said, voice laced with suspicion. “You’re stiff. And you’re favoring your right side.”

Damn it.

You kept your expression even, slipping into a well-practiced lie. “I’m just tired. It was a long mission.”

For a second, you thought she bought it.

Then, without warning, her hand shot out, pressing firmly against your ribs.

A sharp, agonizing pain exploded through your side.

You barely managed to choke back a gasp, your entire body flinching violently away from her touch.

And that was it. That was all it took.

Katarina’s entire expression shifted.

Her eyes flashed with something dangerous—something wild and furious as she stared at you, her hand still hovering in the air where she had touched you.

“You’re hurt.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your pulse skyrocketed. “It’s nothing—”

“You lied to me.”

Fuck.

Before you could react, Katarina moved.

In a blur of motion, she had you backed against the nearest wall, her hands gripping your arms, her face mere inches from yours.

Her breathing was sharp, uneven, her emerald eyes burning with something raw. “Take off your shirt.”

Your face flamed. “Katarina—”

“Now.”

You hesitated, trying to think of a way out of this, but the look on her face made it clear—there was no way out.

Sighing, you relented. With slow, careful movements, you peeled your shirt off, revealing the hastily wrapped bandages underneath.

Katarina’s breath hitched.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then, her fingers gently reached out, tracing the edges of the bloodied bandage with an almost haunted look in her eyes.

“…How bad is it?” Her voice was quiet, but there was something lethal lurking beneath it.

“It’s just a cut,” you murmured. “I handled it.”

Katarina’s jaw clenched.

She grabbed the bandage and began unwrapping it with practiced ease. You didn’t protest—there was no point anymore. She worked in silence, her lips pressed into a tight line as she revealed the deep, still-angry wound along your ribs.

Her fingers trembled.

For the first time, she looked scared.

“You should’ve told me,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.

You sighed, placing a hand over hers. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Her eyes snapped up, furious. “That’s not your decision to make.”

You exhaled, exhaustion starting to set in. “Katarina—”

She snapped.

“Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if that cut was just a little deeper?” Her voice was shaking. “Do you know what it would’ve done to me if you didn’t come home at all?”

Your chest tightened.

You had expected her to be angry. You had expected her to yell.

But this—this fear in her voice, this desperation in her eyes—this was different.

You softened. “I’m okay,” you whispered.

Katarina’s hands clenched into fists before she let out a slow, controlled breath. She carefully reached for the nearby medical supplies, pulling out fresh bandages. “Sit down,” she muttered.

You obeyed, letting her kneel beside you as she cleaned the wound with gentle precision.

Her fingers, usually so steady, still trembled slightly.

You watched her, your heart aching. “Katarina…”

She didn’t look up. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Katarina.”

She paused, her shoulders tense.

Slowly, she exhaled, setting down the bandages before finally meeting your gaze.

Her eyes were glassy.

“I can’t lose you,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I won’t.”

You felt something inside you crack.

Guilt swelled in your chest as you reached out, cupping her cheek. “You won’t,” you promised.

Katarina leaned into your touch, closing her eyes for just a moment before shaking her head. “Just—don’t ever do this again,” she murmured, her voice raw. “Don’t hide things from me.”

You nodded, rubbing slow circles against her cheek with your thumb. “I won’t.”

She studied you for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to believe you. Then, with a sigh, she leaned forward, pressing her forehead against yours.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

You smiled. “But you love me.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Unfortunately.���

You laughed softly before wincing as a sharp pain shot through your side.

Katarina immediately pulled back, glaring. “That’s what you get for being an idiot.”

You smirked. “And yet, you’re still babying me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Shut up before I change my mind.”

You chuckled, letting her finish bandaging you up, knowing full well that—for the next few weeks—Katarina wouldn’t let you out of her sight.

And honestly?

You didn’t mind at all.

Author's note — Since there's no fic of katarina, I've decided that I write story about her. I really love her, even though she's not a girl kisser. By the way request are open.

[vesearlee]

──── 𝑺𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒈𝒐

Each stroke of his brush painted the ocean with such precision it took your breath away, only the tides had more than one surprise in store for you.

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── Rafayel x F!Reader 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ── 2.1k 𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 ── T 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ── Tooth Rotting Fluff, angst (anxiety attack), little dash of crack, slight reference to Rafayel's lore 𝐀𝐍𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒 ── Can’t Help Falling In Love by Haley Reinheart ── Constellations (Slowed) by Jade LeMac 𝐀𝐎𝟑 ── HERE 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ── Written because @smutconnoisseur loves to torture me with heavenly prompts.

─── 𝑳𝑨𝑫𝑺 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ───

The sound of water falling and splashing against the marble floor of the master bathroom was the only sound heard through the hallway to Rafayel’s silent studio. Amber-toned light bathed the room in the glow of the waning sunshine, and streaks of paint were splattered all over the floor — an unfortunate casualty of collateral damage by the artist who worked tirelessly over the taut canvas in the easel’s clutches.

You closed your eyes and sighed. The image of Rafayel perched on his ladder, hand steadily moving a laden brush back and forth with the grace of a dancer burned into your consciousness. The sight was beautiful, and you struck you silent every time you witnessed it.

The only reason such an ethereal vision had come to an end on this occasion, was the artist’s sense of mischief. While in his creative daze, Rafayel streaked a deep indigo through his hair with little care or notice.

“Raf,” you said hesitantly, loath to disturb his streak of concentration. 

“Mm,” he hummed in reply, not stopping to glance at you. The brush swept once over a streak of navy, then his hand returned to his chin. “Yeah, cutie?”

“You– You’ve got paint in your hair and–” Rafayel’s movement towards you was sudden. “No!” you gasped, startled.

The sound of his laughter would normally make your heart swell, but with the sudden, cool sensation of paint covering your skin and clothes in little droplets took the fondness out of such a noise. You stumbled backwards into your chair. “Rafayel!”

The creak of wood made him freeze, and you both stood entirely still as you took in the sight of your clothes — dishevelled and covered in colours. “Oh, hang on,” you sneered while the corner of your lip turned up in a devilish smirk. “I think you’ve got something on your…” 

As fast as you could manage, you reached towards a shelf that was full of discarded palettes.

SPLAT

“Oof!” Rafayel fell from his stool and landed unsteady on his bare feet, his jaw and neck covered in the remnants of the blue he last used and discarded with a disdained, “it’s not bright enough.”

“You started this,” you called, stepping back with as much grace as you could manage in the cluttered studio. “I only wanted to help, but you–” His sudden lurch towards you made you yelp in shock, and you sidestepped his advance to hide behind a shelf that housed rolls of brushes. “Nope, nope, you won’t catch me!”

“Wanna bet, cutie?” Rafayel teased, a vicious grin turning his normally soft gaze sharp. “Damn it, stand still–”

You bolted out from behind the shelf and towards the floor to ceiling windows, only, you paused for too long. Strong arms enveloped you from behind and you felt the deep chuckle from your captor through your back. “I told you, there’s no runnin’ from me, sweetheart.”

“No–! Aw, don’t–!” The cool sensation of paint spread from your ear to your jaw, painting you a sea of indigos and blues. “Raf, c’mon,” you whined, squirming in his hold. “I was joking.”

“You were jokin’, huh? Got a real prankster on my hands.” The arms around your middle loosened slightly, though you felt no need to pull away. “What d’ya say we clean up, yeah?”

The temptation stirred a heat low in your hips, but then you glanced at the paint strewn all over the studio from your combined antics. “...No.”

“No?” The rush of breath was warm against the shell of your ear, and the mock offense in his tone only made you huff with petulance. 

“No. You go, I’ll get this cleaned up, and then maybe you can make it up to me.” The whine that came from him as you pried his arms away from your middle was almost enough for you to reconsider your answer. “Don’t pout at me, go.”

“So mean,” he hissed, jutting out his bottom lip as he sulked off down the hallway.

“So impossible,” you retorted, shaking your head. 

A long, deep sigh of annoyance was the only reply you received before you heard the cascade of water begin. 

With Rafayel now occupied and out of your hair, you stared around the studio at the mess you both created. Blues and purples were the main choice of ammunition, and as a result, splatters and spills danced in a trail of laughter that you followed, only this time with a cloth in hand. 

You hummed a tune to match with the song coming from the bathroom, when you finally came up to the painting he had been working on before he had taken your kindness for granted. 

The luminescent curves of scales and the shimmer of pearled fins glowed in the faux moonlight. It reminded you of something, though what it could have been reminiscent of made a sharp pain throb in your temples. 

The song Rafayel hummed from the bathroom continued its soft melody, and you valiantly tried to follow the tune to distract yourself, when you took a step forward and heard an almighty clatter. “Whoa– Oh, no!” The easel holding the canvas wobbled slightly — without thinking, you reached out and grabbed the bottom bar of the front panel, and you let out a breath of relief for not having touched the wet paint of the canvas. 

“You okay?” Raf called, his voice was muffled by the sound of water on tiles. “That was loud. D’you need help?”

“No,” you yelled back, and you gently released your iron grip on the now steadied frame of the easel. “It’s okay, I’m just clumsy.”

“Alright,” he replied. “I’ll be out soon.” 

Not a moment later, the song began again. Even though he would not see, you nodded in reply out of habit before you glanced downwards at the floor to see what had made the clattering noise. 

The sight made your heart leap into your throat. 

More smears and shades of indigo were splattered all over the plastic spread beneath the easel. Every single shade that Rafayel spent days, weeks on perfecting lay at your feet, utterly destroyed by the pigmentation of the other. 

“No, nonono.” The plastic crinkled as you fell to your knees, hands uselessly stretching out to the mess of what could be considered a sea of colours — it was devastating, and all of what Rafayel would say rushed to the forefront of your mind, bombarding your fears and dredging the worst of them from the depths of your well buried thoughts. 

It was only then something seemed to snap into place, a panicked clarity that set your heart racing at an uncomfortable rate. 

“I can replace…? Maybe?” You blinked the burn of tears in your eyes away, and you carefully grabbed the wooden palette off of the floor to hold it up to eye level. A few brushes above you held the answer, you were sure, and with the mission in mind, you stood up from the floor with a quiet grunt of discomfort. 

Time blurred as you worked, a fevered haze of panic and desperation fuelled your every move until the palette was covered in all hues of blues and purples. Each stroke of the brush in your hand grew sloppy and sloppier, nowhere near as refined as the artist himself — the pit of your stomach swirled with guilt the harder you worked to replicate what he had mastered.

“Sweetheart? What’re you doin’?”

“Oh!” you gasped, the sound choked and shrill with your shock. “You–” The rustle of plastic sounded as you spun on your heel to face Rafayel, who stood shirtless, a wet towel in one hand and the other propped on his hip. The hammering of your heart only thundered harder in your aching ribs, and you swore if you were to stand there any longer, the whole of your heart would miraculously beat from your chest and fall to the floor at your feet. “You s-scared me!”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a frown. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, it’s not been that long–” He took a few steps forward, the sway of his hips and the loose fitting pants not enough to capture your attention from the building panic in your chest. You backpedalled rapidly out of reach — a well-honed instinct that had saved you numerous times before. “What– I just showered after you covered me in paint. Rude.”

His jokes fell flat, and the lack of laughter made the frown on his lips deepen. 

“I– Uh, um, Raf–” The plastic under your feet shifted again, and the sound drew his attention downwards. You watched with horror swelling in your stomach as his shoulders stiffened. “I’m so, so, sorry– Please, oh my–”

“Whoa, whoa, hold on there, cutie,” Rafayel rushed, his cool hands finally breaking the barrier you precariously built, and he grasped your wrists gently. “You’re trembling, what happened? Talk to me.” 

A broken sobbed forced its way through the blockade of fear in your chest, and he pulled you into his chest. The palms of your hands planted firmly against his chest. “Breathe for me—in, out, that’s it, honey, c’mon.”

The silence filled with suppressed sobs carried on for what felt like hours — being held in his arms always had that effect, though this time, you gripped to his body like an anchor against the bobbing waves of panic that ebbed and flowed like the waves outside his window. 

“I’m sorry,” you eventually whispered against his skin, the words sharp against your throat as they manifested. The pain of your mistake made your heart clench with guilt, and the splattered colours at your feet did nothing to ease the agony. “I– I didn’t mean to, I was trying to clean and I just bumped into–”

Rafayel pulled back suddenly, the palms of his hands cupping either side of your face so he could stare into your blurry eyes. The pad of his thumb brushed softly against your cheeks while he collected the stray tears that had escaped without your notice.

“So that was the noise, huh? Just some spilled paint?” he asked softly, furrowing his brows as he glanced downwards quickly, the multitude of colours in his eyes reflecting the sheer volume of the mess. “Is this why you’re so worked up?”

Words failed to form on your tongue, no matter how hard you tried. A small nod was all you managed, and he clicked his tongue before pulling you into his chest again. Soft lips brushed over your forehead and trialled down towards your temple. 

The sudden movement of Rafayel’s body made you gasp quietly, and you realised he was rocking you side to side, the sway of your bodies matching the now moonlit waves outside. “Y’know, cutie, for someone so smart, you really can be silly.”

You sniffled and pulled back. “What?”

Rafayel smiled cheekily, tilting his head to the side so strands of purple hair fell to the side of his forehead. “You, I’m talkin’ about you.” His hands moved up to your shoulders and gently coaxed you to turn around until you came face to face with the painting he worked on — the deep hues seemed to sparkle under the now dimmed light. “See?”

Long, slender fingers gestured towards the waves in the painting, then towards the scales and fins of the tail in view. “I’ve worked endlessly, tirelessly—to the bone—to make these colours.” 

The sentence was enough for your heart to seize, and he sensed the way your body tensed under his hands. “No, no, listen to me, cutie.” You watched his fore and middle finger brush against the palette you had created in your panic-induced haze. “I worked so hard to get this shade, and here you are, gettin’ it outta nowhere.” 

You blinked as confusion flooded you. “Huh?”

“It’s true,” Rafayel stated simply, and he shifted closer to you so his chest was flush to your back. With a gentle grip, he held the back of your hand and slowly moved it towards the palette where one of the brushes you used in your attempt to replicate all the shades rested innocently. “Pick it up, go on.”

“But I–” you stuttered, still bewildered at his gentle order. “I ruined it?”

A huff of amusement filled your ears. “Ruined it? Oh, sweetheart.” His hand guided your own to the canvas. “You couldn’t ruin anything. Here, I think you should be the one to add the finishing touches.”

The two of you stood in a comfortable silence, the sound of the fibres of the brush the only thing to disturb the soft, even breathing you shared as he held you close, encouraging you to work.

It was only when Rafayel softly gasped and his hands moved to grip your sides that you were pulled from a kind of trance. You looked over your shoulder at him, and found the indigos you painted reflected in his eyes. The smile on his lips was priceless, and you only wished you could capture it forever, just as you captured the beauty of the waves.

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