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hannie-dul-set · 3 months ago

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fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline) — ONE.

SYNOPSIS. having fought tooth and nail out of high school, university, and law school, only to end up working for a law firm that basically serves as a clean up dog after the biggest organized crime group in the district, you thought you couldn’t get any lower than this.

the bar is in hell, and yet you’ve managed to limbo six feet beneath that. alternatively— na jaemin is the personification of hell, and your very existence just makes him even worse than he already is.

PAIRING. na jaemin x female! reader. GENRE. gang! au, lawyer! au, office! au, comedy, drama, romance, very light angst, this is a sitcom, hate to love(?), a somewhat questionable power dynamic, asshole! jaemin (my beloved…my kryptonite…) but he’s also an idiot, jaemin has an eye contact thing, inspired by the manhwas “weak hero” and “study group.” WARNINGS. an abundance of criminal activity (including but not limited to organized crime, fraud, blackmail, DUIs, unethical and illegal occupational practices, etc.), blood and violence, suggestive themes, eventual non explicit sex, jaemin with a tattoo, legal inaccuracies because i am not familiar with south korean laws, so i’m just using my own country’s as reference. also because this is just a stupid thirst fic. who gives a damn. WORD COUNT. 9k.

NOTE. my goal for this fic is to make as many male characters either detestable or unesttling, and make you like them against your will. in other words, meet mark and doyoung HAHAHAHAH. this is mostly still exposition!!! establishing facts and relationships and dynamics and whatnot. more jaemin next chapter. too much jaemin, even. anyway, enjoy! CHAPTER TWO.

IT’S SUPPOSED TO BE YOUR OFF DAY TODAY. You’re on sick leave— that is, sick and tired of drafting legal papers, meeting clients, reading piles and piles of documents every single damn week, so you decided to use your once-a-month get out of jail free card to stay in bed playing Stardew Valley. It’s pre-planned. You’ve already faked sneezes and coughing fits at the office yesterday. You’ve already called your Division Chief this morning. Kim Doyoung can’t do shit when you’re allegedly bedridden and downtrodden with a fever. He can eat his own ass and suck it.

“You have a new case,” he informs you over the phone. “It’s from Nalkkeutta.”

Or so you thought.

“Hah,” a weak wheeze squirms out of your throat. “Sure. Okay. Got it.”

Motherfucking son of a bitch. Those two lines spring you out of bed immediately as though your bones have just been tased. God dammit. You’ve just managed to snag Sebastian into wedlock. How dare he throw another job at you right now? How dare he ruin your sweet, sweet honeymoon with the emotionally constipated 2D man of your dreams?

Still. It doesn’t matter if you just got married or have a collapsing lung right now. You haul your ass, get dressed, get out, and get into your car to drive to your district’s police station in a hissy fit, as per your boss, Kim Doyoung’s, instructions. This damned firm is working you like a dog, but you can’t bite the hand that feeds you. And neither can Kim Doyoung.

“Yes, sir, I’m on my way. Are the files ready? Can you send them to me?”

This case came from Nalkkeutta. NCT. Nal. Day. Kkeut. End. Ta. To burn. The day ends in flames. It’s a name that haunts the streets of Yeongdeungpo. It’s a name that’s synonymous with loan sharking, weapons dealing, and coughing up protection fees unless you want to get your shit rocked on an unfortunate walk home— under the guise of an honest to goodness security company to service your protective needs.

In the early 90’s, the government had a massive crackdown on gang activity and organized crime, subsequently snuffing out any emerging organized crime presence by officially criminalizing the mere act of joining a gang under the Revised Penal Code. But Nalkkeutta is relatively new. That scorching sunset symbol suddenly emerged in the district one day, around eight to nine years ago, and it’s marred the district of Yeongdeungpo with burn marks ever since.

And your life. You haven’t been lucky enough to be spared from that damned gang’s mess. In fact, you’re currently entangled with one of their messes right now.

The glass doors of the Yeongdeungpo Police Station shut behind you. You’re smacked hard in the face far too artificial lighting and sickly white walls and the words Patriotism, Justice, Honor mocking you in embossed silver. You grimace, cross your arms, divert your eyes with an impatient tap of the foot— and your arrival doesn’t exactly come unrecognized by the front desk and the others scattered around the lobby. One officer takes immediate initiative upon seeing your familiar sour expression, rustling out of a conversation to attend to you.

“Hey, attorney. How may we help you?”

You eye the man. You’ve come to know him by name— Jung Jaehyun— even without needing to take a peek at his uniform’s name tag. You spare him and yourself the small talk and jump straight to business. “I’m here to see my client,” you inform, followed by under-the-breath swears as you fumble through your phone for the e-file Doyoung had just sent because Nalkkeutt had the gall to demand you to run and fetch the bone they left behind here without even giving you the chance to look at it. Seriously. If they want you to do a good job, they should be more punctual than this. “His name is—”

Huh. You read the top line of the document. A lump forms in your throat. You read it again. Once more. And the letters neither shift nor fold, confirming with absolute certainty that you read the name of your client correctly.

It’s a name you haven’t heard of in a while. It’s name that stalked the corridors of the place you’d bid good riddance to eight years ago with a spit on the concrete ground.

“Na Jaemin.” There’s a bitter taste on your tongue when you pronounce his name— like your very digestive system can’t stomach it, rejects it, and wants to vomit it right back out. “His name is Na Jaemin.”

A nod from Jung Jaehyun. He turns his heels and leads you further into the station.

Empty footsteps echo against the slowly dimming hall leading to the private visiting rooms. The silence pricks at your memories— an uncomfortable sound you’ve grown accustomed to in the two years you’ve spent at Ganghak High School. It’s been eight damn years since you’ve graduated, yet one mention of a name reels you back into the past with a vividness that’s still as clear as the present.

In your memories, Na Jaemin was the guy who carried with him a pungent air of animosity and violence in his wake. On paper, he is your client, a member of the power-drunk gang that you’re tied by the noose with, and someone you have to defend. At present, he is sits right before you— tight-browed, tight-lipped underneath the singular light bulb hovering above the center of the table, looking as though he’s one clock tick away from flipping the table over (the only thing maintaining a safe distance between the both of you), and leaving on his own accord.

Your eyes meet. Your head snaps down to avoid his gaze.

“Good day, Na Jaemin-ssi,” you manage to choke out. “I will be your lawyer for the case against Yoon Naksung and company.”

You’re not sure how you feel when there isn’t even a click of recognition on his part when you introduce yourself and mention your name. You realize that what you’re feeling is a mixture of fear, relief, and absolute revulsion when he responds with, “So, when the fuck am I getting out?”

There’s a ring in your ears.

It’s the sound of your heart trying to escape from your chest.

You inhale sharply. Fuck. You’re not sure if you have the willpower to push through this, and you can’t even ease your nerves or melt your frozen bloodstream with a sigh because he’s staring right at you— impatient, as though he’s counting down the seconds in his head after a one-sided declaration that you have a limited time to willingly answer before he forces it out of you by the throat.

That fucking looking in his eyes. That damned stare that instinctively triggers you to look down, look away, look anywhere else but directly at him. It’s a habit that everyone in Ganghak used to have. It’s a habit that’s still deeply instilled in your psyche, in your muscles, in your instincts to the point that despite being the person in authority at the moment, you have your head down, throat dry, and doing your damn best to read his case file despite the letters looking all wobbly from your anxiety.

Disturbing the peace. Three counts of physical injury. Less serious. Thank fuck. That makes things a little bit more hopeful, but that doesn’t mean you’re free from hell. Hell is sitting right in front of you, handcuffed because the cops have deemed his very existence a threat to public order and safety. You muster up a bit more confidence knowing he can’t reach over the table to sock you in the face.

“You’re an alleged offender, Na Jaemin-ssi. You’d have to be detained until the trial.”

Na Jaemin sneers, a kick against the table leg with a grunt. “Fucking useless,” he spits. His chair is tipped back, head turned away. You firmly press your lips together. You wish he’d just completely tip over and crash his skull and die.

For someone currently detained for a possible criminal offense, Na Jaemin sure seems very much unbothered yet annoyed at the same time. He sits relaxed on the foldable chair, shoulders slumped as if he owns the place, and he stifles out a lazy yawn— drawing attention to his busted lips and handful of scratches littered all over his cheekbone, temple, and forehead— a stark contrast to the vibrant purple splotch painting over his right jaw. You make a mental note to schedule a physical examination on his ass to record his injuries.

“But…I can make sure you don’t get arrested” You proceed with caution. His evident annoyance is flecked with momentary interest. You suck in a deep breath. “Were there any other people involved besides you and the three witnesses? Was anyone else there?”

You’re not sure what you were expecting as a response. Whatever it’d be, you just hope you get some useful information. Any sort of information. However, it seems like you just asked the wrong question.

“The fuck? Hell, if I know.”

All that interest is eradicated by a sharp glare. Na Jaemin lets out a huff and a sneer. You’re stressed. You’re beyond stressed. This is impossible. Of all people, why did it have to be him? Back then, you’d always had a feeling that he was part of something sketchy, whether it be some ragtag juvenile group or whatever the fuck. You didn’t care enough to find out. But, christ jesus, he just had to be in fucking Nalkkeut.

That sun tattoo sprawled on the back of his impatient hand— the gang’s symbol, sun rays etched into the bumps of his veins and calloused skin— tap, tap, tapping on the table with the clunk of his handcuffs tells you that he isn’t just some disposable grunt either. The urgency in Kim Doyoung’s tone when he called earlier confirms that dreadful conjecture as well. He’s up there. Way up there, and you have no choice but to fight back the urge to swallow your own tongue.

“I—I understand. That’s fine. Then…can I ask what events led to the incident?” you tentatively try to prod, taking a peek at his expression to see if you’re greenlit to ask this. His face brightens up. One corner of his mouth twitches upward, revealing a sliver of teeth. You flinch. He looks deranged.

“That bucket wearing dumbass looked me in the eye,” he starts, smiling. “So I punched him right in the socket. Then his friends decided that they wanted a beating too.”

Na Jaemin is leaning back on the flimsy plastic chair as if he’s reminiscing a happy memory. Jesus christ. He’s always been like this, but it never fails to scare you shitless. You’ve always wondered why he was so insane, but the fact that he currently is and has been in Nalkeutta explains a lot of the things you’ve seen in high school. No high schooler had any business pulling up the gate with a BMW, nor was it reasonable for anyone at your age at the time to afford at least five Cartier watches considering the neighborhood you were in. Yet Na Jaemin and his lackey’s always showed up in the days that he thought was convenient in some sort of Chanel tracksuit and dozens of gold and silver accessories.

You were lucky enough to have never gotten punched in the nose with the absurd amount of rings on his fingers— a taste which he seems to carry until today, you notice while keeping your eyes down and trained on the table. They aren’t allowed to keep any personal belongings in the holding cells, jewelry included, fucking obviously. How this guy managed to keep his is beyond your imagination.

“So, it wasn’t one-sided,” you try to confirm, try to get a good enough testimony to help his and your sorry ass in court. “Can you testify their participation during the trial?”

Wrong move. Very wrong move.

You jump in your seat when he suddenly lurches forward, chained palms slamming against the rocky table with a loud thump and a clink. “Hey, Little Miss Attorney. Listen very carefully,” he rasps. He’s leaned in closer now, making it a hundred times more difficult to keep your head down and not look him in the eye. “I beat all three of them half to death, and that’s all that matters. This question and answer bullshit is pissing me off. Are we done here? Can you fucking leave now?”

You’re scared shitless. You really are. It’s two years worth of trauma suddenly jumping you from behind a wall and throttling the air out of your lungs— of course you’re fucking terrified, and Na Jaemin can smell it like the rabid dog he is.

The problem is, he isn’t the worst of your fears. This mutt is leashed to an owner that would have your head as a dinner treat if you don’t manage to get him out of this stupid cage. So you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. Damned to hell if you do, damned to an even deeper hell if you don’t.

“Na Jaemin-ssi,” you start. Your jaw is tight. It takes everything in your power to force it open and speak. “I need you to cooperate with me so I can get you out of here. Help me help you, alright?”

You’ve really been trying your best to phrase your sentences in a way that doesn’t sound demanding, that you’re leaving it hp to him because you know this bastard doesn’t like being told what to do. But your careful attempts don’t matter against a volatile son of a bitch. “Why’d you even need my help? Ain’t that shit your job?“ he barbs, a slight scoff hanging off at the end. “Seems like Mark hired a useless fucking lawyer.”

Twice. He just called you useless twice. The sheer level of offense you feel momentarily overpowers your nerves— a biting tick near the side of your temple, and you dig your fingers into the clothed skin of your thigh.

The Mark he’s referencing did not hire you because you’re useless. In fact, that guy regularly asks for you specifically whenever his gang is caught in any civil or criminal trouble because you’re the only damned attorney willing to get her hands dirty to find an out— and competent enough to pull it off in exchange for an extra zero on your commission.

Meaning, this bastard is at your mercy. And he has the audacity to piss you the fuck off.

“Strike a nerve?”

Apparently, you failed to hide the scowl polluting your expression. When you sneak a glance at Na Jaemin, he appears to be amused at his successful non-attempt to get under your skin, a lazy, lopsided grin on his face.

You get it together. Mark Lee, that fucking bastard. It had been fine for the past few months when all you’ve had to mediate were petty settlements and bails and lesser criminal offenses, but you’ve never had to deal with one of his executives directly before— who just so happened to be your high school bully, at that. You close your eyes shut, press your lips together, and release a deep breath from out of your nose as you stand up.

“I’ll handle it. There’s nothing for you to worry about, but I will need to arrange a meeting with you again before the trial.”

Na Jaemin simply shrugs and waives you off. Your tight lips force themselves into a smile as you nod and stomp your way out.

Fucking bastard, fucking piece of shit, fucking, god damn it—

You leave the station with a jumbled up head and with all your five senses screaming themselves into oblivion. Shit. Fuck. What the fuck. Had Kim Doyoing emailed you the file a lot earlier, you wouldn’t have gone here and welcomed yourself directly into hell. You could try to settle with the victims, but in case they won’t agree to a compromise, you’d have to pull a defense out of your ass considering that your client is the most uncooperative asshole you’ve ever been cursed to deal with.

It doesn’t help that spending two years in high school with Na Jaemin is reopening pages and pages of trauma that you thought you’d successfully managed to file away— stored in a safety vault in a little corner of your head that need not be reopened. But just meeting him— talking to him directly when you’ve never even dared to before— brought a rusty crowbar to that vault, mercilessly ripping it apart.

Having cancelled your off day, the car ride to your office building is spent thinking about how to scrape up a case to defend the bastard you thought you’d finally been freed from eight years ago. The bastard who’d made the last two years of high school a literal level hell of dread and desperation.

Even for Nalkkeutta, this has got to be the worst kind of torture anyone could ask for.

*‎

The next morning, Nalkkeutta’s boss is gracious enough to answer your request for a meeting.

Mark Lee shows up to the conference room of JSS’s Criminal Division, accompanied by a polite knock on the already open door, a humming smile, and a Kim Doyoung— who you very clearly don’t remember inviting to this meeting. Mark enters the room with a good morning. You nod and your eyes skip over him, flitting over to meet your boss’s gaze by the door instead. “You must be very busy, sir. What are you doing here?”

The wrinkle that forms between Doyoung’s eyebrows signifies that he very much understood your polite version of a fuck off. “I just wanted to escort our client,” he replies, adjusting his glasses.

You smile at him. “The escorting usually ends when the client has arrived at their destination.”

Doyoung’s jaw stiffens. Mark seems to be sufficiently entertained by the exchange, attention hopping back and forth between you and your boss. The latter surrenders and ends the episode with a sigh and a nod, completely glossing over you to speak to Mark instead. “Mr. Lee, please let me know if you need anything.”

You hear Mark respond in a pleasant tone, “Don’t worry, I know I’m in good hands,” but you don’t look at him yet. You force the gravity of your gaze onto Doyoung— an unwavering smile that creeps him out just enough to finally give up and leave the room, shutting the door behind him with a click, and finally allowing you to relax your shoulders and sink into the glossy, wooden table.

“Ugh.”

Stuck-up prick. The bane of your fucking existence, had it not been for the reappearance of Na Jaemin, the other capricious asshole in your life. Your head cocks up, hearing the scratching noise of a chair being pulled out. Mark sits right in front of you, maintaining a smile. “Bad morning?” And you finally speak your first words to him, in the form of a raging rant about his hot mess of an executive.

“Hey, be honest, do you want me fired? Do you want me to make my first ever loss? Your employee, Na Jaemin, told me he got into this mess because Yoon Naksung and his friends were looking at him for too long. Does that make sense to you? Is that how a sane man operates? How the hell am I supposed to defend that in court? How the hell am I supposed to defend his ass when he gives me fucking nothing to work with, and all while having the balls to call me useless?”

You’re out of breath by the end of it. Whew. That felt so freaking good.

“Sorry.” You eject yourself out of your tantrum upon hearing Mark’s not-so-apologetic apology. You leer at him from across the table, watching the stillness of his apparent pleasant expression. “Jaemin can be kind of rude sometimes.”

This guy is Nalkkeutta’s boss, you remind yourself. He’s the source of your fattened up bank account and worsened sense of justice and morality for the past five months—

“Rude is an understatement. He’s a fucking piece of shit.”

—and he’s also somewhat your friend.

“I’ve never seen you this angry.” Mark laughs, relaxing into his seat. “Was he that bad?”

Nalkeutta and JSS Law firm’s partnership has existed prior to your employment here. However, you’ve know Nalkkeutta’s boss even before you’ve entered law school, much less started working here. Kim Doyoung doesn’t know this, obviously. Their background check on you did not go as far as finding out your regular patrons throughout the four years you spent working at a run-down cafe-bar downtown throughout the entirety of your undergrad.

The cafe’s name was The Hangman. Pirate-themed, which was used as a frequent justification by your boss to never fix the broken chair legs, unkempt storage boxes, and occasional leaky ceilings. They add to the aesthetic, he says.

Anyhow, it was then that you first met Mark Lee, around three weeks into your first shift. He’d usually come in at around 10 p.m., order an old fashioned at the counter, flash you a pretty and boyish smile, then quietly read on the same spot until one in the morning before thanking you and leaving. Each time, you clock the hardbound cover titles. The Laws of Human Nature. Man’s Search for Meaning. Leviathan. Confessions of an Economic Hit Man.

Frankly, the crap he regularly reads worked better to make him look more daunting than his overall appearance. Mark Lee wore the visage of a cute, college literature major— covered in knit beanies and warm cardigans and all— but carried books and ordered drinks that made him seem like he was fifty-seven years old. The only time you found an opening was the time he finally brought a long something other than self-help or pretentious nonfiction. Kafka on the Shore. “I didn’t peg you as a Murakami guy.”

Mark Lee was taken aback when you first talked to him. He asked what made you say that.

You referenced the previous books he’d been carrying along. He blinked, laughed, then said that he actually preferred reading fiction. He’d only been reading all that obnoxious bullshit (your words) because he was fascinated with the mental gymnastics (his words) some people were capable of, and he was just compelled to read more. You’re still not sure how much of that defense was true, but that doesn’t really matter because your conversations gradually strayed away from books to your daily life instead— your classes and readings and the annoying customers you’d regularly had to deal with at work. It’s mostly you doing the talking, and it’s mostly because you otherwise had no one else to talk to to kill time during your night shifts at The Hangman.

“Was he that bad?” you parrot, sarcastically. “He said that you did a shit job picking a lawyer. You tell me, Mark Lee. Do you think your executive is a stellar guy?”

Mark only laughs. You grunt and slump in your seat, arms crossed as you observe Mark’s expression from across the table. It seems like he doesn’t mind you talking shit about his people this much. His lips are pressed in a perpetual, easygoing smile as he eyes the set of folders and documents on your side. You bite the inside of your cheek. From his appearance alone, you wouldn’t have guessed him to be the head of the most notorious gang in the underbelly of Yeongdeungpo. In fact, you would never have guessed it if you didn’t take an extra shift one day at The Hangman.

You ended up staying later than your usual 2 a.m. to cover for a co-worker. It was a weekend, so you didn’t mind much. Mark Lee hadn’t shown up that night. That is until you saw him come in at the store thirty minutes after two— deviating from his usual routine in more ways than one when he didn’t stop to order a drink, when he was with someone else who you were frankly too intimidated to look at for too long. When he went in and up the staircase at the back of the bar that was otherwise off limits because it led to your boss’s office in the upper area— and none of your supervisors came to stop him nor even attempt to look at him when he came back out with his big, scary companion walking three steps behind him while carrying a large and heavy looking black bag.

This happened a few more times. And Mark Lee would always smile at you when he’d pass by the bar counter. That’s when you knew something was up. But you knew better than to dig your nose into that kind of business.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the ability to see the future back then.

You look at the guy sitting in front of you right now. Mark Lee’s eyes flit up from your documents to look at you again, hands clasped together and resting gingerly on the conference table. “I’d sincerely like to apologize on his behalf,” he starts. You feel a thump in your chest. “But I hope his uncooperativeness isn’t making it impossible for you to win the case, attorney.”

Yup. That was a threat. Get my errand dog out of jail— even if he bites you in the process, is what he’s trying to say. Mark Lee may have been your bar regular and friend at some point, but right now he is your client— the most important client your firm has ever had the pleasure of receiving. He is not your friend right now. He is your high school bully’s boss. He is the head of the biggest organized crime group in the district. And your law firm is just one of the many cogs running his criminal machinery. One slip up, and he could just wrench you out without a second thought.

“Of course it’s not impossible. What do you think of me?”

You slide the first file you have down the table. Even if Na Jaemin is fucking useless, you’re not letting him ruin your flawless performance record. You’re not letting him give Mark Lee a reason to throw you away.

“What’s this?”

“The witness list. Yoon Naksung, Hong Hyunjae, and Ma Gildong,” you start. “Your dog fucked them up really badly. I already met their lawyer. He was being dodgy about it, but I doubt they’d let him off with a simple settlement.”

A glint flickers in Mark Lee’s eyes are your introduction.

“I already have another meeting scheduled with him this week. I’d like to talk to the three victims personally, but you know I’m not allowed to do that.”

He hums, glossing over your file before setting it back down on the table, fingers pressed firmly on the page as he looks up with a pleasant smile. “When should I take care of them?”

A shiver crawls down your spine. “I’ll let you know depending on how the second meeting goes,” you answer. “Even if the three of them testify, there won’t be enough evidence to prove his guilt beyond reasonable doubt based on what the prosecution has so far. I don’t know why the fuck their counsel is even bothering with this. Na Jaemin would effectively be acquitted from his criminal charges.”

Your client appears to be satisfied, but you’re not done yet.

“However, that won’t absolve him from civil liability.”

No way in hell.

“Yoon Naksung’s party can still sue for damages. And they have enough evidence to guarantee a win. Na Jaemin would be fined at most, and I’m sure it’d be very easy for you to cough up a couple thousand for him. But that’s still a loss for me. And I can’t have that stain on my record.”

Your brows wrinkle. You release a breath.

“Talk to Yoon Naksung. Or Hong Hyunjae. or Ma Gildong, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. It might be hard to get through Yoon since he’s the one fighting the most for this, but the other two would be pretty easy. I hear Ma Gildong’s business isn’t in good shape lately. The address is on the file.” You rise up, leaning forward to reach an arm over. You drop an index finger on the exact spot on the document you were referencing, landing a firm thump on the table. “If the court hears that all of them were all equally beating the shit out of each other in a drunken episode, not remembering who started what, instead of it being a one-sided beating from your exec just because they looked at him wrong—”

Your eyes flit up. You meet Mark’s gaze— unblinking and dilated. You clear your throat and look away.

“Then—then, their case won’t be merited. The court would dismiss it in pari delicto.”

Mark Lee seems pretty fucking happy to hear that. He’s all smiles and applause and it stresses you the fuck out. “I knew I could count on you, attorney.”

You sigh, slumping back down in your seat. “I already have Na Jaemin’s medical report. If you could get at least two of the witnesses to cooperate, that would be great.” Mark responds with a nod and a hum. You sigh again. “We have so many competent lawyers here. Why do you keep specifically asking for me? Next time, go ask Doyoung, or something. I’m tired.” You’d give up this illegal but lucrative money machine just to see Kim Doyoung experience the life-or-death stress you’ve been experiencing these past five months. You really would.

“Because you’re good,” he responds lightly— genuinely. A little too genuine for your liking. Mark shoots you a smile as he tucks his abandoned seat back under the conference table. Uh oh. Here he goes again. “How about officially joining Nalkkeutta as the head of our legal department?”

“Hah,” you snort. “My hands may have gotten dirty, but I can still wash them, Mark Lee.” The look on his face tells you that he isn’t taking you seriously. You leer your eyes. You’re serious. You don’t intend on being Nalkkeut’s clean-up dog forever. Five months ago, you just happened to have shit luck with the desperation to match. Both bad luck and desperation are bound to run out at some point. You just hope they manage to burn out before this guy could burn you alive. “I’ll get back to you once I’ve met with their lawyer again. For the meantime, just keep an eye on the witnesses. Let me know if you find anything of importance.”

His eyes linger on you for a while, still smiling. You know where his head is at. Your grimace— even harder when he asks again to confirm, “So, is that a no?”

“Hell no.”

Mark clicks his tongue. “Worth a shot.” At this point, he’s already halfway out of the conference. “See you again, attorney,” he bids farewell

“God, please, no,” you respond with a grunt. He laughs. The door clicks shut. You groan and become one with the almond table.

How many times has he tried to recruit you already? You’ve lost count. You’re already being regularly run through the wringer at JSS, how much more under Nalkkeut? Jesus, you don’t even want to entertain the thought. So, you busy your head with your current main stressor: the Na Jaemin case. You force your face off the table with a grunt and pull out your ipad to double check the trial schedule. Two weeks from now. Thursday. Fuck all. How did you end up here?

In retrospect, maybe it was actually all your fault. Three months ago— two months into working at JSS Law Firm— you decided that you were sick and tired of being trapped in Kim Doyoung’s legal counsel team as an associate, without being granted any personal recognition or accolades. You wanted to prove your worth. You wanted to get your credit. This time, you’re going to get your first fucking big girl case. Even if it meant discourteously bulldozing into Kim Doyoung’s office like a chihuahua looking for a fight.

Which you did, only to be shell-shocked and surprised to see the face of your old bar counter friend— who might also be a gang leader— in the middle of a very…confidential conversation with your supervisor.

“Attorney, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Too late. You’ve already overheard their conversation. They were discussing a case much like your current one— one of Mark Lee’s executives got caught in the middle of an illegal firearms deal, and Doyoung was having trouble looking for a lawyer stupid enough to take the case.

He shooed you out, but you stayed. You simply had no choice. You had to bite the bullet. This was a spring-loaded opportunity, and you didn’t intend on feeling from it.

“I’ll do it. I can handle it.”

You did get your big girl case, alright. You won. But you also had to book a full body spa session after your first time shaking hands with a criminal— just to feel somewhat cleaner. Obviously, you’ve become a lot more jaded now. Your boss has decided to dump all of Nalkkeuta’s major cases onto your desk since then, and Mark Lee has been trying to poach you ever since.

JSS. Jinsilseong. Integrity. What a load of bullshit. Where’s the integrity in working as criminal clean up dogs? There’s neither integrity nor justice here. Yet you’re able to afford a decent apartment because of that tarnished integrity. Dirty money. You make yourself sick, but drive home and back to work again for the next few days with the car that money bought you, because there’s no way in hell integrity can give you a comfortable life.

*‎

“How’s your Nalkkeuta case going?”

Kim Jungwoo comes over to greet you at the division breakroom while you’re in the middle of making yourself a cup of instant coffee after three fucking hours of being hunched over your cubicle the whole day. You jolt upon hearing his voice, flitting your head over to the direction of his voice, and you’re greeted by a face that clearly has gotten his eight hours in.

Unlike you. Jungwoo and you joined the firm at about the same time, yet somehow you look as though you’ve been trapped here for a good ten decades. He bats his eyes at you with a pretty boy smile while waiting for your response. You grunt.

“Dreadful. Horrible. Do you want to take it from me and liberate me from this misery?”

The laugh he gives you in response probably means a no. You click your tongue, grunting as you set aside to give him space on the counter. “Is it that bad?” he asks, rustling through the cabinets for a coffee stick somewhere. Kim Doyoung should restock and feed his poor laborers better.

“Yoon’s party won’t settle. They’re dead set on pursuing a cIass action.” Jungwoo manages to fish one stick out. “Not to mention my own fucking client refused my visit. I miss the days where all I had to do was summarize court transcripts and deliver correspondences for Doyoung. You never really know what you’re missing until you lose it.”

That was a lie, but you’re miserable. You were able to meet all three of the witnesses last week, in the presence of their lawyer, obviously and unfortunately. Yoon Naksung seems to be their leader, because the moment you uttered the words ‘settlement’ and ‘compromise,’ he nearly jumped off his seat to full-on throttle you. You’d ask why the hell he’s so hostile, but you read their written testimony on the day of the incident. He recounted all the heinous crap Na Jaemin spewed out while he beat the shit out of them. Things you’d rather not repeat out loud. The other two witnesses didn’t seem as passionate as Naksung, like they just wanted it to be over with and forget how much Na Jaemin humiliated their asses by wiping their faces on the ground and proceeding to call them a bunch of bitch babies.

Anyhow, you have your last attempt of negotiation this afternoon with their lawyer. Honestly, it doesn’t even matter at this point. You just want to let the court know that you’ve done your due diligence of attempting to reach an amicable settlement. You’ve got other cards up your sleeve— you’ve always had.

Which is why Kim Doyoung doesn’t buy your whining and complaining when overhears it in the breakroom.

“Get a grip.”

You flinch. Doyoung makes an appearance by shoveling in between you and Jungwoo to the coffee storage. You two step aside. He releases a silent swear upon realizing there’s no more instant coffee left. So, he decides to release his pissy attitude onto the innocent cupboard door by slamming it shut with a loud bam!

You and Jungwoo look at each other. Bad executive meeting. Very bad, you two mentally agree, sharing a look and a nod. JSS has been dealing with negative press lately. Director must have dumped the burden of fixing it onto him. Poor guy. He deserves it.

Doyoung manages to compose himself in a matter of seconds. He inhales, chest rising, then adjusts his crooked glasses with a huff from lips, finishing it up by giving you a lowered stare. “I’m not really worried about your performance,” he carefully pronounces. “Nalkkeut always asks for you for a reason. Mark Lee gets along well with you, too. So, quit being dramatic.”

He gets along with you because you both like Haruki Murakami, never dug your nose into his business, and always cleaned up his messes. You doubt you’d get the same grace if you fucked this one up, especially considering it concerns one of his executives. Sure, you’ve managed to weasel your way out of your previous cases without much trouble besides your inherent workload. The problem this time is your client.

Ugh. Na Jaemin. That bastard. How dare he decline your visitation request when his freedom is on the line here? You need to brief him for the trial, make sure he doesn’t do anything fucking stupid that would jeopardize your case and fuck not only himself, but you over as well. His freedom isn’t the only thing on the line. Your record is. Your freaking license is. As much as you really don’t want to see his face again, you have to. And the only comfort you can find at the prospect of meeting him again is the very clear evidence that he does not remember you— whereas your bones are already shaking at the mere thought of having to face him again.

It sucks. This sucks. But even if it does, you force yourself out of the office later in the afternoon to meet the witnesses’ lawyer at a cafe downtown.

His name is Jung Sungchan from the District Prosecutor’s Office. He’s baby-faced. He still has the light in his eyes. You’ve never even heard of him before this case. Meaning, he’s far too irrelevant to have the gall to strut into the cafe, say his piece, then leave without even buying a freaking coffee.

“See you in court, attorney.”

Of course this meeting ends the same way as your other meetings have had: no settlement, no compromise, no nothing. You release a scoff once he sees himself out with a cocky ass grin and a pep in his step. Hah. Fucker thinks he’s winning. This bitch is a toddler in the field compared to you. You’re gonna show him just how ruthless the law could be in the hands of someone that could bend it. He has no idea what’s coming for him.

You pull out your phone. You text Mark a go signal. [Give me an update tonight]. You stare at your string of texts you’d just sent, squint, contemplate for a second, then bring up your phone to your face. [Also, please send a message to your locked up exec that I really have to meet him soon. Tell him to stop rejecting my visitation requests. Please. For the love of god]. You hit send again. You exhale. That does it. You fix up your things and prepare to start leaving.

While you make your way to the cafe’s exit, you unfortunately overhear a conversation. Not that you’d even tried to overhear. There are two girls sitting next to the counter— one with straight black hair and blunt bangs, the other one with a very bad bleach job— and they’re both just talking really, really loudly.

“That’s what you get for fucking my man, you tramp,” sneers the fake blonde.

“I’m telling you, I really didn’t know he was taken!” straight hair screeches back.

Oh, fuck. You didn’t want to hear this drama. You try your best to maneuver past them quickly, quietly, but you end up hearing more information as you walk by. “I already broke it off and apologized! Please just take down the post already—”

“There’s no way you didn’t know, and there’s no way in hell I’m taking your disgusting texts down. All your friends and family deserve to know how much of a dirty, manipulative skank you are. So that they’d know to keep their boyfriends away from you!”

“Look, I’d get down on my knees to apologize, but you posted not only my private texts, but my fucking nudes were in them, you bitch! I’m not fucking proud of hooking up with a man I didn’t know was taken, but you’re going too far! I—I could sue you for this!”

“Hah! As if! If anyone, I’m the victim in this situation! Not you! You’re the affair partner who seduced my man!”

Goddammit. You jerk back after a sudden stop six feet away from the exit. You shit your eyes, mutter a silent breath as you continue to listen to the high-strung argument behind you. Normally, you’re not one to butt into these things. It’s none of your business, and quite frankly, you could give less of a fuck. But maybe it’s because you’ve yet again been subject to do something that desecrates the very principles of your occupation— the very notions of what is just and lawful and good— that you find yourself spinning your heels and stomping back into the opposite direction before you could even reconsider.

“Excuse me. I apologize for interrupting without consent, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation.”

You just want to balance out the scales of your negative karma— even by just a little bit. You’re doing this for no one’s good but your own. The two girls snap their heads at you, one visibly more annoyed than the other. You gloss over it.

“The right to privacy of communication is heavily protected by our laws and Constitution,” you begin. Blondie furrows her brows at you, a loading symbol practically spinning above her head. Straight hair looks at you, confused. You keep a straight face, digging into your bag. “Prying into the privacy of another’s conversation is a civil offense and a cause of action for damages. That’s one thing. Posting someone else’s sensitive and explicit conversations is another story.”

You pull out a card. “Who the hell are you? Why the hell are you butting in?” she snaps, the sound of her chair scratching the ground as she stands up in a huff to level you. You set your business card down onto the table, the words ATTORNEY AT LAW, all caps, facing right side up.

Blondie’s eyes look down. Her face pales. Then she looks up to meet yours. You almost snort.

“It is a criminal offense punishable by three to seven years imprisonment, or a fine not exceeding twelve million won. Or both.” You could very well be jumping the wrong ship here, but you got a fair sense that Blunt Bangs was telling the truth from how desperate she looks, and that Fake Blonde is simply high on a vengeful power trip over the wrong person. “And, considering the fact that you publicized it online through a post, if I heard correctly, it would also be considered a cybercrime. Meaning, you could be charged for both.”

You didn’t think she could get any paler. You’re proven wrong.

“Wow. That’s an impressive feat considering you had no idea you were committing those crimes. Amazing.”

It doesn’t take much longer for her to sputter out something incoherent and stomp out in a panicked frenzy while mashing something onto her phone, most likely trying to delete the post. Sometimes witnessing firsthand the dredges of humanity gives you a little bit of comfort that you’re not the shittiest person in the world. You release a breath, readying yourself to leave once more, only to be stopped by a quiet excuse me from the same table.

You look down. You’re met by the way too happy smile of Blunt Bangs. She looks cheerful. Oh, god. You’re not used to this kind of positivity. You feel a shudder down your spine and force down a lump in your throat.

“Hi,” she starts. “Thanks for helping me. Jeez. What a psycho.”

The girl asks if she can buy you a drink as a thank you. You have not known kindness ever since you started working at JSS, and, by proxy, Nalkkeutta, so you were possessed with the inclination to say yes even though you’ve just had an americano with three shots. You settle with a warm jasmine tea to spare your stomach lining. The girl introduces herself as Natty, and starts giving you an unsolicited rundown of how Fake Blonde just suddenly started sending her swears and death threats the other day alongside the revelation that she was apparently her fling’s girlfriend.

She came here all the way from Mapo just to apologize again and beg her to take down the post. And then you witnessed how that went down. “I really had no idea,” she huffs in complaint for the nth time. You take a sip from your half-empty cup, glancing at the time. It’s 4 p.m. Sweet. Doyoung still thinks you’re having the meeting right now. One more hour before you have to clock out. You decide to pay a bit more attention to Natty as a thank you for allowing you to slack off on the job. “Oh, by the way. Can I ask something?”

You set down the cup on the saucer. “Sure.”

“Did you maybe go to Ganghak High School? Around eight to nine years ago?”

And then you nearly choke on your own fucking spit. What the hell? You stare at her, wide-eyed in both surprise and innate fear. “Why...why do you ask?” Natty takes that a yes and immediately lets out a squeal, followed by the squeal of your name, followed by a very slow process of recollection on your part of a girl with similar blunt bangs in your repressed high school memories— then it clicks.

“I recognized your name on your business card, but wasn’t sure if you were the same person! Whoa! You’re a lawyer now! That’s amazing!”

Blunt bangs. Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Pretty smile. You remember being classmates with a girl with that same description. You think they both have the same name. You don’t get the chance to second guess yourself because she starts talking about more people you vaguely remember in Ganghak— the class president who’s apparently on his third try at taking the Civil Service Exam, that one couple who apparently recently got married just two months ago in Jeju, that one kid who had once gotten his head dunked into the trash can on the first day of senior year because he came in without knowing the rules of the school.

He didn’t know who ran it. You did. Natty did. And that confirms the fact that you two had indeed been in the same hell once.

“Hey, do you have any idea what happened to Na Jaemin? I haven’t heard a single thing about him since we graduated and I moved towns.”

You look at her, a stiff smile on your face. She was your classmate. She was his classmate. If she can remember all those other people and what their roles were back in Ganghak, she’d very clearly remember yours as well. “I don’t know. I haven’t heard about him either.”

Natty gets the realization and immediately flinches out an apology. “O—oh, haha. Sorry. I didn’t mean to bring him up.”

“No, it’s alright,” you hum, smile softening. “I haven’t heard of him, either.”

Christ. This man really haunts you everywhere you go. Natty is great at conversation, and manages to smooth over that one bump as quickly as she can and proceeds to ask about any new hot places at Yeongdeungpo, ask about your job, you asking about what she’s up to in turn under it hits five in the afternoon and you have to return to the firm to clock out.

The both of you exchange numbers. You look at Natty’s saved contact on your phone with conflicted feelings.

Now that you’ve managed to slot the memories into place, you do in fact remember her. She was your classmate throughout the two short years you spent at Ganghak. On your first day, she was the first person who’d come up to talk to you— the only time she’d ever talked to you and vice versa. It took nine years for the both of you to have a conversation again. And there’s really only one person to blame.

*‎

(“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—!”

It’s Monday. You race down the now emptied hallways, eyes quickly scanning each door label that you zoom past in the off chance that you got carried away running and missed your room. To think this is how your year starts. You were looking forward to using the opportunity before homeroom to introduce yourself and make some new friends, but no— you just had to doze off because you spent the entire yesterday unpacking.

It’s a new neighborhood, new school. You’ve heard that most of Ganghak High School’s students came from Ganghak Middle, meaning almost everyone already knows each other here. They’ve already formed their respective cliques and cohorts and groups. You’re currently an outsider, and you need to put in the effort to change that. You need to make a good impression to get some god damned friends and not spend the rest of your two years here as a loner.

Which is why you feel a splashing wave of relief drenching your bones the moment you make it to your assigned class for the rest of the year— slamming a palm against the door, just in time for the bell to ring.

“Whoo! Safe!”

At least fifteen sets of eyes immediately zero in on you. You stand there by the door. You smile and nod.

“Hi, good morning.”

No one responds. They all look at you— some stares lingering longer than the others— but they all eventually divert their eyes before five seconds, releasing what you could only assume were sighs of relief, and then proceed to drown the classroom in a silence that’s so, so unnatural for a large group of fifteen to sixteen year olds.

That should have been your first sign that this school was far from normal.

What a great start, you mentally huff, scanning the classroom the seat you’ll be stuck with for the next two years, and you eventually clock a pair of empty desks in the middle of the back row. You walk over to the available seat, waiting to see if anyone calls out saying it’s theirs, and after a few moments of no objections, you sit yourself down on the wooden chair.

The moment you hook your bag on the left side of your new desk, you swore that the heavy silence pervading the classroom just got heavier.

You look up. You see someone from the center row, peeking over her shoulder at who you assume is you with a somewhat nervous jitter— as if she’s having an argument with herself in her own head and for some reason, you’re involved. That should’ve been your second sign, but despite your confusion and frustration, you sit still. You sit still until one side eventually wins the girl’s mental argument and she rises up from her seat, tentatively stalks up to you as the class’s eyes follow her short walk with anticipation, including yours.

“Hi, uhm,” she practically squeaks out, hesitant, eyes quickly flickering over to the classroom door before looking back at you. She inhales and smiles. Her bangs are covering her eyebrows. “I’m Natty.”

You greet back and introduce yourself. This is a really fucking weird first interaction, but you take what you can get. “Hi.”

The expectation would be that she’d ask you if you’re new here, if you’re a transferee, if you’d like to join her and her friends for lunch, but no.

Natty completely diverts your expectations by saying, point blank, “This may sound weird, but…you should maybe pick another seat.”

You blink. What the hell? “Why?”

The answer comes in the form of the sound of the classroom door violently swinging open, followed by a series of hushed exclamations, and Natty’s suddenly paled face snapping away from you within the same moment, scampering to return back to her seat at the center, without even giving you the grace of a response.

You didn’t think the room could get any quieter, but it does, even with the sound of graveled footsteps marching their way over to you— the only thing you can see of the late student’s arrival because for some damn reason, everyone has their head down, and you felt compelled to follow and shut up and catch up to your confused and bated breaths as you listen to the chair next to you screech against the tiled floor, and feel the presence of someone plop themselves down with a rattle and grunt, and at that moment, you feel like you were given the subconscious permission to look up again.

So, you do.

And when you do, you immediately lock eyes with Natty. Sorry, she mouths with a hand up her cheek, then just as quickly turns back to the front, leaving you to think— what the hell just happened?

Hesitantly, you crane your head to the right, sneaking a glance at the person who just yanked the atmosphere down into hell with just his arrival, the person who you’d be stuck with for the rest of the year by virtue of your seating arrangement.

Much to your surprise, you’re not met by a face. You’re met with someone hunched over, a mop of messy hair with his face buried into crossed arms over the desk with an aura that immediately repels you from prodding even an inch closer. You nudge your seat away to the left, making sure not to cross the invisible mark marked by the gap between your two desks. The only sign of life you glean is the rhythmic rise and fall of his shoulders— invisible to anyone but you solely because of proximity— which leads you to the conclusion that he’s sleeping.

Sleeping. Something tells you that it’s better that he stays this way. That something is the sigh of relief from the person sitting right in front of you as your homeroom teacher finally walks in.

At this point, you still haven’t seen your seatmate’s face. The only time you know of his name is during attendance, when your teacher calls out a hesitant, “Na— Na Jaemin…?” after double-taking at her class list, answered by nothing but a heavy silence despite having all seats in the classroom filled. She quickly nods in acknowledgement and moves forward after that. Just who the hell is sitting right next to you?)

*‎

Beyond your control, memories from that time of your life continuously flash behind your eyes as you drive back to the firm. A buzz from your phone momentarily interrupts you. It’s from Mark Lee.

[Thanks, attorney. We’ll take care of Ma Gildong first tonight. You can see Jaemin on Monday, next week 🧑‍🎓].

Na Jaemin on a Monday. You grimace. What a load of crappy poetic irony. You reply with a thanks and a middle finger. Mark Lee beeps back with a bright grin in emoji form.

fire and brimstone (and you’re a moth made of gasoline). © hannie-dul-set, 2025.

#na jaemin x reader #jaemin x reader #nct dream x reader #nct x reader #jaemin x you #na jaemin x you #na jaemin fanfic #jaemin fanfic #nct dream fanfic #nct fanfic #nct scenarios #nct imagines #na jaemin smut #jaemin smut #nct dream smut #nct smut

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chimielie · 4 months ago

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hockey player!iwaizumi x f!reader, tooth-rotting fluff, like sweeter than cotton candy, slight injury

When Hajime lost his tooth, he hated it.

He’d always privately had a little bit of a complex about his looks. Growing up best friends with Oikawa made it hard not to compare their looks and come up lacking. He tried not to let it get to him, never verbalized it to anyone, knew that he was still fine. Just nothing special.

They both grow up playing hockey—at least he can beat up Oikawa on the ice (and they always laugh about it off of it). Oikawa goes pro, right out of high school, and Hajime spends a little time dicking around playing college hockey in America before he gets drafted.

He had met you at the bars after a game; his first win after being traded to the team Oikawa’s played for for a couple years now.

The memory is clear: It’s great to be back together, but he feels some trepidation in the car the guys rented, some childish part of him reticent about the idea of going out and watching chicks swarm his best friend, just like their teen years.

He doesn’t even really have time to think about that once they’re in, though, because he, the newbie, gets sent up to order. While he’s waiting for the bartender to pour them the first round of shots, you tap him on the shoulder, touch so soft he barely feels it after getting pummeled on the ice. His right shoulder is tender because he’d slammed hard into the railing right after stealing the puck from Ushijima, sending to Tooru, who had pushed it neatly into the net. An assist on the first goal of the night, and he’d gotten a goal in himself by the third period too.

It twinges as he turns to face you, a clear question written all over his face. It’s not like he’s totally oblivious, like he’s never been flirted with. It just somehow always surprises him still.

“You’re fine,” you declare, already a little tipsy, your cheeks warming as he observes you in your night out outfit. He doesn’t notice a single other girl, talking to Oikawa or not, the whole night.

The next morning, you repeat it to him, curled up against his naked chest, eyes unclouded by drink but your words just as genuine.

It was the first time he’d ever thought of being fine as a good thing.

So when the tooth, his right front one, comes out, cracked by a hard high stick to the face, he almost doesn’t want to come home after the game. It probably doesn’t make sense to get it replaced completely—injuries like this are common in his line of work, and it’ll be a hell of a lot more trouble to keep replacing fakes. He opts for a partial denture, something he can take out during games, but the mold takes twenty-four hours to cure.

You attend as many of his games as you can, but he’d insisted that you head home on your own while the doctors checked him out. You’d ceded only on the condition that you’d have dinner waiting when he got back, something soft and good at room temperature so he wouldn’t aggravate the nerves.

He frowns when you see him, crossing the room and hovering your hands over his swollen cheeks and telling him how worried you’d been, how happy you are he’s okay.

“When’s it gonna be technically healed?” You ask, and his heart clenches.

“It’ll probably be sensitive for a few more days, but they’ll have a coverup ready by tomorrow,” he says. Before he can crack a joke like so you don’t have to look at this ugly mug too long, you’re looking at him with a contemplative expression, one he doesn’t know how to read.

“So… will it hurt if I kiss you?” You want to know. “I feel so bad, ‘cause it must have sucked, but you look so cute like this.”

His heart drops straight through the pit of his stomach in relief.

“Yeah, baby, it’ll be fine… Ow! Ow! Okay, little gentler.”

Still, he wears the flipper as often as he can once he gets it. He doesn’t like the way it looks, the gap, he reasons. Just because you say you do doesn’t mean he’s okay with showing up to functions looking even more like a scrub to your perfect ten. And yeah, he’d think you were beautiful with a paper sack over your head, but it’s just different.

He can hear you whispering before he even walks into the kitchen. You beam up at him, as beautiful as that night in the bar, and his face breaks out into a smile before he even registers it.

“Do you wanna…” you nudge your daughter, and she turns to him, smile just as bright as yours. His heart stops.

There’s a big gap in that smile, the right front tooth missing.

“Look, Daddy!” He catches her up in a big hug, hefting her up so he can inspect her face closely. “Now we match!”

It’s all crashing down on him. He’s bubbling up with it, the fizzy feeling you’d given him in the bar, the tears as he vowed until death do us part, the softness as he’d cradled her in his arms for the first time. You stand, leaning your head on his shoulder as your daughter tells him all about the loss of her first tooth, about the importance of being the first in her class to lose one.

“You’re so brave, kiddo.” He kisses her head. “Makes you even cuter. Want some yogurt?”

#cw: there is a child #this is the ONLY TIME I WILL EVER WRITE A KIDFIC. OKAY #ONE AND ONLY.#shorts!#haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #hq!! x reader #iwaizumi my beloved my husband loml etc etc #iwaizumi hajime x reader #iwaizumi fluff #iwaizumi x reader #hajime x reader #haikyuu fluff #blame the nyquil

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novvabee · 4 months ago

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And They Were Roommates 11

this sat in my drafts for a while because of the whole tiktok ban thing.

Summary: you prank James and it makes for a great tiktok.

word count: 1.5k

cw: swearing once or twice

The boys really didn’t understand what you were up to now.

They understood the concepts of social media and partook in the occasional instagram post, but they were all so… different.

You knew that they went to a boarding school that didn’t allow any technology, and they were severely lacking in the pop culture department, but usually Remus could fill in the gaps for the other two boys. He was the one who had seen all the movies you’d reference or know about a celebrity that you were talking about.

But when it came to silly trends and social media references, the boys were completely lost.

So, you decided to take advantage of their lack of understanding for a good laugh. Even though the girls also went to this boarding school, they still had a good understanding of the world. You and Lily would send funny videos or TikToks to each other, Mary would always discuss the latest celebrity tea with you, and Marlene would recommend new artists she found and send them to you to give a listen to. The point is, they weren’t as blind to these things as the boys were, maybe the boys were just heavily sheltered?

Either way, when you rounded them all up to explain that you wanted to do a silly trend, they looked at you in bewilderment. You had to explain multiple times what a ��hear me out cake” was. You explained to them the premise, that there would be a cake that you all would take turns decorating with people and characters that you think were attractive and the rest of the group would have to ‘hear you out’ on why.

You all compiled your lists and sent the pictures up to Remus’s printer in his room. You noticed the boys had far less than yourself, but that was ok, you were really just trying to prank James and send the video to Lily.

The other day he had scared the daylights out of you when you thought you were home alone. He thought it was hilarious, you did not, so you knew you had to get him back somehow and you knew he wouldn’t be expecting this at all. None of them would, and you were ready to show off your mischievous side.

You sat in the living room, cutting out your images and taping them to toothpicks to later pop in the cake. Remus and James were kind enough to run to the store down the road and pick up a cake. You laughed at the inscription iced on top; a generic “Happy Birthday” with balloons iced around the corners.

“It’s perfect.” you smiled up at them.

They set the cake on the dining table as you and Sirius made your way into the kitchen. You handed both Remus and James their pictures and set your phone up to start recording.

“I still don’t really get it,” Sirius said from beside you, “Why do you have to film it? And why do you want to know who we find fit?”

You laughed as you hit the record button, stepping back and in line with the boys. “Because it’s just a stupid TikTok thing. I thought it would be funny.” you said, looking up at Sirius and batting your lashes, knowing he would go along with whatever you wanted when you looked at him like that.

“Fine,” he said finally.

“Ok, I'll go first,” you said. You pulled out a picture and stuck it in the cake. “James Sully.” You finished placing the picture of the blue avatar front and center.

“The Avatar?” Remus asked as James said, “Why is he blue?” to Sirius. Sirius just shrugged and looked to Remus for an answer. “He’s from a movie,” he explained.

“That thing isn’t even human,” Sirius laughed.

You laughed too, shrugging. “I mean he kinda is… and I thought he was cute ok?”

The boys shook their heads, if they didn’t understand the premise of this game before, they definitely didn’t now.

“Ok, ok,” Sirius said, “I’ll go next.” He picked out a picture and placed it next to yours.

“Sirius,” you said softly, “That’s a cat.” You stared at the picture of the gray tabby on the cake. And he had the audacity to poke fun at you for your ‘non-human’ character.

“Well,” Sirius began, “I didn’t have a picture of her so… this will have to do.”

“Didn’t have a picture of who?” James asked.

Sirius turned to James slightly. “Minnie.” He stated as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Sirius,” Remus sighed under his breath. James just burst into laughter, leaning on an unamused Remus for support. “What is wrong with you?”

You didn’t quite understand the joke, and you certainly didn't know who ‘Minnie’ was, but it was nice to see Remus and James giggle like that. Your plan was working, you were getting them all to loosen up a little.

James went next. He placed a picture of Princess Leia then stood back and said nothing. Maybe he didn’t get the rules of this little game. “James…” you began, “Why would we have to hear you out… she’s a conventionally attractive person.” you giggled.

He shrugged in reply. “But she's an alien right?” Oh but your ‘alien’ wasn’t ok… hypocrite.

“I mean, not really.” Remus said.

“Well she doesn't live on Earth.” James countered.

“Ok we are not arguing about Star Wars right now you nerds.” You laughed. “Go Remmy.” Remus placed an old photo of Jane Austen on the cake. “Wow… You really are a nerd.” you sighed. You stepped forward to go again.

You decided to play out your little prank on James now. You placed your picture on the cake and stepped back without a word, trying to contain your laughter. You caught the smile on Remus’s face.

“You want to explain that one?” Remus asked.

You shook your head. “Nope.” You answered.

It took all but a moment for James to realize who the picture was. “THAT’S MY DAD!” James yelled. There was a flash in your peripheral vision which turned out to be Sirius falling to the floor with laughter. You held it together for as long as you could, but the second James ripped the picture off the cake and turned back to you, you couldn’t help but giggle.

“This is my dad!” James kept repeating, shaking the picture at you. Even Remus was chuckling behind you, Sirius on the floor almost in tears and clutching his stomach.

“Where did you even get this picture? What, I mean… How even?” James was at a complete loss for words and you were losing it. You would never tell him where you got it. Lily would get a kick out of this video for sure.

“Well James,” Remus chuckled again from behind where you stood, nudging you aside softly to make his way back to the cake. “I have a feeling you’re not gonna like this one.” He placed a picture of a woman you didn’t know. She was beautiful, looked kind.

For a second the room was quiet, James and Sirius trying to see who it was that Remus placed on the cake. Sirius burst into another fit of laughter as James shrieked “WHAT THE FUCK!”

You looked to Remus who was full on laughing now. James kicked Sirius in the leg. “Shut up! She’s basically your mother too.”

“Wait, that's James’s mother?” you said, quickly making your way over and plucking the picture off the cake, holding it out in front of you to compare it to James. You could see the resemblance now. You decided to play along with Remus now. “Huh, you know what Remmy, she is hot.” you giggled. If that were to come out of either Sirius or Remus, James definitely would have punched them.

Remus threw his hands up in defence. “She said it, not me.”

James shook his head, speechless. “Why.” was all he could get out.

“Well I couldn’t put Sirius’s mother, now could I?” Remus stated matter of factly.

Sirius, who was still on the floor and struggling for breath, managed to wheeze out, “They did… all that… for a your mum joke…” He was definitely crying with laughter now.

“Oh no,” You said, the boys attention turning to you, “We didn’t work together on this.” you held out your hand in front of Remus and he took the hint, giving you a victorious high five.

“Great minds just think alike,” Remus agreed with you.

James’s face was quite priceless, somewhere in between shocked and baffled.

“I wanted to get back at you for scaring me the other day.” you explained to him. He seemed to come to understand, but still so confused and freaked out that you had a picture of his dad that you had never met.

James looked to Remus for his explanation, but Remus only smirked back at him. “I Just think your mum is hot.” Remus joked. James was on him in an instant, tackling him to the kitchen floor. Sirius had finally pulled himself together enough to sit up and start wiping the tears from his eyes. You sat next to Sirius on the floor and watched as James attempted to wrestle Remus to the ground, partially successful, but you could tell Remus was letting him win, his reward for putting up with you all calling his family hot.

You couldn’t wait to send this video to Lily.

if you've seen the tiktok I am referring to 💋 that is for you. I hope yall like this, its a short but sweet one.

taglist 💌: @too-efn-old-to-be-here @cometsghost @eeviee4 @giuli-in-earth @spicybearnaise @the-lavender-girl @adharalikethestar @champomiel @itsleroyposts @enamoredwithbella @babymash @ilovejamespottersomuch @liszblog @sammyreid @kiaslily @idkman5335 @willowlovestheweasleys @lady-balem @nislame @latenightreadingpdf @v-loves-frogs @meggishhhh @mooonyxoxo @sodavrr @notmonstersapocalipse @plk-18 @prettylittlewrites @darkloverfox @navs-bhat @lexi2005 @bache3 @koolayee

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osamucide · 5 months ago

Text

⊹ I KNOW

I WILL PRETEND THAT I DON’T KNOW OF YOUR SINS UNTIL YOU ARE READY TO CONFESS . . . ft. Osamu Dazai

wc: 2.1k

cw: gn!reader, implied/referenced dissociation+anxiety+self harm+scars+past suicide attempts, hurt/comfort but it's him so of course it's a little unhinged, mentions of dying and being dead, mentions of kidnapping but it's not serious, minor suicidal ideation but it's romantic i guess? non-sexual nudity/intimacy, showering together, lots of kisses, just unbandaging a fragile Dazai and covering him in kisses

reid: draft i been sittin on. how many times will i do an iteration of unwrap and clean him. idk. a million billion. i love him so bad

He’s looking down at his hands—or his wrists, or his fingers, or the spaces between his fingers; you’re not sure. But he’s looking down, emptily, when you nudge the cracked bathroom door further open.

He’s sitting on the lid of the closed toilet. He has no shirt on. His bandages are unraveling at each end of their respective reaches. It’s long past time they should be changed, long past time the flesh beneath them breathe and be washed.

Changing the bandages is just something that has to be done; he will not give them up, nor will he give up the habit evidenced beneath them, and you’ve been with him long enough to know this is how he survives. The bandages do the holding-together when you’re not there to, which is far more often than he’d like. Ideally, he’d be able to shrink you down and keep you in his pocket for safe-keeping and take you out whenever he needs, like a good luck charm; he’d be able to have you on his arm all day, every day, but that’s not possible when you’re an adult with a job and a life. Like him. Right? Right. He’d shuck this skin sooner than the habit, anyway, so, like showering, it’s just something that has to be done.

He doesn’t particularly love when you watch him do it, or offer to do it for him, but you certainly drive off the impulses, hazes, and tremors that come with doing it alone. So, he lets you.

He didn’t always; he went out of his way, bent over backwards for a long time to make sure you never could, much less had to. Somewhere deep down, though, beneath that resolve and the facade stilted upon it, he knew he couldn’t hide his ugliness from you forever.

Despite the normality—the domestic intimacy that standing beneath the water with you suggests now, so much that he has to admit it stills the expansion of the ever-growing black hole inside him—he still always fears it’ll be the last time you want to look at it.

“Osamu?” you mumble from the doorframe.

He does not move, does not look at you over the white noise of the shower running—if he’s noticed you’re here, he doesn't show it. You move to him, slowly, like approaching a skittish cat.

Before you touch him, you bend down—beneath the sink are the rolls of fresh bandages, the clean, new ones that make him look less like a mummy unearthed from Victorian times and more like what he understands himself to be in his purest form: a basket case of the modern era, the worst gift you unwrap every Christmas and birthday and have to pretend to fawn over until it’s safe to be rid of it. You’ll never be rid of him, he thinks regretfully while you shuffle next to him; he’ll never get by without you now, and it almost makes him wish he never met you in the first place, just so he never could’ve inflicted himself upon you.

But you never send him back. Dazai can’t seem to understand, even with all that sharp intelligence of his, that you don’t ever plan to.

Four rolls. One for each of his legs, one for both of his arms, the rest for miscellaneous spots like around his neck or across his chest or wherever else he decides he needs them this time. That’s how many you set on the counter before you land in front of him, your hands pushing his hair back, your proximity forcing his cheek to lay tired against your stomach while those hands curl around the backs of your legs and pull you closer to stand between his.

You cradle Dazai’s head like you’re some sort of saint. To him, you might as well be.

Thumbs brushing his temple and the base of his skull, you speak again, just as quiet. “Come on, let’s wash.” Or, let me unwrap you and look at all that ugliness. He can’t help that he doesn’t move for a firm fifteen seconds; why would he want to, when you hold him so sweetly like this?

But eventually, he rises.

You don’t feed him formalities or those silly questions anymore when you do this. No more can I? Or, you’re gorgeous, or, is this okay? He doesn’t want those during this, you’ve come to find out; you’ll tell him you love him plenty in a few minutes, when he’s only marginally more ready to receive it, but right now you go to work like a tinker repairing a broken doll. Your touch is objective, but not cold or clinical. You treat him with a tenderness he couldn’t have fathomed until he knew you.

After he steps out of his slacks, you loosen the strips with one hand and twirl them around the other; they accumulate in a graying mass of two or more weeks worth of sweat, and you place them in the trash, softly, like you adore and respect those, too, as he skitters past you toward the water for a sense of cover. He knows you’ll be in right after him, but at least the light behind the shower curtain is dimmer. When he disappears, it’s as if he was never there.

But he says, “I’m okay,” unprompted, as you step beneath the water.

He is, really. It’s just jarring when it’s the focus.

The process of becoming accustomed to vulnerability is often more painful than the vulnerability itself, Dazai has learned. While the realization can be sudden, like the flipping of a switch, the vulnerability on its own can actually be quite nice. Peaceful. He knows this because you showed him—continue to show him.

He’s just a man in the shower with his beloved, so, now you’ll talk to him.

“I know,” you say. And you do, really. The hardest part is over, and he’s practically pranced through it this time. You crack a smile.

And he mirrors your smile, not so bright and smug as under normal circumstances but soft and searching. Dazai reaches for your arms, your waist, and pulls you into him; the water hits your back—hot, how he likes it—and you tuck your head into his shoulder and wrap yourself around his middle, whispering I love yous into his shoulder.

It's peaceful. He sways you ever so subtly.

But in true Dazai fashion, he'll shatter the peace. Ever the disruptor.

“I'm sorry you have to love this part of me, too.”

The ugliness, he means. Not just the marred and keloided skin that maps out his history of self-destruction, but his resignation to it. The scabs that touch the small of your back are freshly healing and peeling. If you didn't have him beneath your watch right now they'd probably be scratched open, raw and bleeding again, but as previously mentioned, your presence staves off the itching need to do so.

The tips of his fingers squeeze you when you pull back to look up at him, sliding your hands up his shoulders and behind his neck to link.

“I love every part of you,” you murmur as his forehead dips to rest against yours. Your stunted slow-dance deepens as he sighs himself back into his body, back into the clearer image of you in his grasp. “Don’t be sorry about it. Wouldn’t do it if I didn’t want to.”

The demons snap at his ankles, though. “What if you change your mind one day?”

If he was a hair more insane, he might take you hostage. Keep you to himself forever, and never let you leave. But that would take the peace out of it, he thinks. Your volition makes it all sweeter. You want to be here. You want to love him.

He just doesn’t want that to change.

You hum patiently, although hating when he what ifs. That’s the plague of the ever-moving mind he keeps, you suppose; so intelligent, but so restless. “I don’t think I will.”

You don’t think you will, but that doesn’t settle the insecurity that’s settled in his stomach like a coiled snake.

You don’t think you will, but you will. He knows you will, because that’s how it’s fated to unfold for him.

Your short words don’t corral him away from the snake, but the less you treat him like he’s a gaping wound, the better. You see it. You don’t cry or gasp or lament or promise how you could never leave him, will never leave him; you don’t like to make promises that reach beyond your control.

The human existence is so strange and fluid, and while you’re confident you won’t tire of him, well, your reciprocated touches aren’t the only things stitching you together, you know; there’s a world, much larger than both of you, that you live in, and a universe even more incomprehensible and its whims are fickle—but they’re also serendipitous. Everything is a miracle, if you think about it. A big, beautiful mistake. You don’t know how much he buys into this, and you’d rather him not read into it as an excuse not to answer with a resounding I’ll never leave you, my love, so you just do what you always do best: spin it in a direction his troubled mind can find solace in, pair it with kisses that have all your soul for him to inhale, and promise what you can: your hope.

You start with his lips. The best place, arguably; one of your hands tilts his chin toward yours and you kiss him softly, simply. Dazai responds hesitantly, still holding onto you tight. You kiss him for minutes, until he's humming, until his grip loosens comfortably and his shoulders untense and his palms rest on either of your hips.

You have a habit of kissing him silly, literally. Your lips move against his and he feels high. His head gets light, and his hands get restless, and between the short puffs of air he draws in through his nose he croons at the way your fingers push his hair back, trail down his neck.

“I’m confident,” you say, sliding across his cheek to beneath his ear while he grabs at you in soft and absent-minded desperation, “that I’ll love you ‘til the end of my days.”

“But what if the e—”

“I’m certain—” You cut him off, first with speech and then with a kiss before you begin pressing your lips into a necklace around his throat, “—that I want to get old with you.” On one side, you bite softly. “That I want to die with you.” You bite the other. “That I want to be buried next to you.”

Osamu’s breath catches on the words buried next to you. Of course it’s crossed his mind before that if you were to go before him, he certainly wouldn’t be long after you. The thought that you want to live a full life with him before any of that can happen, however, makes his heart swell almost uncomfortably, like it’s no longer meant to fit inside his chest—like it wants to crawl up his throat and go home to yours. It will one day, you say, when you’re rotting next to each other. He wants to melt at the idea of it.

“And then… I don’t know what, if anything, will happen after that. But it’s my purest hope—” You traverse from one shoulder, across his collarbones, stopping only above his sternum to finish, “—that I’ll be with you forever,” before making your way to the other. He’s a mistake you’d make again and again, given the opportunity. If reincarnation is real, you’re sure of it, more than anything—you will.

And you know not expect anything but speechlessness from Osamu until after you’ve kissed a circle around that heart of his that’s beating so frantically for you, until after you’ve brought his knuckles to your lips, all twenty-eight of them, until after you’ve made your way back up one arm just to kiss down the other, until you’ve bent to scatter kisses across his stomach, his hips, until you’ve knelt to descend the ladder marking each of his thighs, until you’ve sat at his feet with your arms looped around the backs of his knees with your head pressed against him like he’s the saint this time. You sit at the feet of a sinner and make him taste redemption. It tastes like the shower water that’s touched your skin and the dinner you both ate before wandering into this strange place between his disillusion and his sheer need. You kiss him back into his humanity.

When you stand, level with him again, he smiles that smile you love so much—not the cocky, performative smile nor the uneasy, misgiving one that wants to trust but has forgotten how to but the smile that’s altogether subtle and plain and sad and the most radiant thing you’ve ever known. Every time he falls apart, you just stitch him right back up what he’s always wanted to be: loved, held, loving and holding.

Osamu touches your lips with his fingertips like you’re not quite real, like you’ve not just reminded every other inch of him that you very much are; he speaks, not a progenitor of pretty promises himself—but he owes you forever, he thinks, as long as it’s what you want. “Thank you.”

You laugh once, breathy, in no need. “Thank you,” you echo, “for being the most wonderful thing to love.”

Not the easiest, you both know—but it’s just something that has to be done, and there’s no law forbidding you from reminding him how beautiful he is in the process. Until you can be buried next to him. There’s hardly anything keeping forever from beginning right now.

He holds you, and you hold him, and he feels clean.

#osamu dazai x reader #dazai x reader #bsd x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fluff #dazai fluff #with love—reid

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jetblack4realz · 5 months ago

Text

beach days - jake "hangman" seresin

again, just clearing drafts. i'm not in love with this, but it's cute so have fun ig

summary: beach days with the gang lead to you and jake realizing how your relationship has changed. everything is different, but you certainly don't mind.

warnings: none

word count: 2.7k

______________________________________________________________

when maverick told you to show up at the beach in front of the hard deck wearing athletic wear, you didn't know what to expect. you could be conditioning, but that didn't seem like his style. you could be messing around, but you didn't have time for that. all you did know was that his location was strategic - penny was right there to watch as your instructor stripped himself of his shirt and approach the group.

standing next to phoenix in nearly matching sports bras and shorts, you waited for what he'd tell you.

"today, we're playing dogfight football."

half of you cheered and the other half looked confused. you grinned, high-fiving phoenix.

"offense and defense at the same time. boundaries are marked in the sand, hondo will be reffing. for those of you who don't know how to play, just watch the others and try not to drop the ball. rooster, hangman, pick your teams."

the two men grinned, standing next to each other as they surveyed the squad. hangman gestured for rooster to choose first.

"phoenix."

jake grinned. "bronco."

you smirked at phoenix, sending a wink hangman's way as you joined his side. the rest of the teams were chosen and you were quickly thrown into the game.

"bronco, center!" hangman instructed.

"aye, aye captain!" you cheered, propping yourself in front of payback with a grin, your team's foam football resting on your fingertips in the sand. "you ready?"

"ready to kick your ass," he answered. you laughed.

"you wish," you said.

"ready!" hondo yelled. you glanced behind you to see jake as your quarterback with a nice view of your ass. you rolled your eyes as he winked at you. "set!" your vision went underneath you, eying where the ball needed to be for it to make it to him. "hike!"

with a near-perfect throw, the ball was in jake's hands and you were rushing the other team. phoenix had the ball, looking at where to throw it. you ducked out of the way of fanboy's arms, running at rooster who was calling for the ball. coyote was ahead of you though, knocking the man to the side as phoenix eventually decided to just run it for herself.

"y/n you gotta get her!" maverick said, laughing as he was not about to tackle the woman. you booked it across the sand, phoenix moving to dodge you but you jumped forward, effectively knocking her to the ground. you looked up just in time to see jake score.

you jumped up with a cheer, pumping your fists. jake looked at you, running back to your team's side and double high-fiving you excitedly. he whooped, holding your hands in the air for a second before hondo tossed you the ball again.

"those of you who don't know the game, you starting to get it?" maverick called in question. "offense and defense. bronco defended phoenix from scoring and hangman's offense gave them a touchdown. understand?"

there was a vague grumble of agreement.

"you got phoenix?" jake asked with raised brows. you quirked a brow, bouncing the ball between your hands.

"of course i got phoenix," you answered.

he grinned. "do it again darlin'."

"aye aye captain," you said with a mock salute, laughing as you got back into position.

with a yell from hondo again, you tossed jake the ball and dove to the side, keeping fanboy from hitting you. you scrambled to your feet, eyes on phoenix - except it wasn't phoenix as quarterback anymore. it was bradley.

"uh oh."

you quickly switched tactics, running to the end zone, your eyes scanning for jake.

"coyote, all you!" you yelled, pointing at rooster. he began to charge and you continued running. jake was bouncing on his toes, letting your defense cover him for a second. but, he didn't see payback charging from the side.

"hangman! throw it!" you called and his eyes locked on you. he managed to get it thrown just before he got tackled and you braced to catch it.

and of course, you did, immediately turning to score. bob tried to run after you, but it didn't work in time.

"wooh!" you cheered, throwing the ball in the air behind you. jake was at your side in seconds, high-fiving you again.

"nice catch sweetheart," he grinned.

"nice throw," you answered, matching his grin.

the next round continued the same way, but with you as quarterback this time. you thought it'd be easy to get a few throws out to coyote and mav, but it was not. not with phoenix being as persistent as she is. you yelled out as she booked it towards you, just starting to run towards the other side of the makeshift field.

"jake!" you screamed. "freaking cover me, man!"

"just pass me the ball," he offered, a grin on his lips.

"no thanks babe, this one's all me!" you said.

you shrieked as rooster lunged at you, dipping to the side to avoid him. jake was running next to you at this point, just grinning at you. payback appeared out of nowhere and you stopped, ducking behind hangman and letting him take the brunt of the tackle. you laughed as you reached the endzone.

"got it again!"

"no, you didn't," payback said as he stood up, brushing sand off his arms. he pointed across the way and you saw bob on your side with the football in his hands. hondo blew his whistle, pointing to him.

"bob got it!"

"what?" you laughed. rooster whooped, running towards him and lifting the man onto his shoulders. his team cheered as he carried bob around. "lame."

jake circled his arms around your neck from behind, his chin resting on your head. "it's alright darlin', we'll get 'em next time." he surprised you big time with a small kiss to your cheek before he pulled away, grabbing your hand and pulling you to the start line. "come on."

you pulled your hand from his, laughing and pushing his shoulder. "what are you doing?"

"giving you encouragement! if we win you could get more than that," he promised, wiggling his brows.

"oh shut up, seresin. i don't want any of that," you told him with a roll of your eyes, hoping your words covered the light blush that spread across your cheeks.

"mhm, keep telling yourself that bronco," he said, still smirking.

"mav, i wanna switch teams!" you yelled, hand in the air as you smirked yourself. maverick laughed.

"fanboy, switch her."

it got competitive quick.

anytime jake had the ball, you were in front of him, smacking it to the sand. you tried to keep away from your ball, knowing you'd be thrown into the sand if you did. but, sometimes things couldn't be avoided and you ended up covered in sand with hangman in front of you, offering you a hand.

at some point, maverick had wandered off and y'all continued to mess around.

every time jake scored he cheered loudly, pointing at you. "wanna switch again?"

"never!" you yelled, turning to rooster and phoenix to come up with a game plan.

phoenix scored twice, you high-fiving your best friend before sticking your tongue out at the texan across the sand. he rolled his eyes, just getting back into position.

he then won another point, slamming the ball into the sand, the men behind him falling dramatically. you resisted the urge to laugh at the sight. he pointed to you again, but you just flipped him the bird.

"oh come on darlin', don't be like that!"

you flipped him both fingers as you turned to walk away.

"y/n, incoming!" phoenix yelled with a laugh just before you got lifted right out of the air.

"hangman, put me down!" you demanded, pulling at his arms.

"hey rooster!" he called instead. "wanna play chicken?"

bradley laughed, glancing once at phoenix. "sure!"

"wait, no-!" both you and phoenix yelled as you were tossed into the ocean. you gasped for air as you surfaced, repeatedly punching jake in the arm. "what are you doing?"

"come on sweetheart, let's kick their asses," he said with a smirk, holding his hand out to you. you glanced behind you at phoenix, both of you nodding and looking back to your respective boys.

"alright then," you nodded. he gestured for you to circle around and jump on his shoulders, but you took a different route. with one hand on his head and the other on his shoulder, you pulled him down as you jumped, effectively dunking him with your body weight. when he went under, you swung around and sat on his shoulders, making it that much harder to get up.

it seemed like you didn't do much to toughen things for him as he stood up, coughing, his hands on your thighs to keep you stable. you ruffled his dripping hair, pulling it out of his face and then letting it slap back down on his forehead with a laugh.

"you good bagman?" you asked. he patted your thighs as he coughed once more.

"fine, baby, thanks," he said. you laughed, letting him take your hands instead of your thighs to keep you balanced as he waded through the water towards where bradley was trying to breathe again, natasha on his shoulders laughing hard.

"good there bradshaw?" you asked with a chuckle. he reached up, slapping her arm and making her laugh harder. you looked down, squeezing jake's hands twice to get his attention before letting them go. "alright jake, lock in."

"oh don't worry bronco, i have no intentions of losing to rooster," he told you with a grin, peeking up at you best he can without knocking you backwards.

"good," you said.

"ready bronco?" natasha asked, a wicked grin on her lips as she held her hands up.

"go!" you exclaimed, the men beneath you two girls charging.

you and phoenix grappled at each other, trying to upset the other's balance while the boys tried their hardest to knock the other over. you grabbed one of her shoulders with both hands, pushing her sideways.

"kick his leg jake!" you exclaimed, continuing to shove phoenix to the side. you felt jake do just that and bradley stumbled. at that moment, both you and jake pushed them backwards and they went tumbling into the water, earning cheers from you and your fellow aviator.

hangman whooped loudly and you could hear bob and coyote laughing behind you guys. phoenix and rooster reemerged from the water, lighthearted glares in their eyes before they erupted in chuckles themselves.

"again?" you taunted, holding your hands in the air as a taunt.

"nah, i think bob and coyote want in," rooster laughed.

"i don't wanna go against bob!" you exclaimed.

"fine, go against me!" coyote called back, the two men entering the water with wide smiles.

you leaned down to whisper to jake, "you better be sturdy."

he patted your legs. "don't worry darlin', we aren't losing this thing."

you and jake ended the day as the reigning champs of chicken, even managing to convince penny and maverick to contend against y'all, but to no avail. you guys were just that good.

"good game, cowboy," you told him, patting his head as he held his hands up to help you down. you gracefully hopped off from behind him, the man turning to face you once your feet landed in the sand.

"good game, bronco," he replied, grinning. "now since i carried you the whole time, i think i deserve a ride, don't i?"

in a flash, you were underwater, hangman jokingly sitting on your shoulders as you tried to stand up. when you finally reached the surface, the man was tipping backwards, hanging onto you to try to remain upright.

"hangman, get off!" you laughed, pushing his thighs off your shoulders.

"no, you can do this!" he exclaimed, but at this point he was clinging to you more like a piggyback. you laughed again, grabbing his legs so he was more secure and trudging your way out of the ocean. "yes!"

"hangman, why are you making bronco give you a piggyback ride?" maverick asked, a hand on his hip as he watched them with an amused smile.

"because she is a strong, independent woman who can easily give a man a piggyback ride if she wants to," he answered, nodding at the captain. "or if her best friend tells her too."

"yeah, well her best friend is a fatass," you said with a laugh, dropping him on the sand as you moved to collect your keys and phone from phoenix. he stood up, wiping the sand off him as he followed you.

"need a ride?" he asked.

"nah, phoenix is taking me back," you told him as you grabbed your things from said girl.

"well, bradley wants to get chick-fil-a, so if you wanna come you're welcome, but i understand if you just want to go home with hangman," she told you, a look in her eye explaining that you in fact were not welcome to come.

"no thanks," you laughed. you looked back at jake. "hangman, i'd appreciate that ride now please."

"come on sweetheart," he laughed, swinging an arm around your shoulders and walking you to his sweet red 1996 ford f-150. you hopped in the passenger seat as he started up the engine.

"today was fun," you said as he pulled out of the parking lot and started towards your temporary apartments, only a block or so apart. you smiled at him. "thanks for making it fun."

he smiled at you, resting his hand on your thigh again. "i do my best."

there was something different about the way he had been speaking to you recently, the little touches, nicknames, heck he'd even kissed you on the cheek a few times in the last few weeks. he'd always been a flirt, but something in you said that this was different. maybe it's because whatever it was you had with him, it actually felt real.

to test this theory, you grabbed the hand that was still on your knee and held it in yours. he glanced at you and you waited for a response, only seeing the corner of his mouth pull up in a smile and you feel him squeeze your hand twice.

cool. this was okay.

he pulled up to your apartment, parking next to your red bronco. before you could say anything, he had gotten out of the truck and crossed to your side, opening your door for you. he held his hand out and helped you down, giving you a charming smile as he took your hand again. you both walked to your door, you quickly unlocking it but not making any moves to open it yet.

"today was really fun," he said. "i always have a good time with you, y/n."

you loved when he called you by your real name instead of just your callsign.

"i always have a good time with you too, jake," you said, smiling softly.

everything felt different, but a good different. for some reason, it felt like you were finally on the same page. and you were.

he grabbed your face in his hands and pressed his lips to yours, smiling into the kiss as he felt you reciprocate. you parted for a moment, readjusting your hands to be around his neck, his on your waist pulling you closer to him as you went in for round two. when you pulled apart next, he rested his forehead on yours.

"wanna come inside?" you asked with a smile. "just to watch a movie or something. make dinner."

"that sounds perfect," he answered, kissing your forehead.

things were different, hangman could feel it. but it was a good thing. it was going to be a lasting thing. and he couldn't wait to start it, kissing your temple from behind as you pushed the door open.

wow, you loved beach days.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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masterlist!!

#top gun maverick #glen powell #glen powell x reader #glen powell x y/n #hangman x reader #jake seresin #jake seresin x reader #top gun imagine #jake hangman seresin

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amiableness · 2 months ago

Text

Hockey!James Potter x Lupin!Reader ❆ 1016 words | i found this in my drafts and reworked it a bit, enjoy!

series masterlist ; main masterlist

Your phone buzzes relentlessly in your pocket, and without looking, you already know it’s the group chat—the boys asking why you’re not outside the locker room like always. Win or lose, you’re usually there, ready to be swept along to their celebratory pub of choice or back to the house to drown their sorrows with video games.

But you haven’t had the time to text them back.

“You’ll have a good time if you join us, I promise.” You can’t recall his name, but you’re certain you’ve seen him on the ice during games against the boys. He’s never approached you before—probably too deflated by past losses to muster the courage. But tonight, with his team riding high on their win, his confidence has soared, and he’s wasting no time putting it to use, trying to persuade you to grab a drink with him. “We’re all heading to the pub down the road.”

“Doesn’t exactly feel right celebrating the win against my team.” You say blandly, your hand reaching up to pinch at the fabric of your brother’s jersey, drawing his eyes downward. The fabric is loose, but you regret the gesture as soon as you’ve done it, feeling uneasy about his eyes dragging over your frame.

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” He shrugs, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His broad shoulder, the kind you might have admired under different circumstances, press casually against the cold wall as he mirrors your stance with a confidence that only fuels your annoyance.“C’mon, just an hour.”

Irritation twists in your gut. How he’s missing the hint is beyond you. You made it painfully clear you weren’t exactly thrilled when he sidled up next to you—yet here he is.

“Sorry, the only team I’m celebrating with tonight is the losing one.” You shrug, feigning indifference, but your patience is wearing thin. Your fingers twitch with the urge to pull out your phone and text the boys to come rescue you—something you’re two seconds away from doing.

“Celebrating what, sweetheart? Their loss? There’s nothing to celebrate—” The cocky blonde’s words falter as his gaze shifts to something over your shoulder. His smirk fades slightly as he straightens up. “Potter,” he greets, the name rolling off his tongue with a distinct lack of warmth. Your stomach flips at the sound of his name, and you peek over your shoulder to see those dark eyes trained on the hockey player in front of you.

He doesn’t stop until he’s right behind you, close enough that you swear you can feel the heat radiating from him, chasing away the chill that’s seeped into your skin from the arena. “Harrison,” he says, his voice low and deep, a sound you secretly adore far more than you’d ever admit. His gaze shifts, catching yours as you glance at him over your shoulder, and the intensity in his eyes sends a spark down your spine.

“Angel.” His cold tone softens slightly, and any greeting you had for him dies on your tongue. You’d never admit it—to him or anyone else—but you love the way he says it, the way his voice wraps around the nickname.

For a moment, you find yourself simply admiring James—his freshly washed curls still damp from the shower and that tight black workout shirt clinging to those muscles you’d happily drag your tongue over. The angry bruise blooming high on his cheekbone from a particularly brutal hit catches your eye, and as fucked as it is, you find it unbearably hot. Though, truthfully, you’d shot out of your seat in a panic the moment you saw him take that hit.

He catches your gaze, an eyebrow arched in silent question, and you can’t tell if he's asking whether you want him to handle the guy you’ve been talking to or if he’s just caught you checking him out.

“Do you two know each other?” Harrison asks, and irritation burns inyour stomach at the question. As if he has a right to ask that.

James nods, “Pretty well.” Your brows pinch, that wouldn’t have been the words you would have picked. “What were you two talking about?” James continues, his tone casual, almost lazy—but there’s a protective edge to his voice. One that makes your head feel fuzzy.

“I was offering for her to celebrate with the winning team.” Harrison shrugs, tucking his hands into his pockets. But you can see it—the shift in his posture, the subtle crack in his newfound confidence since James steps closer.

“Oh, did you?” James replies, his voice smooth and relaxed, but there’s the slightest scrunch of his nose, the subtle way his lips press inward—just like they always do when he hears something he doesn’t like.

“The offer still stands, sweetheart.” Harrison speaks, his eyes flickering back to you in a last-ditch effort to convince you to go out with him. That familiar unease crawls up your spine at the way his gaze lingers on you. Without thinking, you shift back into James, who instinctively places a hand on your hip, pulling you against him. Your breath hitches as the warmth of his large palm seeps through, and for a quick moment, you wonder what it might feel like against your bare skin.

Harrison’s eyes flick down to where James has you pulled close, his thumb hooked casually through a belt loop on your jeans. There’s a cocky glint in James’s eye now—and just like that, the sting of that loss from forty-five minutes ago seems to vanish from his mind, replaced by something far more satisfying: the look on Harrison’s face.

You reach down, your fingers grazing over James’s hand, and he looks down in surprise at the touch. Without hesitation, you flip his hand, threading your fingers through his. “Sorry, I’d much rather celebrate with him.” Fed up with the situation, you pull James along who follows you without a question. You catch sight of Sirius and Remus lingering near the locker room entrance, both quietly laughing to themselves at the smug, thoroughly satisfied look on James’s face.

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#hockey!james and lupin!reader universe #hockey!james potter #james potter headcanon #james potter fic #james potter x fem!reader #james potter x you #james potter x reader #james potter blurb #james potter fluff #james potter fanfiction

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defmaybe · 11 months ago

Text

Noona from the Bar

IVE's Kim Gaeul x Male Reader

5.2k words

A/N: Ahh, my debut! Thanks to @msafterhours and @i-am-lifeform24 for editing and beta-reading! And thanks to all the kind writers and fellow readers who have been nothing but supportive of me. I know my skills aren’t really up to the task yet (I have a Minji-Haewon 15k draft with broken grammar sitting lol), but I’ll seek my way through it. Thanks for reading!

—

It’s Friday night. The sound of the electronic beats echo throughout the bar, accompanied with the shaking bass. Customers are cramped into small tables, shuffling together to accommodate the enormous crowd. And there you are, sitting in front of the vacant stage, which, to your knowledge, is usually reserved for the band to play, with the Nordic-esque climate sending shivers through your body.

Leehan and Sungho dragged you with a few other guys here after your sophomore finals. You wouldn’t say that it’s a chore, but there are definitely better things to do than get drunk. These two are the most outgoing guys of your diverse group. Meanwhile, you aren’t much of a social butterfly, preferring the more busy student council member life. Sitting in between them, you can only scroll through your phone to pass the time.

“To our grades!” Sungho raises his glass and looks around, inviting you and the other friends to join him.

“To our grades,” you say, barely able to hear your own voice before clinking your glass with others.

You chug half your beer, ready for a long night, your friends laughing as they do the same.

Sungho sighs, putting down his drink, and saying, “Thanks to Seokjin, or we wouldn’t have today, drinking beers and listening to music!”

All eyes on your table turns to Seokjin, the kind, quiet nerd of your group. “It’s nothing really, you’re my friends, and—”

“To Seokjin!” Leehan puts his glass up for another toast, while Seokjin scans around him, seeing all his friends doing the same, smiling.

“Thanks, guys.” Seokjin says, as he raises his glass for a toast with yours.

—

As the night goes on, the music shows no sign of calming down. NewJeans booms through the speakers, interspersed with remixes of local songs. Alcohol has started to take hold of you, plaguing your inhibition with sharp tingles as you chug your glass away.

“Shit, I have to go to the bathroom,” Leehan suddenly says.

“I’m coming with you,” Namjoon follows. “Anyone else?”

Everyone around the table stands up except for you, and you watch as they shoot you apologetic glances. “Watch the table for us!” Sungho shouts at you, his voice struggling to carry through the loud music. “Use your student committee power to protect this table or whatever.”

“Fine, and I’m only a secretary, by the way. Don’t be gone for too long.” You smile, waving to your friends as they leave one by one.

“I think Leehan is going to stay there for quite a while. I saw him heaving a bit earlier,” Seokjin sighs, worried.

Your eyes widen. “Well, I’ll wait for you guys here. Take your time,” you assure Seokjin, with him gesturing a thanks with a grateful smile.

—

On the other side of the bar, another group revels as their finals come to an end.

“Jiwon, pass me the liquor, please,” Gaeul asks.

Jiwon holds the half-full rum bottle. “Gaeul, this is your fourth glass of the night. Are you sure you wanna drink more?”

Gaeul scoffs, voice already slurring. “Yeah, why not?”

“Well, the last time this happened, I was holding your head above my toilet by the sixth shot,” Yujin adds.

“It will be different this time, come on~” Gaeul pleads, sulking in her chair, matched by her descending tone.

“Fine,” Jiwon huffs, finally passing the rum to Gaeul. “I’m not holding your hair again, though,” she pouts, with Yujin nodding in agreement.

“Thanks!” Gaeul pours the drink into her ice-filled glass before topping the golden liquor with cola. She glances around her table. “I promise, I’ll be the one who holds Wonyoung—,” her stream of thoughts is cut off, as she catches your presence not too far from her, alone, sliding one video after another, gleaming her with flame.

Yujin follows her sight to you. “Well, well, another freshman, huh?” She scoffs.

“Oh, come on, I never get to do this. God, Jiwon brought like three guys to her place in the same month before,” Gaeul deflects.

“Hey!” Jiwon reaches to slap her hand. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Gaeul pouts, making Jiwon roll her eyes, smiling.

“If you want him, then go get him!” Wonyoung adds. “We may not have another chance in our senior year. They are going to kill us with those goddamn projects.” She takes a sip from her glass and contorts her face after that.

“You know men don’t like older women, right?” Gaeul turns her head back onto Wonyoung, who’s still trying to make peace with the content of her glass. “He’d say no.”

Yujin laughs, “That attitude is why you’ve brought no one back to your place!” She pushes Gaeul’s drink into its owner’s hand, pointing at her face.

“Don’t live to regret this.”

Gaeul taps the table with her fingers rapidly, contemplating her approach. Her friends watch her hesitation with anticipation, until Gaeul retorts, “Alright, fine. If that’ll make you guys happy,” before getting up from her chair and walking towards you, glancing back to see her peers watch the scene unfold from afar.

—

It has been twenty minutes since your friends left. You are caught under the crushing weight of the foreign sounds and solitude among the crowd. Leehan is probably having his face in the toilet. And being the good friend you are, you bring up your phone to text Seokjin to ask about the situation.

Before you hit send, a sound comes from your right, catching your attention.

“Hi!”

You turn to see a woman with short, raven black hair standing before you. Her hand is holding a glass of what your best guess seems to be cola. Her nails are cut short and plain. She’s wearing a black cardigan that somehow shows off her lean curves. Her jeans don't make it even easier for you, leaving you with little to imagine.

“Is this seat taken?” she asks, bending down to hover her glass above Sungho’s seat.

“Hey!” You greet her. “Yeah, it’s taken. I’m sorry about that.” You plant your hand on the vacant chair, inadvertently touching her long fingers, eliciting a giggle from her.

“Shit, sorry! …Again.” You pull your hand back as you feel her warm skin. You can feel a small fire in your cheeks.

Gaeul lifts her glass to cover herself laughing. “Haha, it’s fine. Still, are your friends coming back soon? I’m kinda looking for… company tonight.”

It’s quite rare to find someone approaching you, let alone stating their romantic needs this clearly. Yet, it’s a bar after all; alcohol strips people’s inhibitions off here. And who are you to say no to this beautiful woman?

“Oh, sure! They are probably taking care of my friend in the toilet. Go ahead.” You gesture at her to sit down, as she moves the chair a little to comply.

“I’m Gaeul, by the way.” She offers you a handshake, smiling, to which you happily accept. Unlike yours, her hand is silky soft,

“Hi, Gaeul. I’m from engineering, civil. What do you study?” You ask.

“Architecture! I’m just beside you, haha,” as she pulls her hand back and placing her glass on your table. The architecture faculty is bordering your engineering main building, and you’ve walked past it often during lunchtime.

“Have I met you before?” You inquire, squinting your eyes on you to examine her shadowed features.

“I don’t think so. I would have remembered you with that face.” Gaeul playfully points at your face, chuckling.

You chuckle along to hide the fact that she’s really influencing you with such an irresistible charm. “Thanks, I guess.”

“What year are you in?” Gaeul asks. “I’ve recently finished my junior finals. I made a lot of home models this year.” She rolls her eyes and sighs while recounting her experience.

“You are a year above me. I’m just a sophomore.” You answer.

“So, I’m your noona, right?” She giggles, tapping your shoulder softly with her finger.

“Yes, Gaeul noona,” you pout, placing your hands on your thighs.

Gaeul giggles, “No need, haha. Just Gaeul is fine, really.”

“Alright, Gaeul.” You smile along with her.

The night with Gaeul advances, while you quickly forget about your friends taking care of Leehan. You learn about her aspirations of being an architect, and how she also hates drawing to death.

“And you want to become an architect?” you ask, baffled in such contradiction.

“Yeah, haha, I’ve always loved elegant buildings, and I really want to create them myself as I grow up.” Gaeul smiles, gladly sharing her wishes.

She continues, “But when it comes to drawing, I’ve always had the feeling of having to perfect them. And that eats up a lot of my energy, really.”

“So, you’re a perfectionist?” you continue to shoot questions at her, giggling.

Gaeul laughs. “You can say that.”

She then tells you about the pets at her home, as she learns about your ambitions. And you feel like the conversation is sparking everywhere; it flows like the alcohol in your blood, suppressing your shyness just for her.

—

“Yeah! I just got my driver’s license a few months ago.” The clock strikes almost ten, over half an hour after your first words with her, and the topic is lingering on driving at the moment.

Gaeul takes a deep breath before gaining the courage to ask. “Hey, do you want to go back to my place?”

“Really?” you ask.

“Yeah, talking in here doesn’t give us much privacy.” Gaeul seems to be going all-in here.

Unable to bother yourself under these waves of songs you can’t sing along to anymore, you answer in a quickfire, “Sure! Where do you live, though?”

Gaeul points her thumb behind her, towards the outside. “Just across this bar. I usually have my friends crashing for the night if they can’t walk to their dorms.”

“Lead the way, then.”

—

“Well, show’s over, girls,” Jiwon huffs, seeing Gaeul guiding you out of the bar. “It’s the three of us now. Anyone you guys are eyeing on?”

Yujin and Wonyoung shrug. “Let’s just enjoy the rest of the night first,” Wonyoung says.

“Yeah.” Yujin adds and signals a toast, as Jiwon and Wonyoung join her.

—

Gaeul unlocks the door to her room before leading you inside. Her room is pretty tidy, aside from the lump of unfolded clothes on her bed on the left, covered by brown bedsheets. She has a few stuffed animals sitting at the top of it: some Care Bears, a cylinder piggy doll, with Shaun the Sheep gracefully sitting in the middle, and a few more aquatic animals.

“I’m saving up my money to buy my fifth Care Bear,” Gaeul says with a smile, determination sparks in her eyes.

On the opposite side, there’s a drawing table with a few sketches of buildings, showcasing her architecture works. You close the door and lock it for her.

Noticing the mess, she darts toward the bed. “It’s a little messy, sorry,” she says, picking up the pile before cramming it inside her closet. “I didn’t have time to take care of it when I was coming out.”

“I don’t mind, really.” You smile, understanding her struggle of doing laundry.

Gaeul smiles back as she shuts her closet door. “Where were we again?” she leans against it, giving you a questioning look.

“I—,” you pause, further taking in the atmosphere of her room. You find a few movie posters on her wall above the bed: Thirteen, Little Women, and After Hours are the ones standing out. She also has her Jubilee vinyl on display just by her table.

“So, you like Japanese Breakfast?” you ask, before she follows your gaze onto the album. You’ve never expected someone you find at a bar to listen to Michelle Zauner’s band, to be honest.

“Yeah, it was my sister’s before she moved out,” Gaeul answers. “But the album itself is pretty good. I pick it up now and then to let it loop while I’m drawing.”

“I’ve heard about its quality.” You tap your fingers on your thighs, eyes darting everywhere except onto her.

Gaeul taps her chin in a staccato rhythm; she seems as unsure of her next action as you do. The humming of the air conditioner lulls from behind her. She ponders for a while, before stepping towards you.

“You know the implications, right?”

And that’s it; the way she says ‘right’ tingles you in a peculiar way. Gaeul looks into your eyes as she does, eliciting an indescribable feeling inside you. Your hands shake as she closes her distance to the point where you can feel her breathing.

“May I?” she asks, lips just inches away from yours.

“S—sure,” you stutter out in front of this gorgeous woman.

Without further ado, Gaeul kisses you ardently. Her tongue doesn’t let your mouth simply rest on hers, as she invades your cavern to display the passion she has been holding. She cups your cheeks so that she can taste you more thoroughly. You moan at such a confident act right into her mouth, before you let your tongue wrestle with hers.

As the kiss deepens, Gaeul draws her hand down your neck, and you shudder in response. “Fuck, noona,” you utter through the connected lips. Your hands cup her face, letting her take control. And without initiation from you, her fingers sliding down your abdomen seem to invite you to engage with her under the same depravity. Yet, your hands linger on her facial features.

Soon, Gaeul’s hand works its way to your crotch, stroking your erect length through the pants. “Wow, all excited for me, huh?” she says, suppressed under the kiss, and you moan through the gaps, having your shaft fondled.

Gaeul breaks off from the torrid act, but her lips leave just a little distance from yours. However, it’s far enough to keep you wanting her more. She lifts her arms to wrap around your neck. “I want to ask you something.” She says in a whisper while looking into your eyes; her deep voice shakes you.

“Go ahead.”

Gaeul clicks her tongue a few times, glancing at the wall before asking.

“Are you comfortable calling me noona again? I know I told you back in the bar to drop it, but seeing you being all obedient because of me is a bit of a…” She bites her lip as if to resist the inevitable. “…turn on.” She grins, unsure, not even believing the words coming out of her mouth.

You chuckle before answering without another hesitation. “Sure, Gaeul noona.”

Gaeul smiles. “Alright, baby boy.” She slides her hands down to work on your top button. “Let’s go to our main course.”

You quickly unbutton your shirt upward to meet her trembling hands. And quickly, your shirt is up for Gaeul to toss it away into the void. She runs her right hand down your chest. “You take care of yourself well, don’t you?” As her fingers tap on your flat stomach, hitching your breath.

“C—Cardio from time to time, noona.” You stutter out; fuck, this woman is burning your skin.

“Good for you.” She says in a deep tone, while her right hand is still feeling your midriff.

“Now, leaving you like this wouldn’t be… fair, right? Bare for me to—” The next word cut short for her to plant her lips on your nipple, tasting your body and eliciting a moan from you.

“Noona…” You are now lost in the pleasure; jolts after jolts from her lips rush through your body, making you shudder. Her saliva coats your nipple, and you lock your hand behind your noona’s head to keep yourself from falling over.

Gaeul keeps switching her suction on your peaks before she pushes you onto her bed. “I was talking about fairness, right?” She says with her fingers tilting your head down on your chin a little to meet her eyes. Her legs are straddling yours, keeping you in place.

“Y—Yes, noona,” you speak out.

“So, since you are half naked… under me.” She traces a line down your abdomen, igniting a fire in its wake. “You get to choose which half of me… that you want to see.”

You gulp, eyes wide. Fuck, this woman is really having her way with you now, and there’s nothing you can do to resist her seductive endeavor. Your mind goes into overdrive with the choices: top or bottom, top or bottom, top or—

“Every second counts, my baby boy.” Gaeul taps her bare wrist, grinning.

You swallow another gulp. “Your pick, n—noona.”

Gaeul giggles. “Well, since I’m a believer in justice…” She moves her hands to the top button of her black cardigan, ready to unlock it. “Say please, baby,” she says with her sultry voice.

“Please, noona.” You succumb to her domination. As Gaeul unlocks the first button, putting her soft cleavage into view.

“Please what, baby boy?” She continues her seduction; her hands are toying with the second button now. She pulls the neckline down to reveal the strings of her bra and the full view of the valley between her mounds.

“Please take your top off, noona,” you plead.

Giggling, “Alright, baby boy.” Gaeul quickly unbuttons the remaining locks, as her unending tease also seems to affect herself. Her toned midriff quickly reveals itself to you, decorated by the sky blue laced bra above, sending you further into a spiral.

Slowly, she strips herself off of her cardigan, your tongue becomes drawn to the thin string that holds two sides of the chest cover together. You can taste the hints of her salty sweat absorbed by the cloth.

“Fuck,” Gaeul whimpers. “S—So needy, aren’t you?” She tosses the outer garment away before pressing your head onto her. Being pushed even more, you map a straight line up the hollow of her chest with your tongue, causing her to moan out.

“Alright, I—I get it, you’re a—a tits person,” Gaeul cries out, quickly retreating her hands to unclasp the back of her remaining top attire. “This doesn’t mean y—you have p—power over me or anything, though.”

“Yes, noona,” you say through your licks, her bra falls off right between you two. As you pull yourself back to take a break from your appetizer, you are given the heavenly sight of her succulent tits. They are small, but you’ve never been the one to care, anyway. Her nipples are already erect, aroused as she expects the divine rapture from no one but you.

“You like the view, baby boy?” Gaeul chuckles at the sight of you salivating in front of her perky mounds.

As an answer, you dive in to savor her excited brown nubs. There’s no particular taste to them, yet you’re being commanded by these peaks to satisfy her overflowing lust, making her a writhing mess right before you.

“God, fuck!” Gaeul moans out. You remain fixated on her tits, sucking on them as if your life is hanging on the strings of her cries. And to further stimulate her, you use your hand to caress the freed side of her frame. You roam from her shoulder to the waistline, squeezing her chest with each passing.

Gaeul, again, presses you onto her soft chest, yet she’s unable to let herself being satisfied just on the outside anymore.

“F—Fuck, shall we go to the m—main course, baby boy?” her words come out ragged; she can’t further shackle herself from the peak of intimacy.

You remove yourself from her nubs. “Yes, please, noona.” Gaeul pushes you down onto her bed, signaling you to unzip your pants while she does so. And within a blink, your erect cock and her soaked cunt are just a breath away from each other. She seems to be an all-natural girl too, choosing to let her hair grow above the canal, and that just makes her even more mouthwatering.

Still, the sex education lessons hold you back on the ground. “Do you need protection?” you ask, concerned about the prospect of unwanted consequences.

“I have my contingency plans, baby,” she huffs with a smile as she hovers her sex just above your shaft now, ready for the ride of her life.

With no words, you nod, and she slowly sinks herself onto your rod. You cry out as your tip gradually disappears into her. You pull your head back under the overwhelming sensations. “Fuck,” and you can do nothing but whimper.

“D—Do I feel good on top of you?” Gaeul asks, voice and her body shuddering in the descent. You are halfway inside her now. Her hands are roaming on your writhing frame, determined to push you off the edge even faster.

“Yes, fuck, noona. You feel so fucking good.” You’re enamored by the throes of pleasure surrounding your body. She slowly impales herself down to the hilt, fully coating your cock with her nectar.

“Fuck!” Gaeul’s tone becomes a scream now. She bends herself back, showing her fragile frame. Traces of ribs are visible under the room light, and her immaculate chest stretches for you to view.

Gaeul remains in the position for a while, before she drags her wet cunt off of you, just barely seeing your tip, grazing your dick with such an unbearable pleasure. Your length now glistens with her honey, but the shackling gratification lets you register only her up and down motion. And as she slams down, you can do nothing but moan under such divine elation.

Wet squelches and moans echo throughout the room, as Gaeul picks up her pace to quicken this perversion. She cries out in every movement, and you echo out every moan. Her short hair becomes really helpful in situations like this, since, with each bounce, they don’t seem to cover her face as much as it should. And you’re one lucky man to see her all invested in the depravity - every contorted face, every line drawn on your abdomen with her hands, and God, how her moan is a symphony you’ll remember for the rest of your life.

Inevitably, with each of her bounce, it drives you toward the precipice. Her angelic moans and the bouncing chest ramp you up closer to paradise. The sight of her riding you - mouth agape, perky tits bouncing, hands shuffling her strands to make sense of the pleasure, creating such an immaculate image - with the sensations around your cock is just unyielding.

“N—Noona, I’m gonna cum, slow down,” you plead, and Gaeul looks down at you, hands still locked in her olive hair. Her breaths become ragged, and her whimpers seem to scale up with each insertion.

“Me too, baby boy, me too,” Gaeul cries out. “Cum with me.”

She keeps the moderate tempo she has been putting on you. Her bare, untrimmed, drenched cunt rams your cock with steady speed to keep your orgasms alight. Sounds of fleshes crashing into each other; an unyielding amount of Gaeul’s honey is mixing with the notes that come out of her gorgeous lips, creating a concoction that sends you into ecstasy.

And with one last thrust, along with you, Gaeul becomes a squirming wreck. With eyes fluttering, delectable chest heaving, wailing such a symphony that only a deity can sing. Her entire frame shakes with exaltation. You cry from the depths of your lungs, and the knot in your stomach becomes undone. Your cock shoots spurts of cum inside her, as Gaeul’s delicate cunt gushes out torrents of clear juice onto your crotch.

With each twitch of your length, they serve the purpose of unloading into her womb to the brim, and they shake you to sing out such a beautiful melody, joining Gaeul into composing an amorous masterpiece. Your nectar finds its way out to concoct with hers, pooling on your crotch. It’s a breathtaking sight, seeing her undone like this - juice spilled, wails unrestrained, walls contracting to drain you dry.

Gaeul’s climax subsides; her moans show signs of her normal voice again. “G–Good job, baby boy,” she chuckles through her whimpers. Her pace decreases, and you’re thankful that she doesn’t ride your consciousness out.

“You’re getting sensitive, right?” She brings her motion to a stop, but still enveloping your length within her needy core. It’s warm; she’s warm.

“Yeah, noona. You can–,” you stop halfway for a few breathers. “You can stay like this, to be honest.”

“Oh, my poor baby boy~,” Gaeul laughs. “We can stay like this if you really want it.” Her voice still carries hints of intoxication, yet you can’t deny that the potential of it being genuine affection entices you. “I’ll have to go to the bathroom first, though. I can’t sleep with our cum being everywhere like this.”

She bends down to give you a peck on your forehead, before slowly, agonizingly, pulling herself off of you. And doesn’t that make you whimper out, as your cock is still sensitive from shooting spurts of your seed inside her dainty cunt? The feeling of unloading still lingers in your filthy mind.

Maybe it’s a mix of all the sensations you’ve ever felt - mostly pleasure with pain. You moan out as she chuckles at the sight of you crumbling under her final touch. “Alright, baby boy, wanna take a shower?” Gaeul gets up from the bed before sauntering towards the bathroom. “Maybe we can have another round~,” she winks across her shoulder, before going into the shower.

“I’ll be there, noona,” you reply, as you collect your inhibition enough to take another shot of intimacy with her under the running water.

—

Sunlight peeks through the curtains, waking you up after the rough night, naked. Last night’s debauchery remains clear in your head, as the images of Gaeul commanding you around are still in high definition. You look around the room to catch your noona examining the contents of her fridge, bending over to show you her bare, plump ass, only slightly covered by her baby blue shirt.

“Up already, sleepyhead?” She notices you through the gap between her arm and the single garment on her. “I have some banana cake left, not expired yet,” she says before picking it up and surveys the package. “Yeah, a day left. You want one?”

“How much is it? Can you send me your QR code after this, noona?” The memory of you acting all-obedient shows up again, and you can only cover your mouth after that.

“No need, ‘baby boy’,” Gaeul chuckles, pulling up an air quote, mocking the tone she used last night. “Consider this as part of the one-night plan.”

God, she looks flawless under this morning’s light. The way her short hair is messy; the tired eyes, and that pair of legs - the pair you wish to be caught between - makes you want to spend another day with her.

“Can I extend my subscription?” you utter out involuntarily. The alcohol hasn’t returned your reticence yet, perhaps.

Gaeul considers your proposal for a while, nibbling her chin with her free hand, while tapping her feet with the cake still in the other hand.

“Well, I’m not sure, really,” she says. “I have only known you for barely half a day, with the help of alcohol.”

“I know, Gaeul,” you groan. “But like, I want to know you more.”

“I don’t know.” She chuckles as she closes the distance between you two.

Gaeul continues her interrogation, “do you, really?” Her bare, untrimmed pussy comes in at your face level. She changes her motion to crossing her legs forward, slowly, covering the lower part of her sex as she gets right in front of your eyes.

You drool at the sight, tranced, as your morning wood is twitching. Your tongue involuntarily sticks out, aimed at her nub, and you are magnetized to her cunt again. You are so ready to please your noona again, making her a drenched disarray before you, before Gaeul breaks your train of desire, grabbing your chin and tilting your head up to watch her smile.

“Alright, I believe you now.” She simpers with your tongue still out. “I’ll give you my Instagram before you leave.”

You sign an okay to her, as you retreat your tongue back into your mouth.

“Good boy,” Gaeul laughs. “Here, your breakfast.”

You take the banana cake from her. “Thanks, noona.”

“I’ll give you more than this the next time, if you can make me fancy you.” She lets go of you before climbing onto her bed to the other side, giving you a view of her luscious cheeks once more. She bends down to pick up your discarded, now-creased clothes, involuntarily (or not) putting her sex into display, and you can do nothing but let your length twitch at the sight.

You gulp at the sight, mustering the courage to ask out, “Really?”

She sits back up after her teasing act, legs crossed, but you can still see flashes of her. Gaeul ponders for a while, tapping her chin in the same veins she did before the explicit scene of you two.

“Definitely, maybe.” She laughs again, shooting the garments at you, and you can only join along with her.

—

As you walk back to your dorm, your phone suddenly rings. You pick up the phone, eyes widen. It’s Sungho, the ‘friend’ you left with no trace for him last night.

“Shit.” You utter before accepting the call.

“Where the fuck have you been last night, bro?” His breath is coming in shorts. “We were worried about you. We came back around ten—”

“I was with a woman; her room is just across the bar. I’m fine, Sungho,” you reply.

“Oh.” Sungho pauses. “Oh damn. Wow.” He’s left speechless for a few seconds.

“Yeah, and we—, uh—” You stop, contemplating on whether to tell him.

“No need, bro.” You can hear Sungho chuckling through your phone. “Who’s the lucky woman who takes your virginity, huh?”

“Architecture,” you play coy, withholding Gaeul’s identity. “And we trade each other’s contact just this morning.”

“Goddamn, you had been inside her, and you just asked for her contact after that? Fucking hell, man.” Sungho laughs again. “Well, we’re happy that you didn’t lose an arm or anything, bro.”

You smile before remembering about your sick friend. “Oh, what about Leehan? How’s he now?”

“Fine, he’s still sleeping on my bed,” Sungho affirms.

You smile, and reply, “Alright, good, thanks for calling.”

“No problem, see ya!” Sungho says.

“See ya.” And you hang up the phone.

On the way back, the prospect of building your relationship with Gaeul reels in your mind. The probability of you two working remains shaky. Emotions might take hold of only one of you, dragging its victim into an unbearable sorrow. What if a crush turns into a craving? Either way, the shared moment of your bodies clashing into each other is going to be etched into you, and, hopefully, her.

And as you unlock the door, a notification pops up on your phone, and it reads as:

actualgaeul started following you.

—

#gaeul #gaeul smut #kim gaeul #kim gaeul smut #ive gaeul #ive #ive smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut #male reader #male reader smut

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jonnywaistcoat · 1 year ago

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Hey, Horrormaster Sims. I have a wildly different question that barely relates to TMA (Sorry about that) but its about your own process. Please, if you could, can you tell me how your first drafts made you feel? I'm on the fence about writing my own thing (not a podcast, and again, not Magnus related, though I have a million little aus for that delightful tragedy you wrote, thank you for that!) But I'm discouraged by the collective notion that first drafts are always terrible, because there's no ... examples I can solidly use to help the dumb anxiety beast in my brain that tells me everyone who is in any way popular popped out a golden turd and not, well, you know. One of my friends said 'Oh I bet Jonathan Sims's first draft was nothing like what he wanted' and I got the bright idea to just. Send you an ask, since you're trapped on this hellsite like I am. Anyway, thanks for reading this (if you do) and if you'd rather ask it privately, I am cool with that. Alternatively, you're a hella busy man with Protocol (you and Alex are making me rabid, i hope you know) and you can just ignore this! Cheers, man, and good words.

To my mind all writing advice, especially stuff that's dispensed as truisms (like "first drafts are always garbage") are only useful inasmuch as such advice prompts you to pay attention to how you write best: what helps your workflow, what inspires you, what keeps you going through the rough bits. There are as many different ways to write (and write well) as there are people who write and so always consider this sort of thing a jumping off point to try out or keep in mind as you gradually figure out your own ways of writing.

On first drafts specifically, I think the wisdom "all first drafts are bad" is a bit of unhelpful oversimplification of the fact that, deadlines notwithstanding, no piece of writing goes out until you decide its ready, so don't get too hung up on your first draft of a thing, because a lot of writers find it much easier to edit a complete work than to try and redraft as they go. It's also important to not let perfectionism or the fact your initial draft isn't coming out exactly how you want stop you from actually finishing the thing, as it's always better to have something decent and done than to have something perfect and abandoned.

But the idea of a "first draft" is also kind of a fluid one. The "first draft" you submit to someone who's commissioned you will probably be one you've already done a bunch of tweaks and edits to, as opposed to the "first draft" you pump out in a frenzy in an over-caffeinated weekend. For my part, my first drafts tend to end up a bit more polished than most, because I'm in the habit of reading my sentences out loud as I write them (a habit picked up from years of audio writing) so I'll often write and re-write a particular sentence or paragraph a few times to get the rhythm right before moving to the next one. This means my first drafts tend to take longer, but are a bit less messy. I'm also a big-time planner and pretty good at sticking to the structures I lay out so, again, tend to front load a lot of stuff so I get a better but slower first draft.

At the end of the day, though, the important thing is to get in your head about it in a good way (How do I write best? what helps me make writing I enjoy and value? What keeps me motivated?) and not in a bad way (What if it's not good enough? What if everyone hates it? What if it doesn't make sense?) so that you actually get it done.

As for how my first drafts made me feel? Terrible, every one of 'em No idea if that's reflective of their quality, though, tbh - I hate reading my own writing until I've had a chance to forget it's mine (I can only ever see the flaws). I suppose there's theoretically a none-zero chance they were pure fragments of True Art and creative perfection, but Alex's editing notes make that seem unlikely.

#writing advice #rambling #first drafts #gotta say not mad on being called a horrormaster #feel like ive a ways to go yet #horror journeyman maybe

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mrs-delaney · 10 days ago

Text

Behind The Lens | Joe's POV | Part Two

gif by @burrowstyles5

📸 behind the lens ✨ the full story — before joe’s side of things 👀 click here to catch up

📝 want more stories? check out my masterlist to see everything I’ve written ✨

📬 want to be the first to know when i post? join my taglist here 💌

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 21.6k

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

Author’s Note: I’m nervous about this one, y’all. The original was so long and it was difficult to work side by side with Y/N’s POV to get everything totally right and accurate. I really hope the work reflects how much time this took—making sure Joe’s internal thoughts matched up with what Y/N was experiencing, keeping timelines straight, and capturing his voice authentically while showing a different perspective on the same events. Thank you for your patience while I figured out how to make this work! Please send me messages, comments, talk to me—I’m in 😭

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

December 2024 - Joe's Home

Joe stared at his phone, Y/N's last text still unanswered from three days ago. It had been about the upcoming playoff content strategy—completely professional, the kind of message that used to lead to longer conversations but now just sat there, marked as read.

The house felt different with Ellie visiting for the week. She'd been understanding about his game preparation, setting up her work station in the guest room to film content while he focused on film study. Her schedule was flexible enough that she could work from anywhere, which made these longer visits possible.

"How's the playoff prep going?" Ellie asked, appearing in the doorway of his media room with a bottle of water. She was dressed for one of her morning routine videos—athleisure that looked effortless but Joe knew was carefully chosen.

"Good," Joe said, pausing the defensive film he'd been studying. "Ravens are going to be tough, but we're ready."

Ellie nodded, though Joe could tell she was already mentally moving on to her next task. She supported his career without needing to understand the specifics, which was actually refreshing after years of people wanting detailed breakdowns of every play call.

"I'm going to film some content about supporting someone during playoff season," she said, settling her coffee on his desk. "Nothing with you in it, obviously. Just my perspective on the intensity of this time of year."

Joe appreciated that she understood his boundaries about appearing in her content. Their relationship was public now, but he kept his participation in her social media to a minimum. She got great engagement from her football girlfriend content without needing him to perform for her camera.

"That'll be good," Joe said. "Your followers seem to like the behind-the-scenes stuff."

"They do," Ellie agreed, already moving toward the door. "I'll be quiet while you finish up."

After she left, Joe returned to his film study, but found his attention drifting. The house was peaceful—Ellie working in her space, him working in his. It was comfortable, uncomplicated.

So why did he keep thinking about Y/N's unanswered text?

He pulled up his phone again, looking at the text thread with Y/N. His message about playoff content strategy from three days ago was still there, marked as read but unanswered. A simple work question that would have gotten an immediate response a year ago. Now, radio silence.

Joe set his phone aside, telling himself he was reading too much into it. Y/N was busy, playoffs were intense, everyone was focused. The slight distance he'd been sensing was probably just professional efficiency under pressure.

But something nagged at him as he tried to refocus on film. Y/N had been different since Thanksgiving, since news of his relationship with Ellie had become public. Not unprofessional—never that. But contained in a way that felt deliberate.

Ellie was upstairs in the guest room, probably filming content about playoff season or her morning routine. She was good at what she did, professional in her content creation, understanding about the demands of his schedule.

It was exactly what he needed right now—someone who supported his career without adding complications or demanding emotional energy he didn't have to spare.

Joe returned to his film study, pushing aside the nagging feeling that something had shifted in his world without him noticing when or why.

* * *

December 2024 - Three Days Later

Joe's phone buzzed with a team notification as he finished his morning workout. Group message from Y/N about updated practice schedules for the week. Professional, efficient, sent to the entire offensive unit.

He'd noticed she'd been handling most communications through group messages lately rather than direct texts. Made sense from an organizational standpoint, but it felt impersonal compared to their usual dynamic.

Ellie was in the kitchen when he came upstairs, phone propped on the counter as she filmed herself making what she called her "playoff week smoothie"—something green and instagram-worthy that she'd promote for one of her wellness sponsors.

"Morning, babe," she said, glancing up from her filming setup. "How was the workout?"

"Good," Joe said, grabbing water from the fridge. "Feeling ready for practice today."

"That's great," Ellie replied, returning her attention to the camera. "As I was saying, maintaining routine during high-stress periods is so important for mental health..."

Joe listened with half attention as Ellie wrapped up her content, marveling at how naturally she could shift between conversation with him and her professional presenter voice. She'd built an impressive following by being authentic about her life while still maintaining the polish that brands wanted to work with.

After she finished filming, Ellie settled beside him at the counter. "I'm thinking of flying back to LA tomorrow instead of Thursday. Give you more space to focus before the game."

Joe felt a flash of something—relief? guilt?—at the suggestion. "You don't have to do that. This is your routine too now."

"I know," Ellie said, bumping his shoulder gently. "But I can tell when you need full game mode. I've got meetings I could move up anyway."

The considerate gesture was typical Ellie—understanding his needs without making him feel guilty for having them. She'd adapted to the rhythms of his career without trying to change them or demanding more attention than he could give during intense periods.

"If you're sure," Joe said. "I appreciate how flexible you are with all this."

"It's part of dating you," Ellie replied matter-of-factly. "I knew what I was signing up for."

Later, as Joe drove to the facility, he found himself thinking about Ellie's easy acceptance of his career demands. She never pushed for more time or attention than he could give, never made him feel guilty for being unavailable during crucial weeks.

It was exactly what he should want—a partner who understood professional obligations and didn't create additional stress during already intense periods.

But arriving at the facility, Joe felt that familiar anticipation about seeing Y/N that he'd been trying to ignore. Not for any specific reason—just the comfortable rhythm of their collaboration, the way she understood the nuances of game preparation in ways that made his media obligations feel manageable rather than burdensome.

Walking through the halls, Joe realized he was looking forward to their usual pre-practice check-in about content needs, about his comfort level with different interview approaches, about the small collaborative details that made working with her effortless.

He just hoped whatever distance he'd been sensing lately was temporary, a function of playoff stress rather than something more permanent.

The thought that Y/N might be pulling back deliberately—Joe didn’t like that thought.

* * *

Three weeks after Y/N's return from Louisville

Joe had been watching Y/N for weeks now, cataloging the subtle changes in her behavior like he studied defensive formations. The way she'd started taking different routes through the facility. How she'd position herself in meetings to avoid direct eye contact. The careful timing of her arrivals and departures to minimize their overlap.

It wasn't random. It was strategic. And Joe was tired of pretending he didn't notice.

He found her outside the edit room, tablet in hand, completely absorbed in reviewing footage. For a moment, Joe just watched her work—the focused intensity that had always characterized her approach to everything, the way she'd unconsciously tuck her hair behind her ear when concentrating.

"Coffee this week?" The question came out more loaded than he'd intended, but Joe was past caring about subtlety. "We haven't really caught up since you got back from Louisville."

Y/N didn't look up from her tablet, her attention seemingly fixed on whatever footage she was reviewing. "Crazy schedule right now. Maybe next time."

The deflection came easily. Joe realized this wasn’t the first time she’d used that exact response.

"That's what you said last week," he said, letting frustration color his voice. "And the week before."

"End of season push," Y/N replied without missing a beat. "You know how it is."

Joe studied her face, noting the careful way she kept her eyes on the screen, the slight tension in her shoulders that suggested she was working to maintain composure. This wasn't busy—this was avoidance.

"Y/N." He let her name hang in the air, dropping his voice to get her attention. "I know something's going on. This isn't just about workload."

For a split second, Y/N's mask slipped. Joe caught the flicker of something—vulnerability, maybe, or recognition that he'd seen through her careful performance. But it was gone quickly, replaced by that same professional neutrality.

"Nothing's going on," she said, finally looking up with a smile that belonged in a press conference. "Just managing workflow. Speaking of which, I need to get these edits to the team."

The polite dismissal stung worse than anger would have. This was how Y/N dealt with difficult players, with media members she didn’t trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around steel boundaries.

Joe decided to abandon subtlety entirely.

"You've been avoiding me since Louisville," he said, not letting her step away. "Since the Ellie thing hit the news."

Y/N went very still, and Joe felt a grim satisfaction that he'd finally cut through her careful deflections. Her heart rate had picked up—he could see it in the slight acceleration of her breathing.

"I'm not avoiding anyone," she replied, but her voice had lost some of its steadiness. "I'm re-prioritizing assignments based on team needs."

Joe’s eyes narrowed. That was bullshit and they both knew it.

"If you say so," he said, stepping aside to let her pass. But he wasn't done. "We'll talk again soon."

Joe watched her walk away. She was trying to look unaffected, but he could tell his words had hit home.

He knew Y/N well enough to see through the professional act. She was protecting herself from something.

From what? From him?

Joe knew what was wrong. Deep down, he knew why Y/N's behavior had shifted right after news of his relationship with Ellie broke. The timing wasn't coincidental.

He'd been telling himself it was about professionalism, about Y/N maintaining appropriate boundaries. But that was bullshit. Joe thought about their easy conversations over the years, the way Y/N had been present for his most vulnerable moments during recovery, the connection that had been building between them before he'd gotten scared and chosen Ellie instead.

Because that's what he'd done, wasn't it? Chosen the safe option when what he felt for Y/N had started to feel too real, too complicated. He'd seen the way she looked at him sometimes, felt the charge in the air between them, and instead of dealing with it, he'd found someone else.

Y/N wasn't just maintaining professional distance. She was protecting herself from the guy who'd basically told her she wasn't worth the risk. The guy who'd picked someone else when things started to feel real.

He'd known this was coming. Had maybe even known it when he'd started dating Ellie in the first place.

* * *

Staff Meeting

Joe sat through the first half of the playoff media strategy meeting barely paying attention, watching Y/N instead. She'd positioned herself at the opposite end of the conference table, as far from him as possible. She ran through coverage plans and platform strategies like she always did, completely professional, completely competent.

But when she started assigning responsibilities, Joe's attention sharpened.

"Tyler will continue handling quarterback coverage," Y/N said, her tone suggesting this was a foregone conclusion. "We want consistency through the playoff run."

Joe's jaw tightened. Four years of working together, and she was just going to reassign him like it was nothing? Like he didn't get a say?

"I want Y/N for the post-game segment," he said, interrupting whatever conversation was happening around him. "We have a system."

The words came out sharper than he'd meant them to, but he didn't care anymore. She was cutting him out completely, and he wasn't going to just sit there and take it.

Y/N looked right at him. "Tyler's been doing your segments for weeks. We need to keep things consistent for playoffs."

She was missing the point entirely. This wasn't about Tyler. This was about her avoiding him.

"Y/N knows my cues better," Joe pressed, maintaining eye contact despite her obvious discomfort. "It makes more sense."

He watched her face, looking for something—anything—that showed this was hard for her too. Nothing.

"Tyler's done an excellent job," she replied smoothly. "And I'll be overseeing all content production. The current assignments stand."

The way she shut him down, in front of everyone—it stung. The finality in her voice, how she wouldn't even consider what he wanted, felt like she was dismissing everything they'd built together over four years. Joe noticed the room had gone quiet, people looking between them like they could sense something was off.

After the meeting broke up, Joe hung back, hoping to catch Y/N alone. But she was already packing up her stuff, moving with that practiced efficiency that meant she'd planned her escape before the meeting even started.

So this was how it was going to be. Y/N's distance wasn't about workload or being busy with playoffs. It was personal. She was actively tearing down everything they'd worked to build together, systematically dismantling four years of collaboration like it had never mattered at all.

As Joe watched Y/N leave the conference room without a backward glance, he felt the pieces finally click into place. This wasn't just about professional boundaries or protecting their working relationship.

Y/N had feelings for him. Had probably had them for longer than he'd realized.

And his relationship with Ellie had forced her to choose between her job and her heart. She'd chosen her job, built walls to keep herself safe, and now she was systematically dismantling everything they'd shared to protect what was left.

The recognition hit him like a punch to the gut. He'd been so focused on his own fear of complications that he'd completely missed what was happening right in front of him.

Joe thought about their friendship, about the easy conversations and mutual trust that had developed over years of working together. He thought about Y/N's presence during his recovery, her understanding during his most vulnerable moments, the way she'd made him feel seen and supported when everything else felt uncertain.

All those moments during his recovery, the easy conversations, the way she'd look at him sometimes—it hadn't been just professional support.

* * *

Later that day

Joe was reviewing game film when Sam's voice in the hallway caught his attention. Y/N's name made him pause the video.

"...different since she got back from Louisville," he heard someone say. Probably one of the other media staff.

Joe muted his laptop, focusing on the conversation outside his door.

"Right after the Ellie news broke," Sam's voice confirmed. "I'm worried about her."

There it was. Confirmation of what he'd already known but hadn't wanted to face. Y/N's behavior wasn't about workload or professionalism. It was about him and Ellie.

Joe sat back in his chair. Y/N had been dealing with this for weeks, keeping everything together at work while handling whatever she felt about his relationship. And he'd just gone about his business, completely clueless.

He thought about Ellie—easy, uncomplicated, safe. No messy history, no complicated feelings. Exactly what he'd thought he wanted.

But now, thinking about Y/N's careful distance and what it actually meant, Joe wondered if he'd chosen the wrong thing entirely. Chosen comfort over connection.

* * *

January 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe had been looking for this chance for weeks. Playoffs were chaotic enough that Y/N couldn't avoid him as easily, and he'd been watching her patterns, waiting for the right moment.

He spotted her in the main corridor with her clipboard, directing her team like she always did. Even from here, he could see how she'd positioned herself near the exits. Probably already planning her escape if she saw him coming.

Joe hung back in the weight room doorway, tablet in hand so he'd look like he had a reason to be there. When Y/N's team scattered and she headed for the edit bay—exactly where he'd figured she'd go—he stepped out.

"Y/N."

He watched her stop dead, saw her shoulders go rigid before she turned around. That split second told him everything—being around him was work for her now.

"Joe," she replied, her tone hitting that perfect note of polite professionalism that had become her default with him. "Something you need?"

Joe stepped closer, noting how Y/N's grip tightened slightly on her clipboard. "Just wanted to confirm the gameday shoot schedule. Tyler sent it over, but there's a conflict with the offensive meeting."

It was a legitimate concern, but Joe's real motivation was simpler: he wanted to see if Y/N would handle this personally or continue delegating everything through Tyler.

"I can have him adjust it," Y/N replied, already reaching for her phone. "We're flexible."

The immediate deflection was exactly what he'd expected. Thirty seconds of conversation, and she was already looking for Tyler to handle it instead.

"You could adjust it," Joe pressed, keeping his voice casual despite his growing frustration. "You've been handling the playoff schedule for four seasons."

He watched her face. Nothing. She gave him absolutely nothing.

"Tyler's got it covered," she said simply.

Joe's jaw tightened. Four years, and now she wanted to manage him through Tyler like he was some difficult rookie.

"Sure," he said, not bothering to hide his frustration. "If that's how you want to play it."

Silence. Y/N wouldn't even look at him directly, her shoulders tense like she was bracing for something.

Up close, he could see how tired she looked. Not playoff tired. Something else entirely.

"How was Louisville?" The question slipped out before Joe could stop it, his genuine concern overriding his strategic approach to this conversation.

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—surprise, maybe, that he'd asked something personal.

"Good," she answered, then seemed to catch herself being too brief. "Nice to be home for the holidays."

Joe nodded, filing away her admission that Louisville still felt like home after years in Cincinnati. "Your brothers seemed happy to have you back. Saw Matt's post."

He'd been following her family on social media since their second year working together, though he'd never mentioned it directly. Matt's Instagram story from Christmas had shown Y/N laughing with her nieces, looking more relaxed than Joe had seen her in months.

"Family time is always good," Y/N said, glancing at her watch with the kind of deliberate gesture that meant she was planning her exit.

Joe didn't move aside, using his physical presence to keep her engaged despite her obvious desire to escape. "You know," he said, dropping his voice slightly, "this whole distance thing doesn't actually work if everyone notices it."

For just a second, her guard dropped—he saw the alarm in her eyes before she caught herself.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said, but Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing.

Time to abandon subtlety entirely.

"Ja'maar asked me yesterday what happened between us," Joe continued, maintaining eye contact despite Y/N's obvious discomfort. "Says the whole team has noticed you don't work with me directly anymore."

It was true, and he wanted her to know that people had noticed.

"I work with the entire team," Y/N countered, but Joe heard the slight defensiveness beneath her smooth response. "Staff adjustments happen all the time."

"Not like this," Joe said quietly, letting his voice carry the weight of four years of collaboration. "Not after four years."

He saw Y/N's composure start to crack under his direct challenge, watched her mask begin to slip as she realized he wasn't going to accept her deflections.

"Is there a point to this conversation, Joe?" she asked, her voice taking on an edge he rarely heard from her. "Because I really do have a deadline."

The slight desperation in her question told Joe he was finally getting through her defenses. She was feeling cornered, which meant she was feeling something beyond professional indifference.

"The point is," Joe said, letting his own frustration show, "whatever's going on with you, people are noticing. And they're asking me about it, as if I have answers." He paused, studying her face. "Which I don't, because someone won't actually talk to me."

The accusation hung between them, more direct than any conversation they'd had in months. Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw her square her shoulders as she prepared to deflect again.

"There's nothing to talk about," she insisted, but her voice had lost some of its steadiness. "And frankly, if players are gossiping instead of focusing on playoff prep, that's concerning."

Joe almost smiled at her attempt to turn the conversation back to work. Even cornered, Y/N's instinct was to protect team focus and professional boundaries.

"Always deflecting," he said, finally stepping aside to let her pass. But he wasn't done. "Good luck with the edit, Y/N."

As she started to walk away, Joe felt a moment of desperation. Y/N was slipping away from him in ways he was only beginning to understand, and his window for addressing it was closing.

"For what it's worth," he called after her, the admission coming out more vulnerable than he'd intended, "I miss working with you."

Y/N didn't turn around, but her steps hitched for just a second before she kept walking. He'd gotten to her.

Standing alone in the hallway, Joe finally let himself admit what he'd been avoiding. Y/N had feelings for him. Real feelings. The kind that made normal conversation feel dangerous, that required her to build walls just to get through the day.

He thought about Ellie—easy, uncomplicated, safe. Then he thought about Y/N's careful composure, the way she'd looked when he said he missed working with her.

Maybe he'd been choosing the wrong thing all along. Choosing easy over what actually mattered.

The thought scared the hell out of him. Because if Y/N felt something for him, and if he was finally being honest about what he felt for her, then his nice, controlled life was about to get a lot more complicated.

* * *

Late January 2025 - Bengals Facility

The locker room felt empty, drained of all the energy that had carried them through the playoffs. Joe went through his post-season routine on autopilot—packing gear, saying goodbye to teammates, trying to process that their season was over.

Y/N was there with her camera, documenting everything like she always did. For months, she'd managed to avoid him, but in the cramped locker room, she couldn't stay completely out of his way. Joe found himself watching her work, seeing how she moved to get her shots while still keeping her distance from him.

"That's it for me," Ja'maar said, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "See you in a few months, man."

Joe nodded, clasping his teammate's hand. "Get some rest. We'll be back."

As players headed out, Joe realized this might be his last shot to talk to Y/N before the offseason. They'd be on different coasts for months, and ending things with nothing but work talk felt wrong after everything they'd been through.

She was by the exit with her camera bag, ready to leave. Sam was with her, and Joe could hear Tyler mentioning Y/N's name from across the room, though he couldn't make out what they were saying.

"Tyler handled Burrow's exit interview," Tyler was saying to someone. "Went pretty well, got some good content."

Joe felt that familiar frustration. Even today, on the last day of the season, she'd had Tyler handle his exit interview. No final conversation, no acknowledgment of what they'd been through together this year.

He walked over as they finished packing up. Y/N went rigid the second she saw him coming.

"Exit interviews done?" he asked, addressing both women but looking at Y/N.

"Just wrapping up," Sam replied when Y/N didn't immediately respond. "Tyler said yours went well."

Joe nodded, then decided to abandon subtlety. "Tyler's good," he said, meeting Y/N's eyes. "Different perspective."

The emphasis was intentional. Tyler was fine, but it wasn't the same, and they both knew it.

"Heading out already?" Y/N asked, her tone carefully neutral as she finally acknowledged him directly.

"Flight to California tonight," Joe confirmed, watching her face for any reaction to the mention of where Ellie was based. "Offseason training starts next week."

Something crossed her face when he mentioned California. Like she'd been expecting it.

"Have a good offseason," Y/N said, and the polite dismissal hit him hard. After four years of everything they'd been through together, she was talking to him like he was just another player heading out the door.

Joe looked at her face, hoping for something—anything. But she gave him nothing. Complete professional courtesy, like they were strangers.

"You too, Y/N," he said finally, accepting defeat. He glanced at Sam. "Both of you."

As he walked away, Joe felt everything they weren't saying hanging in the air. No mention of their history, nothing about what they'd built together over four years. Like their partnership had been just another work assignment.

Y/N was letting him leave without a fight, without even trying to make it personal. The message was clear: whatever they'd had was done. Finished with the season.

* * *

That Evening - Airport

Joe sat in the airport departure lounge, flight delayed, staring at Y/N's contact on his phone. His finger hovered over the keyboard but he couldn't figure out what to say.

The whole day felt off, and it wasn't about losing in the playoffs. Seasons ended. That was football. But the way things had gone with Y/N felt wrong somehow.

He kept thinking about Tyler's exit interview. Fine, but basic. Y/N would have asked better questions, dug deeper into what he was thinking, what he'd learned. Tyler had just hit the obvious stuff—stats, team performance, surface-level bullshit.

Joe started typing before he could talk himself out of it:

Wish you'd done my exit interview. Tyler didn't ask the right questions.

He hit send before he could reconsider, then immediately regretted it. Now he sounded desperate, reaching out when she was clearly trying to get away from him. Which he was, but she didn't need to know that.

The response came faster than he'd expected:

Safe travels. Good luck with offseason training.

Joe stared at the message. Even over text, she was keeping him at arm's length.

Still shutting me out. At least you're consistent.

The words came out harsher than he'd intended, but Joe was tired of this shit, tired of being treated like a stranger after everything they'd shared.

Not shutting you out. Just refocusing priorities.

The response felt like a door slamming shut.

Whatever you need to tell yourself.

Joe typed the words quickly, letting his frustration show. If Y/N wanted to pretend they'd never been more than player and media staff, fine. But he wasn't going to play along.

Have a good offseason, Joe.

Joe stared at the text thread. This might be it for months. By the time he got back for OTAs, she'd have had half a year to build those walls even higher.

He was losing her. Not just as a colleague, but as someone who actually mattered to him. It felt like losing something he couldn't replace.

Sitting in that terminal, waiting for a flight to California and a girlfriend who felt more like a comfortable routine than anything real, Joe realized he'd been fucking up for months.

Y/N had been protecting herself from feelings he'd been too scared to deal with. Ellie was safe, easy, but also empty in ways he couldn't ignore anymore.

His phone buzzed. Ellie, asking about his flight, talking about dinner plans and some content opportunity. Joe typed back the right responses, said the right things about being excited to see her.

But his head was still stuck on Y/N's final message, on the distance she'd kept all season, on how he'd chosen easy over everything that actually mattered.

Maybe it was too late to fix this. Maybe some mistakes couldn't be undone.

As they called his flight, Joe grabbed his stuff and headed toward months in California that felt more like punishment than vacation.

* * *

February 2025 - Los Angeles

Joe stepped off the plane at LAX into Southern California warmth, completely different from the Cincinnati winter he'd left behind. Ellie was waiting at baggage claim, looking perfect despite the early hour, all bright smiles and energy.

"There's my playoff warrior," she said, pulling him in for a kiss that felt like it was meant for the people watching. Who the hell talked like that?

"Good to see you," Joe replied, meaning it even as he noted the small audience that had gathered to watch their reunion.

The drive to Ellie's Venice Beach apartment was filled with her updates about modeling gigs, brand partnerships, and the projects she had lined up. Her enthusiasm was infectious, but Joe found himself only half-listening, his mind still processing the abrupt end to the season and the unresolved tension he'd left behind in Cincinnati.

"I thought we could do that couples workout class tomorrow," Ellie was saying as they pulled into her building's parking garage. "Well, I'd film some content there. You could just work out normally while I get my shots."

Joe nodded, appreciating that she understood his boundaries about appearing in her content. "Sounds good. I need to get back into a routine anyway."

Ellie's apartment was exactly what Joe had expected—bright, airy, filled with ring lights and camera equipment strategically placed but not overwhelming. They'd always stayed at hotels when he visited LA, or she'd come to Cincinnati, so this was his first time seeing her actual space. Her refrigerator was stocked with sponsored products, her bathroom counter arranged with skincare items that would appear in her content.

"I know it looks like a lot," Ellie said, noticing his survey of the space. "But I try to keep the work stuff contained. Most of my filming happens when you're training anyway."

"I get it," Joe said, and he did. He understood the business of personal branding, appreciated that Ellie respected his privacy while building her own career.

* * *

March 2025 - Malibu Training Facility

Six weeks in, Joe had his routine down. Morning workouts in Malibu, afternoons with his QB coach working on mechanics, evenings where Ellie edited content while he recovered or watched film.

The training was solid—some of the best he'd ever had access to. But he felt like he was just going through the motions, checking boxes without any real drive behind it.

"You seem distracted today," Liam, his QB coach, observed as they wrapped up a throwing session. "Mechanics are solid, but your head's somewhere else."

Joe toweled off, considering how to respond. "Just thinking about team stuff. Wonder how the new rookies will integrate."

It wasn't entirely true. Joe was thinking about the team, but specifically about whether Y/N was at the combine in Indianapolis, whether she was interviewing prospects, whether she was still maintaining the distance that had defined their final months of the season.

That evening, Joe sat in Ellie's living room while she filmed her post-workout routine in the kitchen, ring light positioned to catch the golden hour coming through her windows. He could hear her talking to her phone about nutrition and recovery, her voice taking on the polished cadence she used for content.

When she finished, she settled beside him on the couch, immediately shifting back to her natural speaking voice.

"Good session today?" she asked, curling up against his side.

"Yeah, making progress," Joe replied, though he wasn't sure what progress actually meant when he felt so disconnected from his usual drive.

"I got some great shots at the gym this morning," Ellie said, scrolling through her phone. "The lighting was perfect. My followers love the behind-the-scenes training stuff, even without you in it."

Joe appreciated that she never pushed him to be in her content. But watching her review footage from their morning—her perfectly curated version of what they'd done—made him think about Y/N. How Y/N captured real moments instead of manufacturing them.

Joe remembered their first real conversation, at a charity event in LA during his second year. Ellie had been working the event, but during a break, she'd sat beside him and asked, "Do you ever get tired of being 'Joe Burrow' all the time?"

The question had surprised him. Most people wanted more of the public version, not less. But Ellie had seemed genuinely curious about the person behind the image.

"Sometimes," he'd admitted. "It's a lot of pressure to be that composed all the time."

"I get it," she'd said simply. "Different industry, same thing. Sometimes I just want to eat pizza and watch Netflix without thinking about how it affects my brand."

That conversation had led to late-night texting, to private dinners, to the relief of being with someone who understood the weight of public expectations. Ellie had offered him something he desperately needed then—acceptance without demands for deeper emotional access.

But now, watching her create content about their relationship while he struggled to feel anything genuine, Joe realized that what had once felt like relief now felt like avoidance. Ellie deserved someone who wanted to know all of her, not just the parts that felt safe.

* * *

April 2025 - Venice Beach

Two months in, things with Ellie had become comfortable but empty. They looked good together, supported each other's work, but it all felt like going through the motions.

"I'm thinking about staying until June," Joe said one night while Ellie edited content on her laptop. "Push back going home."

Ellie looked up, pleased. "That would be great. I have that campaign shooting in May that would be perfect timing."

Joe nodded, though he wasn't really sure why he wanted to stay. The training was incredible—better than anything he could get back home. But that wasn't really the reason.

Maybe he was just avoiding whatever was waiting for him in Ohio. Y/N, the mess he'd made of things, the fact that all his choices were finally catching up with him.

"You seem different lately," Ellie observed, closing her laptop and giving him her full attention. "More... distant, I guess. Everything okay?"

Joe looked at her—beautiful, successful, uncomplicated Ellie who asked direct questions without demanding complicated answers.

"Just thinking about the season ahead," he said. "Whether the team's going to gel, whether we can make another run."

It was partly true, but not the whole story. Joe was thinking about the team, but specifically about Y/N and whether the distance she'd created would continue into the new season.

"You miss it," Ellie said, and it wasn't a question. "The competition, the guys, the whole Cincinnati thing."

She was right, but not completely. Joe did miss football, but more than that, he missed feeling like someone actually got him.

Ellie was perfect for what she was—supportive, successful, understanding. But perfect wasn't the same as real.

As they settled into another night of working side by side—her editing content, him watching film—Joe realized he was counting down days to go back to Cincinnati. Not because he was excited about it, but because he was tired of hiding out here.

He'd picked the safe choice, but safe was starting to feel like settling. And with OTAs coming up, he'd have to face everything he'd been avoiding—including the fact that this wasn't really his life. It was just the life he thought he was supposed to want.

* * *

Mid-April 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe pushed through his third set of bench presses, sweat building despite the early morning hour. The Bengals weight room felt different after months in California—smaller, more familiar, charged with the specific energy that came from shared purpose rather than individual training.

He'd returned to Cincinnati a week earlier than planned, unable to manufacture more reasons to delay his return. The conversation with his QB coach about getting back into team rhythm had been the final excuse he needed to leave LA, though privately Joe knew he was running toward something as much as away from it.

"Looking strong, man," the strength coach said as Joe racked the weight. "California training paid off."

"Thanks," Joe replied, toweling off. The physical improvements were real—he felt sharp, powerful, ready for the demands of another season. But the mental side remained complicated in ways that had nothing to do with football preparation.

As he gathered his water bottle and prepared to head to the next station, Joe heard familiar voices in the hallway. His pulse quickened automatically, though he tried to convince himself it was just general facility energy.

But when the weight room door swung open and he stepped into the corridor, still talking to the strength coach about next week's program, Joe's attention immediately locked onto Y/N walking down the hall.

She looked different. Not just the shorter hair, though that was striking too. Something else—more confident, maybe. More self-contained. Like the time apart had changed her in ways he couldn't put his finger on.

Their eyes met before either of them could look away. Joe felt that familiar jolt, then remembered how they'd left things—polite, distant, unfinished.

"Y/N," he said, keeping his voice neutral despite the way his heart rate had picked up.

"Joe," she replied, maintaining her stride. "Welcome back."

The greeting was perfectly appropriate and told him absolutely nothing.

"Thanks," Joe said, then found himself pushing against her careful boundaries. "Heard you've been busy while I was gone."

He'd heard things, picked up information through various channels. Y/N dating, taking vacations, apparently thriving in his absence. He hated knowing that, and he knew exactly why.

"Just the usual pre-draft chaos," Y/N replied with practiced ease. "How was California?"

The question was polite, professional, revealing nothing about whether she cared about his answer. Joe felt a flash of frustration at her careful neutrality.

"Productive," he said, though even as he said it, Joe realized how hollow the months in LA felt in retrospect. "Good to be back though."

The admission surprised him with its honesty. He was glad to be back, not just for football but for reasons he wasn't ready to examine.

An awkward silence stretched between them. Joe became aware of the strength coach hovering nearby, clearly sensing tension he didn't understand. The man muttered something about paperwork and disappeared, leaving Joe and Y/N alone in the hallway.

"I should get to my meeting," Y/N said, the efficiency in her voice suggesting she was looking for an exit from this conversation.

"Right," Joe agreed, but instead of letting her go, he found himself studying her face with new attention.

The haircut wasn't just different—it was intentional. Sharper, more sophisticated. Like she'd decided to become someone new while he was gone.

"You cut your hair," he said, the observation slipping out before he could stop it.

Y/N looked genuinely surprised by the personal comment. "Yes. Before my trip."

"It looks good," Joe said, meaning it. The cut suited her, highlighted features he'd somehow never noticed before despite working closely with her for years.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, and Joe caught something uncertain in her expression, like she wasn't sure how to respond to personal observation from him.

Joe felt an urge to say more, to push past the polite surface conversation and address the months of distance between them. But standing in the hallway with Y/N clearly wanting to escape, he realized this wasn't the time or place.

"Good luck with your meeting," he said finally, stepping aside.

"Thanks," Y/N said, then added with what felt like genuine warmth, "Good to have you back."

As she walked away, Joe stood there processing what had just happened. Y/N had been polite, professional—everything she should be. But it felt managed, like she was handling him instead of just talking to him.

This wasn't the same person he'd left behind in January. She'd changed while he was gone, found her footing without him. And honestly? She seemed better for it.

He'd spent months in California thinking about her, missing what they'd had, wondering if she was struggling too. Apparently not. She'd moved on while he'd been stuck in the same place, still thinking about what they'd lost.

The professional distance didn't feel like protection anymore. It felt like she genuinely didn't care.

That should have been freeing. If Y/N was over whatever had been between them, they could go back to working together without all the complications.

But walking back through the facility, Joe realized he didn't want that freedom. Not if it meant losing something he'd never properly valued in the first place.

* * *

Late April 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe had been waiting for this chance since he got back to Cincinnati. Y/N was working with him directly again instead of sending Tyler, which he'd hoped meant she was finally loosening up. But today had felt like working with a stranger—technically perfect but completely cold.

As Y/N packed up her equipment, Joe didn't want the session to end. This was the most time they'd spent together since January, and he wasn't ready to go back to avoiding each other in the hallways.

"New workflow seems to be working well," he said, watching her organize cables with practiced movements. "Though Tyler's approach is different from yours."

It was a casual observation, but Joe was fishing for something—any sign that Y/N missed their old collaborative dynamic.

"Everyone has their own style," Y/N replied without looking up. "He's been doing great work with the quarterback content."

"He has," Joe agreed, then decided to push slightly. "But it's good to have you back in the mix too."

Y/N finally met his gaze, her expression perfectly controlled. "Just filling in today since he's covering the offensive line segments."

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Right. Just filling in."

"I heard you've been dating," he said suddenly, the words coming out before he could stop them.

Y/N's hands fumbled slightly with her lens cap—the first crack in her composure he'd seen all day. "Cincinnati's a small town."

Joe felt something uncomfortable twist in his chest at her casual confirmation. "Tee mentioned something. Said you were... exploring options."

The idea of Y/N with other men, building connections with people who didn't carry the complicated history between them, bothered the fuck out of Joe.

"Just getting out there," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "Nothing serious."

"Good," Joe said, though the word felt like swallowing glass. "That's... good."

Y/N snapped her camera bag closed with more force than necessary, clearly done with this conversation.

"Well, I should get this footage to editing," she said, standing with the kind of brisk efficiency that meant she was planning her escape. "Draft content won't produce itself."

Joe felt desperation rise in his chest. Y/N was about to walk away, and he had no idea when he'd get another opportunity for honest conversation.

"Y/N," he said, his voice stopping her before she could reach the door. "Are we okay?"

The question was more direct than anything he'd asked her in months, born from Joe's growing recognition that their professional relationship had become a careful performance rather than genuine collaboration.

"We're fine," Y/N said automatically. "Why wouldn't we be?"

The deflection was so practiced it felt insulting. Joe decided to abandon diplomatic phrasing entirely.

"Because this is the first real conversation we've had in months that wasn't strictly about work," he said, meeting her eyes directly. "Because you've been actively avoiding me since November. You created that buffer system, delegated all my media to Tyler, and now you're back from vacation with a new haircut and a new approach, and I feel like I'm constantly a step behind whatever's happening."

Joe watched Y/N's control slip for just a second. For the first time in months, he was getting to her.

"I needed some perspective," Y/N said after a moment, her words chosen with obvious care. "The buffer system was about creating professional clarity. And yes, the vacation helped me realize some things needed to change. But that's not about you, Joe. It's about me figuring out who I am beyond this job."

The explanation made sense but felt like bullshit. Y/N was holding something back, and they both knew it.

"And dating random guys is part of that?" The question escaped before Joe could stop it, revealing more of his reaction than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression shifted, something sharp entering her eyes. "Who I date isn't really your concern, is it? Just like your relationship with Ellie isn't mine."

The mention of Ellie hit Joe like a physical blow. He'd been so focused on understanding Y/N's distance that he'd temporarily forgotten the context that had created it—his relationship with someone else, his choice to pursue safety instead of the complicated feelings that existed between them.

"That's not—" Joe started, then stopped, recognizing he had no right to question Y/N's dating life when he was with Ellie. "It's different."

"Is it?" Y/N challenged, reaching for the door handle. "Look, Joe, we work together. We've always worked well together professionally. I'd like to keep it that way. Anything beyond that just... complicates things unnecessarily."

The dismissal stung worse than anger would have. Y/N was reducing four years of collaboration, trust, and growing connection to simple professional obligation.

"So that's it?" Joe asked, feeling something desperate rise in his chest. "We go back to player and media staff? Pretend the last four years never happened?"

"Not pretend they never happened," Y/N said, her voice gentler but no less final. "Just acknowledge that professional boundaries exist for a reason. And I'm finally respecting them."

Before Joe could respond, Y/N was gone, leaving him alone with everything they hadn't said.

Joe slumped in his chair. Y/N hadn't just kept her distance—she'd chosen it. Whatever had been between them, she was done with it.

And honestly? Good for her. She was protecting herself, building a life that didn't depend on some guy who'd picked someone else. She was dating, moving forward, doing what she should do.

But sitting in that empty room, Joe realized he'd been hoping she was as stuck as he was. That their connection mattered to her the way it had started to matter to him.

Instead, she'd figured out how to be happy without him. Had become someone who didn't need whatever complicated mess they'd had.

He thought about Ellie back in California, building content around a relationship that felt more fake every day. About choosing safe over real, easy over everything that actually mattered.

Maybe Y/N was right to cut him out. Maybe he'd lost the right to complicate her life the moment he'd decided she wasn't worth the risk.

* * *

May 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe sat through the weekly planning meeting barely listening to talk about rookie features and season ticket promotions. His attention was on Y/N at the far end of the table, as far from him as she could get while still doing her job.

Their interactions over the past few weeks had become workable but hollow. Y/N was everything she should be—professional, competent, polite. But whatever they'd had before felt like ancient history now.

"We need quarterback content for the season ticket promo," Kayla announced, and Joe felt his attention sharpen. "Y/N, can you handle that shoot, or do you want Tyler to take it?"

Joe watched Y/N's face, hoping for some sign that she might prefer to work with him directly rather than continue the delegation system she'd established.

"Tyler's already scheduled for rookie breakout features that day," Y/N said, her eyes on her notes rather than on him. "I can handle the quarterback segment."

The clinical phrasing hit Joe wrong. "Quarterback segment." Not "Joe's shoot" or even "the promo content"—just a generic position description that could apply to anyone.

"Perfect," Kayla said, making a note. "Joe, that work for your schedule?"

"Whatever works for the team," Joe replied, though privately he wondered if Y/N understood how her linguistic distance affected him.

As the meeting dispersed, Joe lingered, organizing his materials slowly while waiting for the room to clear. He needed to address this pattern before it became completely entrenched.

"You don't have to keep doing that, you know," he said once they were alone.

Y/N looked up with carefully neutral curiosity. "Doing what?"

Joe studied her face, noting the slight tension around her eyes that suggested she knew exactly what he meant. "Referring to me like I'm just a position on the team. 'Quarterback segment.' 'Quarterback content.' Like you can't even say my name."

Y/N's composure flickered for just a moment before reasserting itself. "It's not intentional. Just professional shorthand."

"It's distance," Joe corrected, keeping his voice low but letting his frustration show. "And I get why you needed it before. But I thought after your vacation, after you said you wanted normal professional interactions, that maybe we'd at least be back to... I don't know, acknowledging we know each other?"

Joe watched Y/N process his words, saw something shift in her expression. For the first time in months, she looked genuinely affected by his perspective rather than simply managing it.

"You're right," she said quietly, and Joe felt a spark of hope at the admission. "I'm sorry."

The apology was simple but felt significant. Joe's expression softened, encouraged by this crack in Y/N's professional armor.

"I miss how we used to talk," he said, the words coming out more vulnerable than he'd intended. "Not about content. Just... you and me."

The admission hung between them, loaded with memories of easier times when their connection had felt natural rather than carefully managed. Joe watched Y/N's face, looking for any sign that she missed it too.

"I've been drawing a line," Y/N said after a moment, her voice carrying something that sounded like regret. "Maybe I've drawn it too sharply."

Joe felt his heart rate pick up at her acknowledgment. This was the most honest she'd been with him since his return from California. Maybe they could find their way back to something resembling their old dynamic.

His phone buzzed against the conference table, interrupting the moment. Joe glanced at it automatically, seeing Ellie's name and a message about her travel schedule.

The reminder of his girlfriend hit like cold water, immediately recontextualizing everything about his conversation with Y/N. Here he was, pushing for more personal connection with another woman while in a relationship, crossing lines he had no right to cross.

"Ellie's back from New York tomorrow," he said, the words feeling heavy as he spoke them.

Joe watched Y/N's expression shift, saw her carefully rebuilt walls snap back into place. The moment of softness disappeared, replaced by the professional distance he'd been trying to bridge.

"That's nice," Y/N replied, her tone perfectly neutral. "I'm sure you've missed her."

The polite response felt like a door closing. Y/N was reminding them both of the reality that made their connection inappropriate, however significant it might feel.

Joe nodded, though the truth was more complicated than missing Ellie. He'd been counting days until his return to Cincinnati, thinking about Y/N more than his girlfriend, questioning choices he'd made months ago.

"See you at the promo shoot," he said, accepting the boundary Y/N was reestablishing.

As Joe left the conference room, he felt torn between what was right and what he wanted. Y/N was smart to keep her distance—he was with someone else, had no business pushing for more.

But walking through the facility, thinking about how she'd softened for just a second before catching herself, Joe knew his feelings for her had only gotten stronger.

That should have been good news. Finally knowing what he wanted. But it also meant facing how badly he'd screwed everything up.

Ellie would be back tomorrow, expecting things to be the same between them. But Joe wasn't the same person who'd chosen easy over real, who'd been too scared to risk anything that mattered.

* * *

That Evening - Joe's Home

Joe sat in his living room staring at Ellie's texts about dinner plans. The house felt too big, too quiet, nothing like the spaces that actually felt like home.

He kept thinking about Y/N admitting she'd been drawing lines too sharply, about that moment when something real had passed between them before his phone had ruined it.

California had been comfortable with Ellie—training while she made content, evenings working side by side without really connecting. Exactly what he'd thought he wanted. Uncomplicated, safe, empty.

But now, thinking about Y/N and how she'd looked when he said he missed their conversations, Joe knew he'd been choosing wrong all along.

He was with someone who fit his life perfectly but didn't make him feel anything real. While the person who actually mattered was building walls to protect herself from him.

Joe typed back to Ellie about dinner, all the right words about being excited to see her. But his mind was stuck on Y/N, on whether her distance was protection or genuine indifference.

Maybe it was time to stop living the life he thought he was supposed to want and start going after what he actually needed.

* * *

June 2025 - Team Charity Event

Joe adjusted his bow tie one final time as the car pulled up to the hotel ballroom. These charity events were part of his professional obligations—smile for donors, represent the organization well, raise money for causes that mattered. But tonight felt different, weighted with the knowledge that Y/N would be working the event.

Ellie looked stunning beside him in her red gown, every inch the perfect partner for a public appearance. She'd flown in from New York specifically for this event, understanding how important team functions were for his image.

"You look amazing," Joe said, meaning it as they walked toward the entrance.

"Thank you," Ellie smiled, automatically adjusting her posture as cameras began flashing. "This is such a beautiful venue. Perfect for content, but I know tonight isn't about that."

Joe appreciated her awareness of boundaries. Ellie understood when to be his girlfriend and when to be his professional partner, never pushing for attention that might detract from the team's mission.

But as they entered the ballroom, Joe found himself scanning the room not for donors or teammates, but for Y/N. He spotted her moving efficiently around the perimeter, camera in hand, documenting the event with the professional competence that had defined her work for years.

She looked different tonight—elegant in a way he'd never seen at work. Black dress, hair sleek and styled back. She moved through the crowd with that quiet confidence, doing her job while most people didn't even notice her.

"Joe Burrow!" A major sponsor approached with enthusiastic energy. "Great to see you. How's the off-season preparation going?"

Joe shifted into public mode, engaging with practiced charm while part of his attention tracked Y/N's movement through the room. She was working methodically, capturing moments that would become the official story of the evening.

For an hour, Joe did what he was supposed to do—photos with donors, small talk about the team, all the standard stuff. But he kept tracking Y/N around the room, watching her work while staying out of his way.

When they finally sat down for dinner, Joe realized she'd have to come to their table for photos. The thought made his pulse pick up.

"Joe Burrow's table is next," he heard someone say, presumably through Y/N's earpiece.

Y/N approached their table with camera ready, her expression professionally pleasant. "Evening, everyone. Time for the official table photo."

Their eyes met immediately, and Joe felt that familiar jolt of connection before he carefully arranged his features into an appropriate smile. This was exactly the kind of interaction they'd been navigating for months—professional necessity complicated by unresolved personal tension.

"Y/N," Joe acknowledged. "Didn't realize you'd be shooting tonight."

"Last-minute call," she replied smoothly. "We needed a few extra hands."

Before Joe could extend the conversation, Ellie turned toward Y/N with genuine warmth.

"You must be Y/N," she said, extending her hand. "Joe's told me so much about you. I've seen your work—it's amazing."

Joe watched this with mixed feelings. Ellie's enthusiasm was real—she'd actually brought up Y/N before, had complimented her work. But seeing them together just highlighted how weird his situation had become.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, shaking Ellie's hand with professional composure. "I appreciate that."

Joe caught Y/N's surprise at the compliment, saw her trying to figure out Ellie's friendliness. Part of him wanted to explain why he'd talked about Y/N at all, but surrounded by all these people, with Ellie's hand on his arm, there was no way to say what he really meant.

But surrounded by sponsors and teammates, with Ellie's hand resting on his arm, those explanations felt impossible.

"Actually, I'm capturing candids tonight," Y/N said, raising her camera. "So everyone just continue your conversations naturally. Pretend I'm not even here."

As Y/N worked around their table, Joe tried to catch her eye, tried to say something without words. But she treated him like everyone else, completely professional.

"Perfect, thank you everyone," Y/N said after capturing several shots. "Enjoy your evening."

As she prepared to move to the next table, Ellie touched her arm lightly. "I hope we get to talk more later. Joe says you have the best stories about the team."

Joe watched Y/N's reaction—polite but careful, managing Ellie's friendliness while maintaining appropriate boundaries.

"Maybe next time," Y/N replied. "I've got quite a few tables left to photograph."

The whole thing left Joe feeling off-balance. Ellie's interest in Y/N just made it clearer how split his life had become—the girlfriend who knew his public face, and the woman who actually knew him.

* * *

Later - Hotel Terrace

Joe stepped onto the terrace, needing air and space to process the evening's unexpected tensions. He'd excused himself from the table conversation, ostensibly to take a business call, but really to escape the careful performance that public events required.

He found Y/N at the railing, looking out at the city lights, her camera hanging idle at her side.

"Taking a break?" he asked, moving to stand beside her.

Y/N turned, and Joe caught something unguarded in her expression before her professional mask reasserted itself. "Just a quick breather. Lots of photos still to get."

Joe studied her profile in the dim lighting, noting the tension in her shoulders that suggested she was working to maintain composure. Being around him still affected her, despite months of careful distance.

"Your buffer system has evolved, I see," he said, unable to resist pushing against her boundaries.

"What do you mean?" Y/N asked, confusion flickering across her features.

"You're actually speaking to me at public events now," Joe replied, letting some of his frustration show. "That's progress from January."

Y/N's response was careful, measured. "I'm trying to be more normal about everything. Like I said when I got back from vacation—appropriate professional boundaries, not complete avoidance."

"That why you practically sprinted away from our table?"

"I have other tables to shoot."

Joe turned to face her directly, tired of the careful dance they'd been performing for months. "Come on. We haven't had a real conversation in months. And I'm supposed to pretend that's normal?"

He watched Y/N's composure start to crack, saw something raw flash across her features before she responded.

"Maybe you're not supposed to pretend. Maybe you're supposed to notice."

The challenge in her voice caught Joe off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Y/N turned to face him fully, and Joe saw years of suppressed emotion finally breaking through her professional control.

"It means one day we're grabbing lunch and spending time together outside of work, and the next I find out you have a girlfriend because someone broke into your house."

The words knocked the wind out of him. He'd known Y/N had been hurt by how she'd learned about Ellie, but he'd never really understood what that had cost her.

"That's not how I meant for you to find out—" he started.

"But that's how I did," Y/N cut him off, her voice rising with months of contained pain. "And then I had to walk into a boardroom full of execs and help manage the media fallout. I had to craft a strategy, prep your talking points, anticipate questions—all while pretending like I wasn't finding out in real time that you'd been lying by omission for half a year."

Joe felt sick as Y/N spelled out what he'd put her through. She'd done her job, protected him, kept everything together while he'd basically lied to her face for months.

"It wasn't lying—" he began weakly.

"It was hiding," Y/N snapped, and Joe saw tears threatening at the corners of her eyes. "You hid her. Not just from the world, but from me."

Joe's jaw clenched as the truth of her accusation settled. He had hidden Ellie from Y/N specifically, had known instinctively that their connection was something he needed to protect his relationship from.

"You didn't owe me the details," Y/N continued, her voice shaking slightly. "But you knew what we were. What it felt like. You showed up in my life every day. You let it mean something. And when it stopped meaning something to you, you didn't have the decency to say a word."

Each sentence felt like an indictment Joe couldn't defend against. Y/N was right—he'd been a coward, choosing the easy path of avoidance rather than the difficult conversation that honesty would have required.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Joe said quietly, the inadequacy of the words obvious even to him.

"But you did," Y/N replied, and Joe heard four years of suppressed pain in her voice. "Not by being with her. By making me feel like I never mattered in the first place."

The accusation cut deeper than anything else she'd said. Joe stepped forward, something desperate rising in his chest.

"You mattered," he said, his voice low but intense. "You still matter."

"Not enough," Y/N replied, and Joe saw the hurt that had been driving her distance for months. "Not enough to be honest with."

Before Joe could find words to respond, before he could explain that his dishonesty had been about protecting himself rather than dismissing her, Ellie's voice cut through the tension.

"There you are!"

Joe's heart sank as Ellie appeared on the terrace, beautiful and smiling and completely unaware of what she'd just interrupted.

"I've been looking everywhere for you, babe," she continued cheerfully. "They're about to do the team recognition on stage, and the owner specifically asked for you to join them."

Joe felt trapped between his public obligations and this moment of raw honesty with Y/N. His expression must have revealed his conflict, because he caught Y/N watching him with something like resignation.

"I'll be right there," he managed, his voice carefully controlled.

Ellie looked between them, clearly sensing tension but misreading its cause. "I'm not interrupting work talk, am I? I can tell them you'll be a minute."

"No interruption," Y/N said quickly, and Joe watched her professional mask snap back into place. "I was just about to head back in myself. I still have the owner's table to photograph."

Joe watched this transformation with something like grief. Y/N was protecting them both, maintaining the careful boundaries that kept their professional relationship functional.

Ellie smiled at Y/N with genuine warmth. "Your photos have been amazing tonight. I peeked at some on the photographer's display earlier—you have a gift for capturing genuine moments."

"Thank you," Y/N managed, and Joe caught the complicated emotions crossing her face at Ellie's sincere compliment. "That's very kind."

Joe couldn't let the conversation end like this, with everything still unresolved between them.

"Ellie, can you give us just a minute?" he asked. "We weren't quite finished."

Ellie looked surprised but nodded. "Sure. I'll tell them you're on your way."

But before Joe could say anything more, Y/N raised her camera between them like a shield.

"I think we are," she said firmly. "You should go. They're waiting for you."

As Joe walked away with Ellie, her hand slipping naturally into his, he felt the weight of everything left unsaid. Y/N had finally told him how much his choices had hurt her, had laid bare the emotional cost of his cowardice.

But she'd also made it clear that understanding her pain didn't change their reality. Joe was with Ellie, publicly and proudly, and whatever feelings existed between him and Y/N would remain unspoken and unacknowledged.

Walking back into the ballroom, Joe felt like he was returning to a performance of his own life. Smiling for cameras, accepting congratulations, playing the role of successful quarterback with perfect girlfriend.

But his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's words, on the hurt in her voice when she'd said he'd made her feel like she never mattered.

* * *

June 2025 - Bengals Facility

Joe sat through the morning film session barely paying attention, still thinking about the charity gala two weeks ago. Y/N's words kept playing in his head—how she'd said he made her feel like she never mattered, how she'd looked when Ellie showed up.

Since then, things had gotten even more formal between them. Not avoidance exactly, but something colder. Like she genuinely didn't care anymore.

"Burrow, you need those Raiders breakdowns from last season," the offensive coordinator said as they wrapped up. "Study how they disguised their coverage on third downs."

Joe nodded, already dreading the process. What used to be a quick conversation with Y/N was now a formal request through Tyler.

He found Tyler in the hallway. "Can you get me the Raiders breakdowns? Third-down packages specifically."

"Sure thing," Tyler replied. "Y/N will know where those are. I'll have her pull them."

Another reminder that he and Y/N couldn't even handle simple work requests directly anymore.

* * *

Cafeteria - Same Day

Joe grabbed lunch with Ja'maar and Tee, settling into their usual table while they debated the upcoming rookie development program. But his attention was immediately drawn to Y/N sitting across the cafeteria with Sam, their conversation looking relaxed and genuine in ways Joe's interactions with Y/N no longer were.

"You listening, man?" Ja'Maar asked, following Joe's gaze. "Oh. The Y/N situation."

Joe's attention snapped back to his teammates. "What?"

"Whatever's going on with you two," Higgins said, keeping his voice low. "It's been weird for months. You know that, right?"

Joe felt heat rise in his neck. "Nothing's going on. We work together."

"Used to work together," Ja'Maar corrected. "Now you work around each other. There's a difference. And everyone's noticed, by the way."

Joe wanted to deny it, but his teammates weren't wrong. The easy collaboration that had once defined his relationship with Y/N had been replaced by careful professional choreography that everyone seemed to notice.

"It's fine," Joe said, returning his attention to his food. "Just different workflow now."

But even as he said it, Joe found his gaze drifting back to Y/N's table. She was laughing at something Sam had said, looking genuinely happy in a way that made Joe's chest tighten with something he didn't want to examine.

As lunch wound down, Joe watched Y/N and Sam gather their things, noting how Y/N's posture shifted slightly as they approached his table. Not nervous, exactly, but more controlled, like she was managing her reactions.

"Y/N," Joe called out as they walked by. "Tyler said you'd pull those Raiders breakdowns for me?"

Y/N turned with a professional smile that revealed nothing. "He did. I've got staff pulling them. Should be in your inbox by this afternoon."

"Appreciate it," Joe said, recognizing the finality in her tone.

Something flickered in Y/N's eyes, like she realized how weird this had all become. But she just nodded and kept walking.

Ja'maar and Tee exchanged looks.

"Definitely nothing going on," Higgins muttered.

Joe didn't respond. There wasn't much to say.

* * *

That Evening - Joe's Home

Joe's phone buzzed with a text from Ellie as he reviewed the Raiders footage. She wanted to visit next week, maybe do some couples workout content.

Miss you. Can't wait to see you next week. Think we could do that couples workout content I mentioned?

Joe stared at the message. A perfectly reasonable request from his girlfriend. But all he could think about was how Y/N had handled his footage request—efficient, professional, completely detached.

He typed back something appropriate about looking forward to seeing Ellie, but the words felt empty.

The Raiders footage was perfectly organized, exactly what he'd asked for. Y/N's team had delivered as always. No personal touch, no acknowledgment of their history, just competent work.

Maybe that's all they'd ever really had.

* * *

July 2025 - Training Camp Preparation

Joe had agreed to give Ellie a tour of the facility before training camp officially began, though he'd underestimated how complicated it would feel to have her in his professional space. She was enthusiastic about everything—the weight room, the meeting rooms, the state-of-the-art equipment—asking questions that showed genuine interest in his world.

"This is incredible," Ellie said as they walked through the hallways. "I had no idea it was this extensive."

"It's pretty comprehensive," Joe agreed, though part of his attention was tracking familiar sounds and movements, unconsciously mapping Y/N's potential location in the building.

When they reached the cafeteria, Joe spotted Y/N immediately. She sat with Sam near the windows, laughing at something with the kind of natural ease he rarely saw from her anymore. The sight of her genuinely relaxed hit him harder than expected—a reminder of what their interactions used to look like before everything became careful and measured.

"Oh, there's Y/N!" Ellie said, following his gaze. "I should say hello."

Before Joe could suggest otherwise, Ellie was already calling out across the room. "Y/N! How are you?"

Joe watched Y/N's face transform in real-time—from natural laughter to polite professionalism in seconds. The shift was so smooth it was almost invisible, but Joe had been studying Y/N's expressions for five years. He knew the difference.

"I'm good, thanks," Y/N replied, standing as they approached. "Nice to see you again."

"You too," Ellie smiled warmly. "Joe's been showing me around before everyone arrives for camp. This place is amazing."

"It is," Y/N agreed, her tone perfectly light and professional. "Enjoy the tour."

Joe felt the need to fill the silence, to justify Y/N's presence in the conversation somehow. "Y/N's been here since my rookie year," he said to Ellie. "She's documented pretty much every major moment of my NFL career."

The words came out more pointed than he'd intended, carrying weight that felt almost territorial. Y/N's response was swift and deflating.

"The whole media team has," she corrected gently. "It's been a collaborative effort."

She was minimizing their connection, reducing five years of shared moments to generic teamwork. The dismissal stung more than it should have, and Joe found himself pushing back before he could stop himself.

"Not the rehab," he said, his gaze direct. "That was all you."

The moment the words left his mouth, Joe knew he'd crossed a line. Those rehabilitation sessions had been intimate—not romantically, but in the way that pain and vulnerability create connection. Hours of documenting his lowest moments, his frustrations, his small victories. Bringing that up in front of Ellie was claiming ownership of something that wasn't his to claim anymore.

Y/N's composure flickered for just a second before she recovered. "Well, that's what made it such compelling content. Your journey back."

Ellie looked between them, clearly sensing undercurrents she didn't understand. "Joe mentioned how much those documentary pieces meant to fans. Your work really connected people to his recovery."

"That was the goal," Y/N replied. "Glad it resonated." She glanced at her watch with practiced efficiency. "I should get back. Content review meeting in fifteen. Nice seeing you both."

As Y/N walked away with Sam, Joe felt Ellie's curious gaze on him.

"She seems really professional," Ellie observed. "You two work well together."

"Yeah," Joe said, though the word felt hollow. "She's good at what she does."

They continued the tour, but Joe's mind remained fixed on the cafeteria interaction. Why had he mentioned the rehab work? Why had he felt the need to establish that connection in front of Ellie? And why did Y/N's careful deflection feel like a rejection of their entire history?

His phone buzzed as they finished touring the weight room. A text from Ellie to someone—he could see her typing on her phone.

"Just reaching out to Y/N about those charity photos," she explained. "You mentioned she might have some good shots for my portfolio."

Joe's stomach tightened. He had mentioned that, casually, during their drive to the facility. But now it felt like another complication, another way his two worlds were intersecting in ways he hadn't anticipated.

"You don't need to go through her specifically," Joe said. "Any of the media staff can handle that."

"Too late," Ellie smiled, showing him her phone. "Already sent. She seems sweet—I'm sure she won't mind."

Joe stared at the text thread, recognizing the gulf between what Ellie thought she was seeing and what was actually happening. Y/N would agree to help because it was professional courtesy, not because she was "sweet" or happy to do anything involving Ellie.

But explaining that would require explaining why the situation was complicated, which would mean acknowledging feelings he'd spent over a year trying to suppress.

Twenty minutes later, as they wrapped up the tour, Joe's discomfort had crystallized into something that demanded action. He'd been inappropriate in the cafeteria, had put Y/N in an uncomfortable position, had claimed a connection that wasn't his to claim anymore.

"I need to handle something quick," he told Ellie as they reached the parking lot. "Work stuff. Five minutes?"

"Of course," Ellie said easily. "I'll wait in the car."

Joe found himself walking toward Y/N's office before he'd fully decided to go there. The cafeteria encounter had left him unsettled—his inappropriate reference to their private sessions, Y/N's polite but distant responses, the careful way she'd maintained professional boundaries even when he'd essentially ambushed her with personal history.

He paused outside her door, watching her work. She looked focused, unbothered by what had just happened. That steady composure that used to comfort him now felt like a wall he couldn't cross.

"Got a minute?" he asked, stepping into the doorframe.

Y/N looked up, her expression shifting to professional attention. "Of course."

Joe entered but didn't sit, staying near the door. Too much distance felt wrong, but getting too close felt presumptuous. "I wanted to apologize if that was awkward. Ellie wanting to see the facility was... unexpected."

"It's fine," Y/N said smoothly, and Joe heard the practiced ease in her voice. "She's always welcome here. She is your girlfriend."

The matter-of-fact way she said girlfriend hit harder than he'd expected. No emotion, no hesitation—just acknowledgment of reality. It should have been reassuring. Instead, it felt like a door closing.

"She mentioned asking about photos," Joe continued, feeling like he was navigating terrain he no longer understood. "You don't need to handle that personally. Any of the staff can pull those."

"I already told her I would," Y/N replied. "It's not a problem."

Of course you did. Y/N would never go back on a professional commitment, even if it meant spending time on something that might be uncomfortable. Joe studied her face, looking for any sign of the person who used to share inside jokes with him during long filming sessions.

"You've changed since your vacation," he said, the observation slipping out before he could stop it.

Y/N's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Have I?"

"Yes," Joe said, committing to the honesty. "More confident. More... definitive about boundaries."

Something shifted in her expression—not surprise, but perhaps appreciation that he'd noticed. "I gained some perspective. About what I need professionally."

Professionally. The word felt loaded with subtext. Joe felt himself standing at the edge of a conversation they'd never had directly, one that could either clarify everything or destroy what remained of their working relationship.

"Just professionally?" The question escaped before his rational mind could intervene.

Y/N met his gaze steadily, and Joe saw the exact moment she chose not to give him the opening he was fishing for. "That's what matters here. We work together. Everything else is secondary."

The gentle but firm redirection felt like a hand pushing him back from a line he shouldn't have approached. Joe nodded slowly, recognizing both the wisdom and the finality in her response.

"If that's what you need."

"It is."

Joe turned to leave, then felt the weight of something unsaid for too long. He paused, looking back at her.

"For what it's worth, I should have told you about Ellie directly. Before it became public like that. You deserved that much."

The words hung in the air between them. It wasn't everything he owed her, but it was the one concrete failing he could acknowledge without opening emotional territory that would complicate both their lives.

"Thank you for saying that," Y/N replied, and Joe heard genuine appreciation in her voice.

Walking back toward the parking lot, Joe felt the strange sensation of having both gained and lost something in the same conversation. Y/N had accepted his apology with grace, had shown him exactly where the new boundaries lay, had demonstrated the kind of professional maturity that made her invaluable to the organization.

She'd also made it clear that whatever personal connection they'd once shared was permanently in the past. No anger, no drama—just a careful, definitive reset that protected them both.

Joe should have felt relieved. Instead, he felt the hollow recognition that he'd just had what might be their last genuinely honest conversation. From here forward, everything between them would be filtered through professional necessity and careful emotional distance.

Back in the car, Ellie was scrolling through her phone, smiling at something on the screen.

"Y/N already responded about the photos," she said as Joe settled into the driver's seat. "She's so professional. You're lucky to have someone that organized on your team."

"Yeah," Joe replied, starting the engine. "She's good at what she does."

But driving away from the facility, Joe couldn't shake the feeling that he'd lost something irreplaceable through his own emotional cowardice. Y/N had offered him friendship when he was too afraid to pursue something deeper. When he'd chosen safety with Ellie instead, Y/N had adapted with characteristic grace, maintaining their professional relationship while protecting herself from further hurt.

Now she was moving forward while Joe remained stuck in the recognition of what he'd given up. Ellie was beautiful, uncomplicated, and genuinely caring. She should have been everything he wanted.

But thinking about Y/N's composed professionalism and the easy laughter he'd witnessed from across the cafeteria, Joe knew that should wasn't the same as was.

He'd made his choice months ago, had prioritized emotional safety over authentic connection. Y/N had accepted that choice and moved on with her life and career.

The problem was that Joe was starting to realize his choice had been wrong. And by the time he'd gained that clarity, it was already too late to change course without devastating multiple lives in the process.

* * *

September 2025 - Regular Season Begins

The season opener against Pittsburgh had everything Joe loved about football—intensity, precision, the satisfaction of executing under pressure. The 40-yard touchdown to Higgins in the third quarter had been particularly clean, the kind of throw that reminded him why he'd chosen this profession.

But even in the middle of game action, Joe found himself tracking Y/N's movements along the sideline. She worked with the same professional efficiency she'd always shown, directing her team while capturing content herself. When he'd thrown the touchdown, his first instinct had been to find her reaction among the crowd of cameras and staff.

She'd been there, doing her job, but the easy shared celebration they might have had a year ago was gone. Instead, their eyes had met briefly during his jog toward the tunnel at halftime—a moment of mutual recognition, professional acknowledgment, nothing more.

It should have been enough. It had to be enough.

After the 24-17 win, Joe handled his postgame interviews with the usual measured responses, discussed the offensive line's protection and the receivers' route-running. But part of his attention remained on the media activity around him, aware of Y/N coordinating coverage without directly involving herself in his interviews.

The buffer system she'd implemented was working exactly as intended. Joe respected the professionalism of it, even as he missed the collaborative relationship they'd once shared.

His phone buzzed as he changed out of his uniform. Ja'Maar asking about team celebration drinks.

Heading home, Joe replied. Good win though.

You sure? Team's in a good mood. Y/N's crew killed it with the content today.

Joe stared at the text, the casual mention of Y/N hitting harder than it should have. Rain check. See you at practice.

Joe was leaving through the players' entrance when he spotted Y/N in the hallway, walking toward the exit with her equipment bag. The facility was mostly empty now, the post-game energy settling into quiet.

"Heading out?" he asked, falling into step beside her.

"Yeah," Y/N replied. "Just finished content wrap-up."

"Good game coverage," Joe said, meaning it. "Saw the touchdown sequence. Perfect timing on the sideline reaction."

"Thanks," Y/N said, and Joe caught something in her voice—surprise that he'd noticed her work specifically. "Clean game from the offense. Especially that third quarter drive."

Joe nodded, wanting to continue the conversation but unsure how to navigate the careful boundaries they'd established. "Team celebrating?"

"Meeting them now," Y/N confirmed. "Sundry and Vice, I think."

"Tell everyone good work," Joe said, then found himself adding, "Your boundary system's working well."

The observation was too direct, too honest about how much he'd been thinking about the walls she'd built between them. But it had been months of careful professional distance, and something about the successful game, the natural flow of their brief conversation, made him want to acknowledge what had developed.

"It seems to be," Y/N agreed carefully.

Joe felt himself standing at the edge of honesty again, the same place he'd been in her office months ago. This time, he stepped closer to the line.

"I don't like it," he said quietly, "but I respect it."

The admission hung between them—his first direct acknowledgment that the professional distance cost him something personal. Y/N's expression shifted slightly, surprise and maybe something else flickering across her face.

Before she could respond, his phone rang. Joe glanced at it—Ellie's name on the screen. The timing felt like the universe intervening, reminding him why Y/N's boundaries existed in the first place.

He looked back at Y/N, seeing understanding in her eyes. She knew who was calling without him saying anything.

"Should take this," he said. "Have a good night, Y/N."

"You too, Joe."

Walking to his car, Joe answered Ellie's call.

"Congratulations on the win!" Ellie's voice was warm and genuinely excited. "I watched the highlights online. That touchdown throw was incredible."

"Thanks," Joe said, settling into his car while watching Y/N walk to hers in his peripheral vision. "How was your day in LA?"

"Amazing," Ellie launched into a detailed account of her photo shoot, the creative direction, the other influencers she'd worked with. Joe listened with divided attention, making appropriate responses while his mind remained fixed on his conversation with Y/N.

"I was thinking," Ellie continued, "maybe I could come to Cincinnati for the next home game? Actually watch you play instead of just seeing highlights?"

"That would be great," Joe replied, though something in him resisted the idea. Having Ellie at the stadium would make their relationship more visible, would require navigation of her inevitable interactions with Y/N.

"Perfect," Ellie said. "I'll check my schedule and book something. Oh, and thank you again for connecting me with Y/N. She sent those charity event photos and they're gorgeous. She really does have an amazing eye."

Joe felt his chest tighten at the mention of Y/N. "She's good at what she does."

"She seems really sweet," Ellie continued. "I was thinking maybe the three of us could grab dinner when I visit? I'd love to get to know your colleagues better."

The suggestion made Joe's hands grip the steering wheel tighter. The idea of a casual dinner with Y/N and Ellie felt like emotional torture disguised as normal socializing.

"We'll see," Joe said carefully. "Y/N keeps pretty busy during the season."

"Of course," Ellie agreed easily. "Just a thought. I know how close you are with your team."

After hanging up, Joe sat in the facility parking lot as it emptied around him. The conversation with Ellie had been pleasant, supportive, exactly what he should have wanted from his girlfriend after a successful game.

Instead, he found himself thinking about Y/N's measured professionalism, the brief moment of honesty they'd shared in the hallway, the way she'd handled his admission about not liking but respecting her boundaries.

He'd told her the truth, and she'd accepted it with the same grace she brought to everything else. No drama, no demand for explanation, just acknowledgment of reality.

But as Joe finally drove home through downtown Cincinnati, past the bars where his teammates were celebrating, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight. Not dramatically, but subtly—like a door that had been cracked open just enough to let in light.

He didn't know what Y/N had been thinking during their hallway conversation, whether his honesty had surprised her or simply confirmed what she already knew about his feelings. But for the first time in months, they'd spoken to each other as more than just colleagues managing professional boundaries.

* * *

Late September 2025 - Exploring Options

Joe learned about Y/N's Giants opportunity the way he learned about most facility rumors—through Jake's casual mention during a quarterback meeting, delivered with the kind of off-hand certainty that suggested everyone already knew.

"Weird about Y/N maybe leaving for New York," Jake had said, reviewing route concepts on his tablet. "Gonna be strange if she goes. She's been here since your rookie year, right?"

Joe's pen had stopped moving across his playbook. "What about New York?"

Jake looked up, surprised. "The Giants thing? VP position or something. Thought you'd know—aren't you two always coordinating on media stuff?"

"We work together," Joe replied carefully, though his mind was already racing. "Haven't heard anything about New York."

"Huh. Maybe it's just rumors then. You know how this place gets."

But Joe knew it wasn't just rumors. Jake didn't spread bullshit, and he'd been too specific about the VP thing. Y/N was actually thinking about leaving. Leaving Cincinnati.

Leaving him.

The thought knocked him sideways, cutting through the careful routine he'd been living with. Over the past few months, Joe had grown comfortable with their new dynamic—respectful, functional, emotionally safe. He'd told himself that the boundaries Y/N had established were healthy, that their working relationship was better for being clearly defined.

But the possibility of Y/N leaving entirely forced him to confront how much he'd been taking her continued presence for granted.

That evening, Joe sat in his house, trying to focus on game film but finding his mind wandering to what Jake had said. He pulled out his phone, thinking about texting Y/N directly, asking about the rumors. But what right did he have to that information? They weren't friends who shared personal updates anymore. They were colleagues who maintained professional boundaries.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie, something about her flight plans for the upcoming home game. Joe read it without really processing the words, his attention still fixed on the possibility that Y/N might be planning to leave Cincinnati.

The realization hit him with uncomfortable clarity: he was more invested in Y/N's career decisions than in his girlfriend's travel plans. More concerned about Y/N potentially leaving Cincinnati than about Ellie coming to visit.

That recognition forced Joe to confront something he'd been avoiding for months. His relationship with Ellie, while pleasant and uncomplicated, had become more obligation than choice. He cared about her genuinely, appreciated her kindness and support, but he didn't feel excited about her presence the way he felt anxious about Y/N's potential absence.

Joe spent the evening researching the Giants' organizational structure and recent content initiatives. He told himself it was professional curiosity, wanting to understand what opportunity Y/N might be considering.

But really, he was trying to gauge whether New York represented something he couldn't compete with. Not that he was competing—he'd made his choice months ago. But the thought of Y/N building a new life in a different city, working with different players, creating content that didn't include him at all, felt like losing something essential.

The next morning, Joe arrived at the facility early, hoping to catch Y/N before her day filled with meetings. He found her in one of the editing bays, reviewing game footage with that focused intensity that had always impressed him.

"Morning," he said, stepping into the doorway.

Y/N looked up, professional smile in place. "Hey. You're here early."

"Wanted to get ahead of the week," Joe replied, then decided to be direct. "Jake mentioned something about a New York opportunity yesterday. Giants?"

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—surprise, maybe annoyance that rumors were spreading. "Nothing's decided," she said carefully.

"But it's real? The opportunity?"

Y/N set down her stylus, turning to face him fully. "It's something I'm considering. VP of Content Strategy position."

Joe felt something close to panic, though he tried to keep it from showing. "Big move."

"It would be," Y/N agreed. "Major market, significant creative control."

"Is this about the buffer system? About creating distance?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, revealing more of his concerns than he'd intended.

Y/N's expression sharpened. "My professional decisions aren't about you, Joe."

The response was firm, definitive, and both relieving and devastating. Relieving because it meant his complicated feelings weren't driving her away. Devastating because it confirmed that he wasn't a factor in her decision-making at all.

"Right," Joe said, trying to recover. "Of course not. It's just... you've built so much here. Five years of work."

"And there's opportunity to build something new," Y/N replied. "That's how careers work. Growth, advancement, new challenges."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her approach even as it felt like a personal rejection. "And there's nothing keeping you here? Nothing worth staying for?"

The question was as close as Joe could come to acknowledging what he couldn't say directly. That he needed her presence in ways that went beyond professional collaboration. That the thought of her leaving felt like losing an essential part of his support system.

Y/N studied his face for a moment. "I've built a life here," she said carefully. "That matters. But so does professional growth."

The answer was appropriately professional, but Joe caught something in her expression—a flicker of recognition that suggested she understood the subtext of his question even if she couldn't acknowledge it directly.

"Well," Joe said, backing toward the door. "I hope whatever you decide works out."

"Thanks," Y/N replied, already turning back to her work. "I'm sure it will."

Walking away from that conversation, Joe realized he was facing a crisis he'd created through his own emotional avoidance. He'd chosen safety with Ellie over the risk of pursuing something real with Y/N. Now Y/N was moving forward with her life and career while Joe remained trapped in a relationship that felt increasingly hollow.

But what could he do? Breaking up with Ellie to chase Y/N as she was planning to leave for New York would be both cruel and pointless. Y/N had already demonstrated that she could build a life that didn't revolve around him. She deserved better than to be someone's backup plan or consolation prize.

That evening, Joe sat in his house, Ellie's latest text about visiting for the Ravens game still unanswered on his phone. He thought about their last conversation, her enthusiasm about meeting his colleagues, her suggestion of dinner with Y/N.

The image of that dinner—Ellie chatting brightly while Y/N maintained professional politeness, Joe caught between his girlfriend and the woman he'd been too afraid to pursue—felt like a special kind of torture. Especially now, knowing Y/N might leave Cincinnati entirely.

Joe finally responded to Ellie's text with vague agreement about her visit, though his heart wasn't in the planning. His attention remained fixed on the recognition that he was about to lose something irreplaceable through his own emotional cowardice.

Y/N would visit New York, would probably be impressed by their facilities and vision, would make a decision based on what was best for her career. And Joe would remain in Cincinnati, playing football at the highest level while feeling increasingly disconnected from everything that made success meaningful.

He'd had his chance to be honest about his feelings, to take the risk that might have led to something real. Instead, he'd chosen comfort and safety, and now that choice was leading to exactly the kind of loss he'd been trying to avoid.

Some regrets, Joe was learning, couldn't be fixed by better decision-making in the future. They could only be carried, carefully contained, while watching what might have been disappear into someone else's new beginning.

* * *

Early October 2025 - Before the Visit

The week before Y/N's trip to New York dragged by. Joe went through his usual routine—film study, practice, media obligations—but he couldn't focus, too aware of Y/N moving around the facility.

During Tuesday's media availability, Joe watched Y/N coordinate with her team from across the room. She looked confident, in control, like someone who belonged in a VP role for a major market team.

The thought made him feel sick.

"Earth to Joe," Ja"Maar said, snapping his fingers in front of Joe's face as they walked to the parking garage after practice. "You've been spacing out all week. What's going on?"

Joe refocused on his teammate. "Just thinking through game plan stuff."

"Bullshit," Ja'Maar replied bluntly. "This is about Y/N leaving, isn't it?"

The directness caught Joe off guard. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you've been tracking her movements all week like you're afraid she's going to disappear," Ja'Maar observed. "And because everyone knows you two have some kind of complicated history, even if nobody talks about it directly."

Joe felt heat rise in his neck. "We work together. Have for five years. It'll be an adjustment if she leaves."

"Uh-huh," Ja'Maar said, clearly unconvinced. "Look, I don't know what the deal is between you two, and it's none of my business. But if you've got something to say to her before she potentially moves across the country, maybe now's the time."

"It's not that simple," Joe replied, though even as he said it, he wondered if it was actually simpler than he was making it.

"It never is," he agreed. "But sometimes complicated is better than regret."

That evening, Joe found himself at the facility later than necessary, ostensibly reviewing additional film but really hoping to cross paths with Y/N. He'd heard through the staff grapevine that she was working late, finalizing content plans before her New York trip.

He found her in her office, surrounded by multiple monitors and notebooks, laptop open to what looked like presentation slides. She glanced up when he knocked on her door frame.

"Working late," Joe observed, stepping into the office when she gestured him in.

"Trying to get ahead before I'm out of town," Y/N replied, saving her work. "Don't want to leave the team scrambling while I'm gone."

Joe noted the careful way she'd phrased it—"while I'm gone," not "if I don't come back." Either diplomatic language or a decision already made that she wasn't ready to announce.

"Mind if I ask what you're expecting from the visit?" he said, settling into the chair across from her desk.

Y/N leaned back, considering her response. "Honestly? I'm trying to approach it with an open mind. The opportunity is substantial, but I want to understand the culture, the vision, what I'd actually be walking into."

"And if it's everything they're promising?"

"Then I'll have a difficult decision to make," she said simply.

Joe studied her expression, looking for any sign of what she was thinking beyond the careful professionalism. "What would make it difficult? I mean, from the outside, it seems like a clear career advancement."

Y/N was quiet for a moment, her fingers absently straightening papers on her desk. "Five years is a long time to build something. To develop relationships, understand a culture, create work that feels meaningful. Starting over somewhere else, even with better title and compensation, means giving up what I've built here."

"But?"

"But maybe that's what growth requires sometimes," she finished. "Maybe staying in your comfort zone, even when it's working, prevents you from discovering what else is possible."

The words hit Joe harder than she probably intended. He heard in them a philosophy he'd been too afraid to apply to his own life—the recognition that comfort could be its own trap, that fear of losing what you had could prevent you from gaining what you actually needed.

"That's a mature way to look at it," he said, meaning it even as it made his own choices feel increasingly cowardly.

"I'm trying to be," Y/N replied. "This industry doesn't give you many chances at opportunities like this. It would be foolish not to explore it seriously."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom in her approach while hating what it might mean for his own life. "Well, for what it's worth, I hope they roll out the red carpet for you. You deserve to see what you're worth in a major market."

Something shifted in Y/N's expression at his words—surprise, maybe, or appreciation for his support despite his personal investment in her staying.

"Thank you," she said, and Joe caught a warmth in her voice that had been absent from their interactions for months. "That means more than you probably realize."

The moment stretched between them, loaded with recognition of their shared history and mutual respect despite the complications that had driven them apart. Joe felt the urge to say more, to acknowledge what her leaving would mean to him personally, to finally be honest about feelings he'd been suppressing for over a year.

But before he could find the words, Y/N's phone buzzed with what looked like a work emergency. The moment passed, replaced by the familiar rhythm of professional obligations and careful boundaries.

"I should let you get back to it," Joe said, standing. "Good luck in New York. I hope you get everything you're looking for."

"Thanks, Joe. I appreciate that."

As he walked back to his car, Joe replayed their conversation, noting how easily they'd fallen into genuine dialogue when the stakes felt clear. Y/N was preparing for a major career decision, and Joe was supporting her choice even though it might mean losing her presence in his professional life.

It felt both mature and devastating—the kind of selfless support you offered someone you cared about deeply, even when their success might mean your own loss.

Joe thought about Ja'Maar's earlier observation about regret versus complication. Maybe his teammate was right. Maybe the complicated conversation was better than watching Y/N leave without ever being honest about what she meant to him.

But sitting in his car in the empty parking lot, thinking about Ellie's upcoming visit and Y/N's pending trip to New York, Joe couldn't find the courage to risk everything for a conversation that might change nothing.

Some opportunities, once missed, couldn't be recovered. Joe was starting to understand that he might be living through one of those moments—watching something essential slip away because he'd been too afraid to reach for it when it was still possible.

The recognition felt like a weight settling in his chest, heavy and permanent. By the time Y/N returned from New York, Joe suspected his chance for honesty would have passed entirely, leaving him with nothing but the careful professional relationship they'd built and the knowledge of what he'd been too afraid to pursue.

* * *

Late October 2025 - The Breaking Point

Joe stood frozen in Y/N's empty office after she walked out, her words echoing in the sudden silence. The conversation had gone worse than he'd imagined possible, and he'd imagined it going pretty badly.

You don't get to jerk me around like this again.

The accusation cut deep, forcing him to confront the truth he'd been avoiding. From Y/N's perspective, his timing wasn't just bad—it was selfish. Cruel, even. Coming to her now, after years of emotional distance, just as she was ready to leave for something better.

Joe slumped into the chair Y/N had vacated, running his hands through his hair. He'd thought breaking up with Ellie would clear the air, would show Y/N that he was finally ready to be honest. Instead, it had backfired completely.

Y/N wasn't waiting for him anymore. And showing up now, claiming feelings he'd been too scared to acknowledge when it mattered, probably looked like manipulation rather than honesty.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie: Hope you're doing okay. Thank you for being honest with me. I knew something was off.

The message made Joe feel sick with guilt. Breaking up with Ellie had been the right thing to do—she deserved someone who could love her completely—but the conversation had been brutal. She'd handled it with more grace than he'd deserved, acknowledging that she'd sensed his emotional distance even if she hadn't understood its cause.

I'm sorry, he'd told her during their difficult conversation the night before. You deserve so much better than someone who can't be fully present.

It's Y/N, isn't it? Ellie had asked, her voice sad but not surprised. I could tell when we were at the facility. The way you looked at her.

Joe had confirmed it, hating himself for the hurt in Ellie's eyes even as he knew honesty was overdue. She'd cried, asked questions he'd answered as gently as possible, then packed her things with dignity that made him feel even worse about what he'd put her through.

Now, sitting in Y/N's office, Joe realized he'd hurt two people he cared about and probably gained nothing in the process. Y/N was more resolved than ever to leave for New York, and Ellie was nursing heartbreak she'd done nothing to deserve.

Joe's phone rang. Ja'Maar's name on the screen.

"How'd it go?" his teammate asked without preamble.

"Badly," Joe replied, staring at Y/N's empty desk. "Really fucking badly."

"What happened?"

Joe gave him the abbreviated version—the breakup with Ellie, the confrontation with Y/N, her accusation that his timing was manipulative rather than romantic.

"Shit, man," Ja'Maar said when Joe finished. "She's not wrong, though. About the timing."

"I know," Joe admitted. "But what was I supposed to do? Let her leave without saying anything?"

"Maybe," Ja'Maar said bluntly. "Maybe that would have been kinder than dropping this on her when she's trying to make the biggest career decision of her life."

The words stung because they were true. Joe had convinced himself that honesty was the right choice, but honesty motivated by self-interest rather than Y/N's wellbeing wasn't necessarily noble.

"So what now?" Joe asked.

"Now you live with the consequences," Ja'Maar replied. "You made your choices for years, and Y/N made hers. She doesn't owe you anything just because you finally figured out what you want."

After hanging up, Joe remained in Y/N's office, surrounded by evidence of her competence and dedication. Awards on the walls, thank-you notes from players, carefully organized files that spoke to five years of building something meaningful with the Bengals.

He thought about their first meeting during his rookie photoshoot, how Y/N had caught that fumbled football with ease and thrown it back to him with perfect spiral. She'd been impressive from day one, but Joe had been too focused on his own career to really see her potential.

Over the years, he'd watched her grow from a junior media coordinator to someone essential to the organization's identity. She'd documented his lowest moments during injury recovery, had been present for his biggest triumphs, had somehow become woven into every significant moment of his NFL career.

But Joe realized with painful clarity that Y/N had also built her own story during those five years. She'd earned promotions, developed innovative content strategies, gained recognition throughout the league. Her career wasn't just about documenting his journey—it was about creating her own.

The Giants opportunity wasn't Y/N running away from complicated feelings. It was her running toward something she'd earned through years of exceptional work. Joe's feelings were just unfortunate timing, not a reason for her to stay.

That recognition was both humbling and devastating. Joe had spent so long thinking about what Y/N meant to his career, his recovery, his daily life that he'd failed to consider what she needed for her own growth and happiness.

Maybe the most loving thing he could do now was support her decision, whatever it was, without adding more pressure or guilt. Let her choose New York if that's what would make her happy, even if it meant losing her presence from his life entirely.

Joe's phone buzzed with another text, this one from Y/N: I need you to know that conversation doesn't change my timeline. I'm still considering all factors. Please respect whatever I decide.

The message was characteristically professional, but Joe caught the underlying plea for space. Y/N was asking him not to complicate her decision-making process any further.

I will, he replied. And Y/N? You were right about my timing. I'm sorry.

He waited, hoping for a response that would suggest forgiveness or understanding. But none came.

Walking back to his car, Joe felt the weight of recognition settling over him. He'd spent months choosing emotional safety over authentic risk, then panicked when the consequences of those choices became clear. Y/N had every right to prioritize her career over his suddenly declared feelings.

But that didn't make losing her hurt any less.

Joe thought about the upcoming weeks—Y/N's final meetings with the Giants, her decision about New York, the possibility that their last real conversation had been an argument in her office. The idea that she might leave Cincinnati with anger or disappointment as her final impression of him felt unbearable.

Yet maybe that was the price of his years of emotional avoidance. Some opportunities, once missed, couldn't be recovered. Some honesty, when it came too late, caused more harm than continued silence would have.

Joe had finally found the courage to tell Y/N how he felt. Unfortunately, he'd found it at exactly the moment when she'd moved beyond needing to hear it.

* * *

Joe had walked into the leadership meeting with his usual focus, prepared to discuss winter content strategy and playoff scenarios. It was routine, the kind of organizational planning that happened every October. He'd expected updates on draft preparation, maybe some discussion about facility improvements during the offseason.

He hadn't expected to learn about Y/N's potential departure like this.

"As some of you may have heard, Y/N is considering an opportunity with another organization," Kayla said casually, as if she wasn't announcing the end of Joe's world. "We're in discussions about retention, but we also need contingency planning in case she accepts this new role."

The room went quiet, and Joe felt his chest tighten. Everyone was looking at Y/N, who maintained her perfect professional composure despite what had to be an uncomfortable moment. But Joe was looking at the bigger picture—Y/N might leave, and he was finding out about it in a fucking leadership meeting like some random staff member.

"Nothing's been decided yet," Y/N said calmly, and Joe heard the measured control in her voice. "I'm weighing options carefully, and regardless of my decision, I'm committed to ensuring a smooth transition if that becomes necessary."

Smooth transition. Like five years of building something together—professionally, personally, emotionally—could be smoothly transitioned to someone else. Like she was replaceable.

Joe tried to focus on the rest of the meeting, but his mind was spinning. When had she decided to explore other opportunities? How long had she been interviewing? Why hadn't she mentioned it during their coffee conversation or their brief exchange before her New York trip?

Then the answer hit him with sickening clarity: because it wasn't his business anymore. They weren't friends who shared personal updates. They were colleagues who maintained professional boundaries, boundaries he'd helped create through his emotional cowardice.

As the meeting wrapped up, Joe watched Y/N gathering her materials efficiently, preparing to leave as if she hadn't just casually mentioned potentially abandoning everything they'd built together. The unfairness of it—that she could consider leaving while he was supposed to just accept it professionally—made his composure start to crack.

She was almost to the door when something inside him snapped.

"So that's it?" The words came out louder than he'd intended, but he was past caring about discretion. "Everyone just finds out in a meeting that you might be gone next month?"

Y/N turned slowly, and Joe could see her calculating the optics of this public confrontation. "This isn't the place, Joe."

But when was the place? When had she planned to have this conversation with him specifically? When she was already packed and heading to New York?

"When is the place?" Joe pressed, aware that people were watching but unable to stop himself. "After you've already accepted? After you're already gone?"

"I haven't made any decisions yet," Y/N replied with that maddening professional calm. "And this is a professional matter I'm handling appropriately."

Appropriately. The word hit him wrong, the implication that his reaction was inappropriate while her potential departure was just good career management.

"Is it?" Joe challenged, taking a step closer. "Because it feels like you're making a major decision that affects a lot of people here without any real conversation."

"I've had those conversations with the appropriate leadership," Y/N countered, and Joe caught the slight edge in her voice. "With Kayla, with the content team. My career decisions don't require facility-wide consultation."

The dismissal stung. He wasn't asking for facility-wide consultation—he was asking why someone he'd worked closely with for five years, someone he'd shared countless conversations and moments with, someone he'd fallen in love with, was planning to leave without a word to him personally.

"So we just lose the person who's built our entire content strategy for five years, and that's supposed to be fine?" Joe heard the challenge in his own voice, recognized he was crossing lines but unable to care.

Y/N's professional mask slipped slightly, her frustration finally showing. "Why do you care so much?" she asked, the question more pointed than anything she'd said to him in months. "Why does this matter to you specifically?"

The question hung between them, loaded with everything they'd never said directly. Joe was acutely aware of their audience, of Kayla and Sam and other staff members watching this exchange with barely concealed interest. He was also aware that his answer could change everything—could destroy the careful professional relationship they'd maintained, could complicate her decision, could expose feelings he'd kept hidden for over a year.

But looking at Y/N, at the possibility of her walking away forever, Joe found he was past caring about complications.

"Because some things should matter more than titles and market size," he said, his voice quieter but no less intense. "Some connections are worth more than whatever the Giants are offering."

The word hung in the air—connections—and Joe saw Y/N's eyes widen slightly at the implication. He'd just publicly acknowledged that this was about more than professional courtesy, more than workflow continuity.

Before either of them could say anything else, Kayla stepped forward with diplomatic intervention. "Let's table this discussion. Y/N hasn't made her decision yet, and we'll have appropriate transition conversations when and if that becomes necessary."

Joe held Y/N's gaze for a moment longer, seeing surprise and something else—uncertainty?—in her expression. Then he turned and walked out, his control finally completely shattered.

In the hallway, Joe leaned against the wall, trying to process what had just happened. He'd publicly confronted Y/N about a personal matter, had essentially announced to the leadership team that her potential departure affected him more than professionally appropriate.

His phone was in his hand before he'd consciously decided to text her:

Joe: I'm sorry. That was out of line. Can we talk? For real this time.

He sent it immediately, then waited, staring at the screen. When her response came, it felt like a door closing:

Y/N: Not a good time. Need to focus on work.

Joe typed quickly:

Joe: I understand. But we need to talk before you decide. Please.

Then he waited again, but no response came.

Walking toward the parking lot, Joe felt the weight of what he'd just done. He'd destroyed months of careful professional distance in about five minutes of emotional honesty. He'd made Y/N's career decision about his feelings, had put her in an impossible position by making their complications public.

But he couldn't bring himself to regret it entirely. Because Y/N was considering leaving, and she hadn't told him personally, and the thought of her disappearing from his life without one honest conversation felt unbearable.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ellie about dinner plans, and Joe stared at it with the growing certainty that his entire life was built on lies he was tired of living.

Joe's phone buzzed again. Ja'Maar: Heard about the meeting today. You good?

Been better, Joe replied.

Want to talk about it?

Joe considered the offer. Ja'Maar was discreet, trustworthy, and had already figured out that Joe's interest in Y/N went beyond professional courtesy. Maybe external perspective would help.

Yeah. Your place?

An hour later, Joe sat on Ja'Maar's couch with a beer he wasn't really drinking, trying to explain a situation that felt impossible to articulate.

"So let me get this straight," Ja'Maar said after listening to Joe's halting explanation. "You've been in love with Y/N for over a year, but you're dating Ellie because it felt safer. Now Y/N's about to leave for New York, and you publicly freaked out about it in a leadership meeting."

"That's the summary, yeah," Joe confirmed, feeling even worse hearing it laid out so simply.

"And what exactly is your plan here?" Ja'Maar asked. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're about to lose both of them."

Joe set his beer down, running his hands through his hair. "I don't have a plan. That's the problem."

"Okay, let's think through this," Ja'Maar said, settling into problem-solving mode. "First question: what do you actually want?"

The answer came without hesitation. "Y/N. I want Y/N."

"And what about Ellie?"

Joe felt guilt wash over him. "Ellie's great. She's kind, supportive, uncomplicated. Everything I should want. But I don't love her. Not the way I love Y/N." The admission felt both relieving and terrible.

Ja'Maar nodded thoughtfully. "So you're staying with someone you don't love to avoid pursuing someone you do love. Because?"

"Because Y/N deserves better than being someone's consolation prize," Joe said. "Because breaking up with Ellie to chase Y/N as she's leaving for New York would be cruel to everyone involved. Because I had my chance and I chose safety instead."

"Maybe," Ja'Maar agreed. "But you're assuming Y/N's feelings haven't changed, that she's moved on completely. What if she hasn't?"

Joe thought about their coffee shop conversation, the carefully maintained professional distance, Y/N's composed reaction to his emotional outburst today. "She's handled everything with complete professionalism. If she had feelings, she's clearly over them."

"Or she's protecting herself from exactly this situation," Ja'Maar suggested. "From wanting something she thinks she can't have."

The possibility hadn't occurred to Joe. He'd assumed Y/N's professional boundaries meant emotional distance, but maybe they meant the opposite—maybe she was working harder to maintain control precisely because the feelings were still there.

"Even if that's true," Joe said, "the timing is terrible. She's got a major career opportunity waiting for her. She shouldn't base that decision on some guy who's been too afraid to be honest about his feelings."

"So be honest now," Ja'Maar said simply. "Before she decides. Give her all the information, let her make the choice with everything on the table."

"And Ellie?"

Ja'Maar's expression grew serious. "Joe, you can't keep stringing along someone who deserves better while pining for someone else. It's not fair to anyone."

Joe knew his teammate was right. His relationship with Ellie had become fundamentally dishonest, sustained by emotional cowardice rather than genuine commitment.

"Y/N's not answering my calls," Joe said. "After today's disaster, she's probably done with complicated conversations."

"Then you'll have to find another way," Ja'Maar replied. "Because in two weeks, she might be gone. And if you let her leave without being honest, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened."

Driving home, Joe thought about Ja'Maar's advice. Being honest with Y/N meant risking everything—his professional relationship with her, his comfortable routine with Ellie, the carefully constructed life he'd built around emotional safety.

But not being honest meant accepting that he'd let fear dictate the most important choice of his life. That he'd let Y/N leave without ever giving her the chance to choose him, really choose him, with full knowledge of what he felt.

* * *

Three Days Later

The facility felt different without Y/N's regular presence. She'd been working remotely more often, only appearing for essential meetings, clearly maintaining distance after their confrontation. Joe found himself hyperaware of her absence, noting the times when she would normally be reviewing content or coordinating with her team.

He'd kept his promise not to pressure her, hadn't sent additional texts or attempted further conversations. But the waiting was killing him. In less than a week, Y/N would need to give the Giants her final answer, and Joe had no idea which way she was leaning.

"You look like shit," Ja'Maar observed as they wrapped up Wednesday practice.

"Thanks," Joe replied dryly. "That's exactly what I needed to hear."

"I'm serious, man. When's the last time you fuckin' slept?"

Joe couldn't remember. Since his conversation with Y/N, he'd been existing on caffeine and restless energy, his mind cycling through scenarios and regrets whenever he tried to rest.

"She's probably going to take it," Joe said, voicing the fear that had been growing stronger each day. "The Giants offer. Why wouldn't she? It's everything she's worked for professionally."

"Maybe," Ja'Maar agreed. "Or maybe she values what she's built here more than you think."

"Even after I fucked everything up with my timing?"

Ja'Maar considered this. "You know what your problem is? You think this is all about you. Y/N's decision, her feelings, her career—you keep making it about how it affects Joe Burrow."

The observation stung because it was accurate. "So what should I do?"

"Nothing," Ja'Maar said firmly. "Let her make her choice without your emotional baggage influencing it. If she stays, great. If she goes, you deal with it and learn from how you handled this."

Joe nodded, recognizing the wisdom even as every instinct urged him to do something, anything, to influence Y/N's decision in his favor.

That evening, Joe sat in his house scrolling through social media, where speculation about Y/N's potential departure had somehow leaked despite the organization's attempts at discretion. Fans were posting about losing "the best content coordinator in the NFL," sharing favorite videos and posts from her tenure with the team.

One comment thread particularly caught his attention: She made Burrow seem like a real person, not just a celebrity. Hope she stays.

The observation hit home. Y/N had protected his humanity while managing his public image, had found ways to show his personality without exploiting his vulnerability. She'd been more than just a media coordinator—she'd been a guardian of his authentic self in a world that constantly pressured him to perform.

Joe thought about all the moments Y/N had captured over five years, the injury recovery sessions that could have been exploitative but instead showed genuine determination, the community events that revealed his care for Cincinnati, the team interactions that demonstrated his leadership without making it seem forced.

She'd helped him become the person he wanted to be publicly while never making him feel managed or packaged. And now she was considering leaving to build something new, something that didn't depend on understanding Joe Burrow's complexities.

His phone rang. His mother's name on the screen.

"How are you holding up?" she asked without preamble.

Joe shouldn't have been surprised that his parents had heard about Y/N's potential departure. News traveled fast in NFL circles, especially when it involved key personnel.

"Been better," Joe admitted. "How much do you know?"

"Enough to know you're probably beating yourself up over timing and choices," his mother replied with characteristic directness. "Want to talk about it?"

Joe found himself explaining the situation—his relationship with Ellie, his feelings for Y/N, the disastrous conversation in her office. His mother listened without judgment, asking clarifying questions but not offering immediate advice.

"You know," she said when he finished, "sometimes the most loving thing you can do is want someone's happiness more than you want them in your life."

The words hit Joe like a revelation. He'd been so focused on his own loss, his own regret, that he hadn't fully considered what would actually make Y/N happiest in the long run.

"The Giants opportunity is exactly what she's earned," he said slowly. "Even if it means losing her."

"And if supporting her decision is the last gift you can give her," his mother continued gently, "then maybe that's how you show her what she's meant to you all these years."

* * *

Early November 2025 - The Offer

Joe tried to keep his normal routine after Y/N got back from New York, but he couldn't focus. His mind kept wandering to what the Giants had offered her, whether she'd already decided.

Around the facility, she kept things strictly professional—polite nods, brief work exchanges, nothing that acknowledged what had happened between them.

Ja'Marr noticed his distraction during Wednesday's practice.

"You missed that read completely," his teammate said as they reviewed route concepts. "Thompson was wide open on the comeback."

"I saw it," Joe replied, though they both knew he hadn't.

"Where's your head at, man?"

Joe glanced toward the facility windows. "Probably where it shouldn't be."

That evening, Joe sat in his house, staring at his phone. His mother had texted: How are you holding up? Any word on her decision?

Still waiting, Joe replied. Not well.

Remember what we talked about. Sometimes loving someone means wanting their happiness more than their presence.

Joe read the message twice. If Y/N's happiness was in New York, then supporting that choice was how he could prove his feelings were genuine rather than selfish.

But the thought of losing her forever—not just romantically, but from his daily life entirely—felt like losing something he couldn't replace.

* * *

Mid-November 2025

By the middle of November, Joe felt like he was going crazy. Y/N's deadline was coming up, and he had no idea what she was thinking. She gave him nothing—no hints, no clues, nothing.

After another sleepless night, Joe got to the facility early, hoping to see Y/N before his day started. But her office was empty, computer off.

"She's in the edit bay," Sam mentioned, appearing beside him in the hallway. "Been there since early this morning. Finalizing content transitions in case she needs to hand things over."

"That sounds... definitive," Joe managed.

Sam studied his expression. "Maybe. Or maybe just responsible. Y/N always has contingency plans."

Joe spent the day distracted, going through the motions of practice and meetings while his mind remained fixed on Y/N's absence. By evening, he couldn't stand it anymore. He needed to see her, to try once more to have an honest conversation before she made her final decision.

The edit bay was one of the few rooms still lit when Joe arrived back at the facility that night. Through the window, he could see Y/N working alone, surrounded by monitors and notebooks, completely focused on her screen.

Joe stood outside for several minutes, gathering courage for what might be their last private conversation. Everything he'd been too afraid to say for five years needed to be said now, before it was too late.

When he finally knocked and entered, Y/N's immediate tension was obvious. But Joe was beyond caring about professional boundaries or appropriate timing. This was his last chance.

Their conversation escalated quickly, five years of suppressed emotion finally breaking free. When Y/N accused him of not seeing her for years, of only noticing her now that she was leaving, Joe felt something crack inside his chest.

"It's mattered to me for five years!" she'd shouted, and Joe realized with devastating clarity how much pain he'd caused through his emotional cowardice.

But when she admitted that what existed between them had always mattered, something shifted. Hope and desperation combined into action before Joe could think it through.

He kissed her.

Not gentle or tentative—urgent, desperate, like he was trying to communicate everything he'd been too afraid to say. Years of restraint broke open all at once, and when Y/N kissed him back with equal intensity, Joe felt like he was finally home.

Her hands gripping his shirt, her body pressed against his, the soft sounds she made when he kissed her neck—it was everything Joe had imagined and more. The connection that had existed between them for years finally had physical expression, and it was overwhelming in its intensity.

When Kayla's call interrupted them, Joe felt the real world crashing back with brutal clarity. As Y/N answered professionally, her voice steady despite their disheveled appearance, Joe marveled at her composure while struggling to regain his own.

"That was real," he'd told her afterward, needing her to understand that his feelings weren't just about fear of losing her. "Everything I've said, everything I feel for you—it's real."

The vulnerability of that admission, spoken in the aftermath of their first kiss, felt like jumping off a cliff. But Y/N needed to know that his declaration wasn't just desperation or poor timing—it was the truth he'd been carrying for years.

When she said she needed time to think clearly, Joe forced himself to step back despite every instinct urging him to hold her, to kiss her again, to try to convince her through touch rather than words.

"Take all the time you need," he'd said, meaning it even as it felt like agreeing to his own torture.

Walking away from Y/N in that edit bay, her lips still swollen from his kisses, was one of the hardest things Joe had ever done. But his mother's words echoed in his mind: sometimes loving someone meant wanting their happiness more than their presence.

If Y/N needed space to make the right decision for her life, Joe would give it to her. Even if that decision broke his heart.

But as he drove home through the dark Cincinnati streets, Joe allowed himself to hope that their kiss had changed something fundamental. That Y/N now understood his feelings weren't just about timing or fear of loss, but about love he'd been too afraid to acknowledge.

One week remained. Seven days for Y/N to decide between New York and Cincinnati, between career advancement and whatever they might build together.

Joe had finally been completely honest. Now all he could do was wait, and hope that honesty hadn't come too late to matter.

The recognition that he might lose both Y/N's presence and her respect—that she might leave thinking poorly of his character and timing—was almost unbearable. But at least she would leave knowing the truth about how he felt.

* * *

The Day After

Joe woke up the next morning with the taste of Y/N still on his lips and the memory of her hands in his hair. But in daylight, doubt crept in. Had kissing her been right, or just more shitty timing?

He'd promised to give her space, but he was dying to know where they stood. Had their kiss changed anything for her, or just made everything worse?

At the facility, Joe went through his routine on autopilot, trying not to look toward Y/N's office. When Sam mentioned Y/N was working remotely again, Joe felt relief and disappointment—glad he didn't have to see her today, but also desperate to gauge her reaction to what had happened.

His phone buzzed with a text from Ja'Marr: You look like you either got hit by a truck or got laid. Which is it?

Joe almost laughed despite his anxiety. Neither. Something in between.

That sounds ominous. We good?

Ask me in a week.

Honestly, Joe had no idea if they were good. He'd finally taken Ja'Marr's advice, been completely honest about his feelings. But Y/N's response was still a mystery, her decision about New York still hanging over everything.

For the first time in years, Joe had no control over something that mattered this much. All he could do was wait and hope Y/N would make whatever choice would make her happy.

Even if it killed him.

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