#take requests for certain angles/lighting

[jayjay-thejet-plane]

HEY WHO WANTS SOME DRAWING REFERENCES!?!

I make these with the magic poser app to use as refs! I’ve got a load of angles for each of the above poses and would be happy to share them if anyone is interested (either here or on a new blog specifically for these)

[studioeisa]

seokmin, who is widely regarded to have the most boyfriend material-like photos in the group, has a little secret. if he looks like a boyfriend in his photos— well, it's because he is.

seokmin, who will shyly smile at you when you're out on dates. you already know what he needs before he asks.

seokmin is never any less embarrassed about making this request. when you take his phone and unlock it, you're at least comforted by the fact that his home screen is a photo of the two of you.

seokmin will tell you everything from "you know all my best angles" to "you have an eye for lighting." you might think he's flattering you, but he's dead serious. his favorite photos of himself have been captured by you.

seokmin never questions your creative direction. if you instruct him to take a sip of his drink, he'll happily oblige. if you tell him to look away from the camera, he'll snap his neck around. ask him to jump and he'll say "how high?"

seokmin, who is generous with his affection and his compliments. he'll prop his chin over your shoulder and hug you from behind as the two of you assess the photos. "you got my good side here," he'll point out about one picture. "i like how you framed that," he'll say of another.

seokmin understands, however, that some things are sacred. like this: when you're reviewing pictures, and there's one that you really like? all you have to say is off-limits, and seokmin knows what that means.

seokmin doesn't care if it's the best photo he's ever taken. he doesn't care if it will feed in to the delusions of his many fans, if it's likely to make the internet go wild. if you call a photo off-limits, then he won't post it. it's yours. wholly yours.

seokmin, who, after all this time, still falls for your one favorite tricks. when you're trying to get him smile a certain way? sometimes, instead of saying cheese, you'll say i love you!

seokmin, whose grin is bright and wide in those photos. and, sometimes, if you squint just enough— you'll notice that he's actually looking at the person behind the camera.

[enidette]

SICK LIKE ME

warnings :: both are 18+, piv, my attempt at sorta hate sex even tho it feels ooc pls, i didn’t know how to end this..

carl grimes x fem!smith!reader; requested by @carlmipololo

it wasn’t supposed to go like this. carl’s plan was to break into the sanctuary, kill negan, and hopefully escape. and if he didn’t, he’d die a real savior, or he’d die trying.

those plans were squashed under the calculated steps of the girl before him now. you, negan’s precious daughter who’s learned nothing from this apocalypse except how to be spoiled. ever since negan took you in, you just learned how to demand and how to get your way. it made carl seethe.

no matter how many times he was told he got lucky, that you picked him. saved him from any possible punishment awaiting him for his careless acts. he remained sour, face etched into one of anger or disgust when you’re around.

just as negan had his wives, his daughter had — boy toys as you like to call — of your own. not many, as most didn’t appeal to you or couldn’t satisfy you long enough before they received the iron as punishment.

and just like negan’s wives, your toys were handled well. they got good meals, good treatment, and when you didn’t need them they could do mostly whatever they’d like. and when you’d need them, they never seemed to complain. after all, you’re easy on the eyes. and your toys are never forced.

more-so persuaded, until they give into you and give you what you need. it usually doesn’t take long as men can be animals, but carl is an exception. he’s doing the bare minimum to be your play thing just enough to keep his family alive. it’s what he tells himself at least.

but it is hard not to fall for you, you know how to reel a guy in. no surprise there. you’re pretty, you can handle yourself. and with your boys, you let go, be a little more vulnerable with them. and carl can see through the facade of negan’s daughter.

but regardless of any of that, even if you’re different, you’re connected to negan. directly. you’ve done things for negan. things that don’t sit right with carl. he can’t let things go beyond pure survival, he won’t let it happen.

but it only takes so long for a man to break, and for carl it was a month.

you saunter down the halls, dim lighting illuminating your skin that’s barely covered by a sheer nightgown. negan’s noticed how you’ve plucked your toys off one by one, narrowing the group down so you can focus on one certain long-haired boy the most.

too bad he ignores your advances, but that clearly hasn’t stopped you. as you’re making you’re way to his room now, knocking softly before letting yourself in without allowing the boy to even blink.

you knew he wouldn’t be asleep, it’s like he never is. every time you’ve visited him even in the latest hours of the night, he’s still wide awake. and avoiding your gaze entirely. but this night is different. it’s nothing drastic, just the tension. you approach his bed and sit at the end, looking at him as he continues to look at the old tv behind you.

“it’s not even on,” your smooth voice cuts the silence. you don’t expect a reply, and you don’t get one. “i could entertain you better..” your voice trails off, laced with suggestiveness as you lean forward a bit. you know how you’re holding yourself up has your breasts pressed together, and you know this angle gives him a straight shot to look right at them.

again, you expect nothing. but a fleeting dart of his eye catches your attention. your heart begins to race but with his gaze being gone just as fast as it came has you wondering if you’re being delusional.

but then he looks at you, making eye contact for too long, but you refuse to be the one to break it. not now.

he tilts his head, “is that all you want?” his voice nearly makes you shiver, you’ve wanted him for so long. anything you can get has your body feeling like it’s on fire.

you giggle and bend your head down a bit, looking up at him through your lashes. “is what all i want?” with a scoff he rolls his eye, looking away from you again. it has your shoulders slumping slightly, but you’re not nearly ready to give up.

“to be lusted after.” it’s not a question this time, but it leaves you wondering. wondering why you were so adamant about him over the others, why he stuck out. “is it what you want?”

you bite at your bottom lip, unknowing of what to say because you’re unsure of how to answer his question properly at all. “i want you, carl.” you watch as he remains in his spot, focus trained on the wall his bed is against.

then he’s nodding and his lips are on yours quicker than your brain can process. he guides you onto his lap and you sigh into his mouth, you can tell he’s not very experienced but you’re not exactly surprised either. the prospect of that being so had you chasing after him even more.

your hands go up to his hair, tugging at the strands a bit harsher than you intended. but you can’t help yourself, not when he’s finally in your grasp just how you wanted. he breaks the kiss faster than you’d like, but your complaints get caught in your throat when his lips attach to your neck.

what starts off as normal marks turn into him biting hard into your skin. whimpers leave your lips as he sucks particularly hard on the skin of your collarbone.

he lifts his head at the sound, looking at you with anger and something you can’t quite decipher. “this is what you wanted?” your lips part to speak but he takes this as another opportunity to kiss you, messier and teeth clashing.

he feels you starting to grind on his thigh, the sight of you so needy, someone needing him had his head swimming. you got him right in your trap and it made his blood boil. but he can’t help but watch in awe as you use him to get off, resorting to gripping your hips harshly.

he wanted to leave marks, and plenty, a form of payback for what you’ve done to him. he isn’t enjoying this, he’s enjoying the idea of it. he thinks you look pathetic, wasting so many attempts on getting in the pants of a boy who wants your father dead.

but then your hands are fiddling with his pants, and the thought of being inside you, so close to you has his breath stuttering. it’s not like he’s not doing everything you ask of him. going from stubborn to your perfect plaything like a switch has flipped in his head and he couldn’t deny it anymore.

he rids himself of his clothes, hands sliding beneath your gown to reveal your bare body underneath. it has him wondering if you came this prepared every time. the mental image of you presenting yourself perfectly for him every time has him springing into action.

you lay down in front of him, watching as he hovers above you, eyes raking over you beneath him. you notice his sudden obedience, how he’s waiting for you to instruct him on how to please you.

you take his cock into your hand, smirking when he sucks in a sharp breath at the contact. you guide him to your entrance but he doesn’t move. you whine, hands flying to his shoulders, trying to pull him closer. but he still doesn’t budge, basking in every second of your desperation.

“please,” you beg, voice shaky as your legs wrap around his waist. he pushes forward, inching into you until he’s bottomed out and you’re clinging to him. “move,” you whimper out, barely trusting your voice.

he breathes heavily into your ear, “you’re so desperate. this is what you’ve been after this whole time?” he’s trying to make sure it’s in your head that he hates this, he hates you. but the feeling of your walls around him, sucking him in and drawing him closer to you tells him otherwise.

he pants into your ear as his thrusts get messier. his hands are gripping your waist, and he wants to ask you a million things. if he’s making you feel good, but he’s not supposed to care. if he’s hurting you, but maybe that’s what he wants. a twisted little sense of payback that you seem to enjoy.

you hand goes down to your clit, but his eyes follow and he swats it away. he copies your movements, watching you squirm under him as you get closer to the edge. he watches you come undone around him, getting sloppier with his thrusts before his head dips into your neck and he stills.

he breathes heavily into your skin, he knows you both can’t go back to your twisted normal after this.

taglist :: @carlslvr @hiro--aoki @carlsangel @mozzeralla-stix @carlmipololo @carlgrimesgfofficial @livingdeadgirlflorette

[seresinhangmanjake]

Known To Be His

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x concubine!Reader

Summary: Feyd brings you along to a ball at Caladan Castle, where you hope he intends to show you off and make it known to all Lords and Ladies that he cares for you. Instead, to your disappointment, he keeps you away from others, as if you're nothing more than his toy. But maybe before the night is out, he will change his mind.

Notes/Warnings: Jealousy, possessiveness, smut, so 18+. This is based on a request for Feyd to bring his concubine to a party and be affectionate with her in front of everyone. I changed it a little bit (i hope that's ok) so it would fit more with the following fics in the "His" series.

Words: 3700

Feyd-Rautha Masterlist / Main Masterlist

He has never taken you out before. During your time on Giedi Prime, you’ve barely even left his room. From the moment he chose you, he has done everything he can to keep you to himself, and he has done it well. 

Not that you mind. He feeds you, he allows you to bathe, he brings you whatever you desire to keep you entertained. But the sudden transition from secret possession rarely adorned or dressed in anything other than a nightgown (if dressed at all) to a woman dripping in jewels and cinched into a leather corset is jarring. And you’re not sure of the occasion. He removed your title of Lady, but the way you look now would make anyone think he has decided to embrace your past and let you shine in your former light. 

You can’t deny you felt a kick of excitement in your stomach at the thought. When he sent his harpies to dress you up from head to toe, a rush of butterflies filled you—not unlike those you sensed when you first saw him, when you first kissed him, when he first slid himself inside of you—and they haven’t left. Goosebumps continue to spread along your body as you imagine him showing you off, willingly displaying you on his arm, because if he wants to present you to the masses, then maybe you mean more to him than he claims you do. 

For some time, you’ve suspected he cares. It’s in the way he touches you and presses his lips to your skin, the pace that he thrusts when you’re encased under his body, the words he lets slip through when his mind is lost to lust rather than logic. Though he has yet to rescind his original statements as to your lesser value to him, you’ve been a patient woman. And perhaps, finally, that patience has paid off. 

—

“A peace ball,” Feyd tells you once you enter Castle Caladan, your arm linked through his. “It’s an attempt on the Areides' part,” he continues. “Unlikely to be successful, but my uncle enjoys playing the game.”

You hear him, but your head is busy twisting and turning at nearly every angle, trying to take in the grandness of the space, the array of vibrant colors you nearly forgot existed after so much time surrounded by the blacks, whites, and grays of the Harkonnen fortress. It’s not only the bright walls and decor, or the way the light streams in rainbow hues through the stained glass windows; it’s the guests, whose suits and gowns reflect stunning shades that your own dark leather dress absorbs like a black hole.

Feyd’s stare pierces the side of your cheek and draws your attention back where he wants it—on him and his pinched browline. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” he grumbles. “Soon, we will be back where we belong.”

Your lips part, your voice ready to tell him that you don’t wish to reacquaint yourself with this environment, you wish to stay with him, even in bleakness, but he’s huffing and dragging you along before you get the chance. 

“Say nothing to anyone,” he orders. “You will stand by my side and that is all.”

You nod just as a tall form enters your peripheral vision. 

“Na-Baron Harkonnen,” one of many Caladanian diplomats calls, forcing Feyd to a halt. A long second passes before he turns, but unlike the diplomat, Feyd does not plaster a false smile on his face. “Many were certain no one from your House would attend. A surprise, to say the least.”

Feyd’s frown remains firm, and you wonder why the Baron sent his nephew on his behalf if said nephew cannot so much as fake his expressions enough to give off an aura of open-mindedness and acceptance. At the same time, it’s Feyd. Less should be expected if one does not wish to be met with disappointment. 

Despite the lack of response, the diplomat’s smile persists. His eyes then flick to you, and something akin to a spark alights within them. 

“And Lady Wallach,” he says, that smile morphing into a mischievous smirk. 

You flinch at the honorific. Feyd’s arm tightens around your wrist. The diplomat reaches for the hand not attached to Feyd’s forearm and brings it to his lips, his eyes locked to yours as his mouth meets your skin. It’s a lingering kiss—too limp, too damp, not at all like Feyd’s—and when he lifts his head, his thumb begins to brush back and forth over your knuckles. 

“As always, a pleasure,” he says. 

Carefully, to avoid offending, you pull your hand away and let it join its twin on Feyd’s arm.

“We’d received word you had joined the Harkonnens,” he continues, “and how unexpectedly delightful to see you in seemingly good health.”

You swallow away the dryness on your tongue, forgetting Feyd’s instruction out of a need to defend the man at your side. “I’m–”

“She is not your concern,” Feyd snips.

Though the truth, the diplomat’s brow raises in suspicion. “Of course,” he says. He gives you another long glance. “Do find me later if you wish to…catch up.” Then he bows his head and departs to find the next of the elite to greet. 

“Demon,” Feyd mutters, mostly to himself. “I should gut him where he stands.” He looks at you. “I told you to keep your mouth shut.”

Your eyes narrow. “Even when directly addressed?” you ask. 

He pauses a moment to consider. Then he says, “Speak little.”

“Fine.” 

And it is fine. You’re not here to mingle, anyway. You’re here to be seen.

—

The night follows a pattern. People gossip. They watch. Women stare from afar; men approach after many minutes of their eyes showering your face and body with appreciation. 

Feyd doesn’t miss a single one of their glances. With each man who spouts flattery or asks for a dance or praises the dress you and Feyd both know is too tight to conceal a single curve of your body, his muscles strain under his clothes, priming to be unleashed. 

He’s cursing himself. You can see it in the hardness of his eyes and the sharpness of his jaw from clenched teeth. This was a mistake, you know he’s thinking. He should not have done this. He should not have stuffed your body into this dress. He should not have allowed his harpies to paint your lips a ruby red so enticing that not even he can stop staring and imagining all the things he could do with your mouth. He should not have brought you…period.

But it’s too late for regrets. You’re here. And the men in this room, despite referring to you as ‘Lady,’ find it appropriate to treat you as if you are anything but. They no longer see you as who you were born; they see you as the plaything of a heartless Harkonnen, a man who does not develop attachments and who might even be up for a trade. Perhaps a House's servant in exchange for the former noble daughter of House Wallach, just for an evening. 

If you’re honest with yourself, you aren’t fully convinced Feyd would not take them up on that offer. As is, he hasn’t displayed the affection you hoped he would in front of the Great Houses; he hasn’t shown you off. If anything, as the night has progressed, he has attempted to keep you in the shadows. And the shadows are a perfect place to make a discreet swap of women. 

You hope your mind is simply running away with you, that you’re being silly, but regardless of acknowledging that possibility, you can’t stop the thoughts. You grow irritated the more he tries to block your interactions with others; your heart cracks a little the more he attempts to conceal you from sight, and it doesn’t take long for you to be fed up with his behavior. So when Paul Atreides approaches you, asking for a dance, you do not hesitate to accept before Feyd can decline, even going out of your way to shove past Feyd’s shoulder as you begin trailing after the Caladanian Lord. 

Not quite out of reach, Feyd grabs your upper arm. “What do you think you’re doing?” he grits out through his teeth.

“Being respectful to our host,” you quietly snap, “for the sake of peace,” and you rip your arm away to join your lover’s most loathed figure on the dancefloor. 

Once buried within the crowd, Paul takes one of your hands in his as the other lands on your waist, and begins to lead you along to the notes of the instrumentals. 

“Are you well?” he asks. 

Well? Yes. 

Satisfied? Content? Not in the slightest.

“Rather controlling, isn’t he?” Paul wastes no time in saying. “Hardly a way to treat a Lady.”

Former Lady, you almost correct him. There’s no point in pretending otherwise. But still, it’s humiliating to admit that to a childhood friend when Feyd gives you no reason to be proud. 

You haven’t seen Paul since the two of you were late teenagers, and your friendship had fallen to the wayside long before that. In between, there was a time when you had developed something more—a step above innocent flirtation—but it faded faster than it began. You still care for him, though, in the way a lot of the House heirs care for one another. There’s a sense of kinship even where kin is not. A camaraderie because of the challenges and pressures you all must face. Feyd was always the only exception.

Paul takes a step forward. You take a step back. He guides you to the left, and you follow.

“I was not aware a Harkonnen would have such strong desires to possess anything other than territory and spice,” he says.

You give a respectful but weak smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. His composed expression drops. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

“Paul, this does not need to be discussed,” you tell him. 

“You are entitled to better.”

“Can we not just dance in silence?”

The Caladanian Lord spins you under his arm, but to your shock, when you're again facing one another, your body is pulled much closer to his. Blue eyes drill into yours. The oxygen between you is stolen by his lungs and you struggle to breathe. 

Once, you didn’t mind the feel of his body against yours. The feel of your clothed forms meeting isn’t a new sensation. But Feyd is watching, and as much as you find the position you’re in to be disrespectful, you fear the retaliation he will inflict in return much more. Though he will not harm your body, he will harm your heart. He will stay away from you, taking his anger out in training or in the arena and finding sleep anywhere but in the bed you share. 

“A Lady should not be forced into a darkness she does not want,” Paul tells you in a soft voice. “A Lady should be able to shine in the light if she so chooses; wouldn’t you like to agree?” 

His steps slow. His hand leaves your waist and his knuckle raises to follow the line of your jaw from ear to chin. “Yes, much too lovely a face to keep hidden,” he whispers. 

Suddenly, you can’t hold his gaze. Your eyes drop to your feet. You take in what little air is available and say, “There is little light in the Harkonnen fortress.”

Fingers lift your chin, forcing you to look at him again. “Are you not allowed outside?” he asks, but the tone in his question suggests he has already decided on what he believes, regardless of your answer.  

You bite your lip. Feyd was right, you should keep your mouth shut. The rumors that have spread throughout this room about your treatment are bad enough. You certainly didn’t need to fuel the fire by insinuating you’re kept in a cage. 

“I’m—I’m happy on Giedi Prime.”

Paul hums. “Then why accept a dance with me, knowing it will only fill him with rage?” 

Your lips part, then close, then part, then close, unable to find a response.

“You forget I know you,” he says. “And I am not blind to your anguish. You wish to be seen. You want him to acknowledge you as more than what he has made you.” 

A pang hits you in the gut. Your throat goes dry. You nearly fumble a step, but Paul keeps you steady.

“I would help you, if you’d like,” he says.

“Help?” you ask. “Why?”

“Because I’ve thought about you over the years. And I feel for your situation. I feel for your House; for your parents who do not attend a peaceful meeting for fear of facing a Harkonnen after what transpired.”

A beat goes by, and then you shake your head, hoping he doesn’t catch the hurt on your face. “It’s their own fault. My parents failed to uphold their end of the deal with Giedi Prime and–”

“And Feyd-Rautha claiming you was the consequence. Yes, the transaction was not a well-kept secret. However, nothing changes the fact that a woman of noble blood deserves better,” he says. He sighs. “I would aid in your escape if you requested it, but as you clearly harbor great affection for him, I suppose you don’t want that.”

Blanching, your eyes widen. You say a silent prayer that no one else has an intuition to match or surpass that of Paul Atreides. This night has been humiliating enough. 

“Relax,” Paul says. “It’s not obvious. As I said, I know you.”

Your shoulders release their tension. You swallow hard and say, “Whether you know me or not, how can you possibly help? He’s not going to tell the Houses that I am more to him than the toy they already suspect me to be.”

“Not tonight, maybe, but the seeds of change can be planted,” he tells you.

“I don’t understand.”

As if about to reveal enemy intel, Paul smirks. “A man knows the thoughts of other men, and he has not enjoyed the attention you’ve been given.” He leans in closer. You brush aside the instinct to pull back. “You’re his, after all, and if the attention continues, eventually, he will want that to be well-known.”

With a half-hearted scoff, you say, “I’m his, and yet he does not claim me nor care enough to stop my dance with another man, even when that man caresses me in front of him.”

“I imagine he was instructed not to start a war,” Paul says. “But he cares…greatly.”

“You can’t possibly know that for certain.”

“He cares,” Paul strongly affirms. He looks to his left, in the direction of Feyd, then back at you. “He cares enough that he will stop this.”

A question is on your tongue. This. This what? But Paul’s lips are no longer hovering near yours; they are closing distance. In your chest, your heart hammers for all the wrong reasons. You freeze as mouths are about to eclipse. 

And then you’re yanked away, flying backward, your spine landing against a wall of muscle that you recognize all too well. 

Paul’s eyes snap open. He peers over your shoulder. There’s a hint of amusement in his irises, and, straightening his spine, he clasps his hands behind his back. “Ah,” he starts. “I thought she was available.”

“You thought wrong,” Feyd all but growls, his height looming over both you and Paul.

“Well, then allow me to extend an apology.”

Feyd doesn’t hear it. Neither do you. Faster than you can blink, you’re being led through the crowd, weaving in and out of bodies, ignoring curious stares as he drags you out the door of the ballroom. He pauses, looks left and right. You struggle to keep up with his steps as he chooses the right and continues down the hall until you come across a door. Opening it, he tugs you into an empty room. 

In the silence of seclusion, he says, “What the fuck was that?”

You briefly shy under the weight of his glare. “I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

“You went with him,” he snaps, gripping your wrist tighter. “To anger me?”

Maybe. “No.” 

“To hurt me!”

Perhaps. “No!” 

Feyd’s breath is heavy, his eyes wild. They scan your entire form as if searching for injury, defilement. He finds nothing. He bites down on his back teeth. His eyes narrow. 

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “You wanted my attention. Now you have it.”

A buzzing bolt of thrill shoots through you as Feyd pushes you into the wall. Reaching lower, he grips the thick material of your skirt in his fists and jerks it up to your waist. The clasp of his pants is undone by deft fingers. The same fingers pull your underwear aside so he can guide himself inside of you. 

Instantly, you sink into the pleasure of possession—the crumbs of what you want from him. 

If only he would fuck you in front of them. If they could see the two of you melding into one, if they could see the way he touches you even when angered, it would all make sense. They would witness the grazing of his fingertips along your skin and the grip he has on your flesh and know it is nothing like the grazing and grip of a man only using a warm body for his release. In that moment, they would understand that you are important, valued, possibly even loved. 

You’re not stupid. A part of you knows his tenderness would likely lead to you being labeled his weakness, but you can’t help wanting it anyway. Weakness or not, he’s strong enough to protect you. And it is a fool who would threaten a Harkonnen.

Feyd’s palm brushes your cheek as his fingers slide into your hair. His gaze casts downward, and, transfixed, mesmerized, he watches himself move in and out of you, listening to the little noises you make each time he fills you. Those fingers in your hair tighten into fists. Then he meets your eyes. You gasp as his nose nudges yours; lose your breath when he captures your mouth in a kiss. 

When you moan, his lips increase their pressure, hungry in the search for the fire he knows you contain inside of you. So you give him that fire. You match his firmness, move with him, open your mouth to let his tongue in. And, like you, he loses it—everything—every last bit of him capable of holding back. He thrusts into you like the beast he is until you’re releasing a cry and he’s groaning and there is nothing left for him to spill. 

In the aftermath, his head falls into the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. The dampness of a few sweat beads on his forehead mixes with the light sheen on your skin.

Riding on the huff of a labored exhale, he says, “Other men will not take you from me.” His arms wrap around your waist, squeezing. “You’re mine.”

With those words, you sigh, defeated. Nothing has changed. Nothing will change. He will forever declare that statement in the heated space between you, but never repeat it for the ears of others. 

“I know,” you say, placing your hand gently on the back of his head, keeping him against you. “I know.”

Your nails dig into his clothed shoulder as you try to control the constriction of your chest. Air in, air out, air in. It’s a fight, but a fight worth pushing through if it means Feyd won’t catch on to how his choices are affecting you. It’s all you can do to wait out the moment until his body has calmed. Then you will fix your skirt, he will secure his pants, and you will return to the ball where people will suspect what he did with you after he’d dragged you out of the room. More whispers. Probably some chuckles at how secretive he keeps you while they dance and kiss their spouses and concubines without hesitation. 

But then he says, “They will all know as well.”

And you stop. Everything stops. Your lungs stop taking in oxygen, your veins stop rushing with blood, you think you’ve stopped living. That must be the case; your dying mind playing its tricks. Yet, in your chest, your heart continues to thump with life—Hard, Vigorous, Real.

He said it. You heard it. His voice was too clear in a room too quiet, and you suddenly can’t feel the shell of your body. But you know you’re trembling. Numb, and yet overwhelmed with too many sensations. Relief. Disbelief. Only when his lips begin to press to your accessible skin do your senses return to you, mercifully permitting you to soak up the feel of him.

“Those who act otherwise will meet my blade,” he continues, forcing a whimper to get caught in your throat. 

Languid kisses make their way up your neck. Your eyelids flutter closed when he reaches that spot just under your ear. You’re waiting for him to say it was a joke and ‘never mind,’ or that it was a lapse in judgment and you must forget it. But he doesn’t utter another word, as if what he said was all he needed to say, as if he wants you to understand the finality of that promise and trust that he will do what he must to make sure everyone is well aware of the regulations now put in place. 

A Lady should not be forced into a darkness she does not want; that’s what Paul Atreides said. A Lady should be able to shine in the light. 

For a second, you allow your mind to drift and dream. You enter into the possibility of your future. Yes, there is little light within the fortress, but perhaps one day Feyd might be willing to harness every bit of brightness he can—every flicker that manages to sneak through a window, every glimmer that catches on the metal tip of his blade, every beam of warmth that heats the sand in the arena—and give it all to you.

[mrpenguinpants]

ooooh I love how you write jing yuan!!

can I request hcs (or a fic if you prefer) on what a domestic life w/ him would be like? like what happens after work or on weekends? :)

Down time

— Jing Yuan

Credits to the Animated Short: "Taking It Easy" for the beginning. [Masterlist]

Thank you anon, I'm glad you like him cause I enjoy writing him;; I am boycrazy about Jing Yuan.

Mornings are a struggle. Sharing a bed means sharing Jing Yuan’s early alarm and his terrible habit of refusing to get up until the very last possible second. You’re fairly certain he wakes up before the alarm even rings, yet he insists on playing dead for the entire half-hour it takes to coax his heavy body off you and out of bed. It always starts the same way. First, he rolls over just enough to silence the alarm while your mind is still struggling to register what lights even are. Then, without fail, he shifts again—this time right on top of you—burying you under his full weight as if he’s decided you make a perfectly comfortable mattress. It really brings into perspective how much time flies and how much people can change. You remember the tentative, tip-toe phase of your relationship—when you and Jing Yuan had just started dating, and the man could barely keep it together if you so much as leaned against his side. And now? Now, he had the audacity to bury his face against your chest, arms wrapped around you like a vice, and drift back to sleep without a second thought.

You can tolerate a “five more minutes” rule, so you don’t say anything at first, simply going limp beneath him, pressing your cheek against the fluffy mess of his hair, and waiting for him to move on his own. But then five minutes turn into ten, then twenty, and there’s still no sign of life. That’s when more drastic measures become necessary. At first, you try tugging on the tips of his hair—not hard enough to hurt, just enough to be annoying. No reaction. So you escalate, attempting to slip your arms around his neck in a makeshift chokehold, hoping the mild inconvenience will get him to budge. It never works. What does work is wiggling just enough to throw him off balance, sending you both tumbling in opposite directions. The morning ritual always ends the same way: you, sprawled on the floor, dry-heaving and disheveled, hair a complete mess; and Jing Yuan, sitting pretty on the bed, completely unbothered, watching you with lazy amusement—just like your fat white cat perched on a windowsill, basking in the morning sun.

While Fu Xuan, Qingzu, and even Yanqing sometimes—muttering under his breath—like to compare Jing Yuan to a lazy cat, you think a sticky leech is a far more accurate description. You physically cannot go anywhere without him clinging to you in some way. The simple act of walking to the bathroom in the morning turns into an awkward, shuffling waddle as Jing Yuan drapes himself over you from behind, his weight making every step as difficult as possible. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, as if the very air he breathes needs to be laced with tea tree oil or he might just wither away. Even brushing your teeth is a shared experience. One of his arms snakes around your waist, securing you firmly in place—not just to keep you within reach, but to conveniently bend you forward at the perfect angle so he can spit into the sink without getting anything in your hair. Because, of course, heaven forbid the mighty Arbiter-General suffer even a single second where you aren’t attached at the hip when he actually has the time to do so.

Mornings are quiet for the most part, steeped in a comfortable drowsiness that neither of you are in any hurry to shake off. The world outside is beginning to stir, but in here, time moves slower, stretching lazily between shared warmth and half-hearted movements. Words feel unnecessary, replaced by soft hums and the occasional shift of weight as you both move through the familiar motions of your routines. A nudge against his side earns you a low sigh, but Jing Yuan relents, lifting his arms just enough to let you slip from beneath them to grab your uniform. Fabric rustles as you begin changing, the cool air meeting bare skin in sharp contrast to the heat left behind by tangled sheets. There’s a weight to his gaze, one you don’t need to see to feel. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, still half-lost to sleep, he watches with an easy sort of attention, the kind that isn’t searching for anything new but appreciating what’s already familiar. A slow exhale, a quiet hum—subtle, yet unmistakably fond. You don’t bother turning around, but the warmth that presses against your shoulder a moment later makes you still. Lips graze skin, unhurried, reverent in their own way. The gesture lingers just long enough to make the space between waking and dreaming blur again, as if he isn’t quite ready to let go of the quiet moments where the world only belongs to the two of you.

The garden outside is vast, sprawling with carefully tended greenery, yet Jing Yuan’s personal collection remains modest—just three potted plants resting on the lip of the fountain. Vibrant petals bloom alongside the deep green of their leaves, and he tends to them lazily, one hand tilting a watering can while the other rubs the sleep from his eyes. The drowsiness clings to him still, evident in the slow blinks and half-hidden yawns between each absentminded motion. This is when the roles reverse, and you find yourself slipping your arms around his waist, your steps slowing as you lean your head against his back. Jing Yuan moves with ease, but you can feel his steady warmth against you, his movements languid. He idly traces patterns over your hands, the rhythm soothing, a silent second conversation between the two of you.

By now you're both awake enough to start talking, light and casual. You talk about breakfast—what sounds good today, whether you should have something quick or if it's worth the time to cook a more elaborate meal. The mention of Yanqing’s morning habits leads to a soft laugh, wondering if he’s already up and running or if he’s still tucked away in his room, likely too absorbed in sharpening his swords to notice the passage of time. You both share a knowing look at the thought, the fondness clear in the quiet smile that lingers between you. Then the conversation shifts to the future, and you ask if next week might be a good time to visit your parents for lunch. It’s a simple question, but one that feels significant in its own way, a small slice of normalcy between the chaotic, ever-shifting world you both live in. Jing Yuan hums thoughtfully, considering the question for a moment before nodding, his hand giving yours a reassuring squeeze as he continues walking, guiding you through the calm of golden hour.

The small finches that have claimed him as their own flit through the air, landing with practiced ease along the curve of his shoulder. Some nestle comfortably in the folds of his robe, while others busy themselves tugging at strands of his hair, their tiny beaks working persistently through the thick waves. It would be endearing—if you hadn’t spent so much time brushing out every last tangle just minutes ago. No matter how soft his mane appears, it is deceptively stubborn, each lock demanding patience to work through with a fine-toothed comb. You can already imagine the knots forming anew, the battle you’ll have to wage against them later. He, of course, remains utterly unbothered, chuckling as the birds weave through his hair, letting them undo all your efforts without a single care. Your peaceful morning ends with you having a rather one-sided argument with a finch, jiānduī (sesame ball) that Jing Yuan so dearly calls, who chirps angrily back at you as you fight over your husband.

You had attempted in the past to dress Jing Yuan up. The idea mostly stemmed from movies and cartoons from Penacony, where older characters would neatly button up their kids' collars or loving wives would tighten their husbands' ties before sending them off for the day. It all looked so charming, so endearing—you wanted to try it for yourself. While Yanqing has hit that age where he admittedly refuses any help from his mother because he's "not a kid anymore", you can still get away with it with Jing Yuan. Eagerly, you padded into his closet one morning, determination burning in your eyes as you set out to recreate a heartwarming moment straight out of a children’s show. But what you found instead was an overzealous designer. His wardrobe wasn’t filled with simple shirts and pants—it was an intricate battlefield of layered fabrics, confusing belts, and unnecessarily elaborate clasps. Your enthusiasm wavered as you pulled out a piece of his uniform, holding it up like an ancient relic, brow furrowing at the sheer number of unnecessary straps and accessories. What were these thigh straps even for? Psychological warfare??

Food is an essential family bonding tradition on the Luofu, and the Jing family is no exception. No matter how chaotic life gets, there's an unspoken rule that meals must be shared—one way or another. If breakfast together is impossible, then lunch becomes the fallback. If lunch slips away, then dinner is non-negotiable. Should dinner plans crumble under duty’s weight, then a midnight snack will have to do. And if even the snacks are lost to time, then at the very least, a shared cup of water at three in the morning must suffice. But on the rare occasion that an entire day passes without even the briefest moment to eat together, there's a final clause: whoever canceled the most has to foot the bill for the next meal. And considering you married the most important man on the Luofu—the very Arbiter-General himself—you fully intend to take advantage of that rather impressive paycheck.

You’re both... passable when it comes to cooking. Given your busy lifestyles, neither of you ever had the luxury of refining your culinary skills beyond the bare minimum—if the food is edible and won’t send you to the infirmary, it counts as a success. As a result, most of your meals consist of dining out or bringing home leftovers to stretch into the next meal. It’s not the most ideal arrangement, but you both have other strengths, and at this point in your life, you’ve made peace with the fact that cooking simply isn’t one of them. Especially when it comes to meat. After the last food poisoning incident—a miserable, harrowing experience that neither of you ever speak of—you’ve sworn off handling it entirely. On the other hand, Jing Yuan is a bit more capable in the kitchen. He can throw anything into a clay pot, let it simmer for a while, and somehow, the end result is surprisingly decent. But the moment a recipe demands any real technique, precision, or effort beyond “let it stew,” you both might as well start drafting the funeral rites for whatever unfortunate pan is about to meet its untimely end. At this point, adding a new one to the bi-weekly shopping list has become routine.

Aside from the maintenance crew that tends to the expansive estate, your home life is kept strictly private—just you, Jing Yuan, and Yanqing. You’re not particularly comfortable with outsiders wandering through your space and handling personal belongings, and, frankly, considering how often you end up stumbling half-awake through the halls in the middle of the night, the risk of accidentally scaring someone or yourself half to death is far too high. Jing Yuan, ever the picture of warmth and diplomacy, is cordial with the staff. He offers easy smiles and polite conversation, always taking the time to thank them with small gifts and kind words, making them feel seen and appreciated. You, on the other hand, are fairly certain that the staff either believes you’re a complete recluse who has never once set foot beyond the estate walls or that you’re in the early stages of succumbing to Mara itself. It’s not that you dislike people—you just have an unfortunate tendency to freeze up when faced with new interactions. Any years of experience you have in holding a conversation seem to evaporate the moment you lock eyes with a stranger. Take, for instance, the time you encountered the gardener while stepping outside. Instead of greeting him like a normal person, you froze like a deer in the headlights, eyes wide and unblinking, before slowly backpedaling into the house while maintaining eye contact the entire time. Not your proudest moment. You’ve yet to summon the courage to properly reintroduce yourself and assure him that, no, you are not a shy ghost haunting the estate.

During working hours, your relationship remains strictly professional—at least, that’s how it’s supposed to be. Everyone knows you’re married; if the shared surname wasn’t enough, then the matching jade-and-gold dragon and phoenix hairpins certainly were. But despite this well-established fact, Jing Yuan has an unfortunate habit of letting little things slip when he really shouldn’t. Moments that are meant for serious discussions about military operations or Luofu affairs somehow derail when he offhandedly mentions that you forgot your scarf again, or that he liked the way you tied his hair this morning. But once the day’s duties come to an end, so does the facade. Postures slump, formalities fade, and if you both happen to finish at the same time, you forgo the Starskiff and walk home together instead. Beneath the golden hues of dusk, with the Luofu bathed in the warm glow of a setting sun, you can’t help but steal glances at your husband. It’s ridiculous, really—how even after all this time, after centuries of shared mornings, whispered conversations, and quiet nights, he still manages to leave you breathless. That even now, as the years stretch long and endless before you, you still have to take a moment to remind yourself that this is real. That against all odds, by some miracle of the Aeons above, you’ve somehow managed to marry the most beautiful man this side of the universe.

You both still take detours away from the crowded streets, slipping into quiet back alleys where the world narrows to just the two of you. It’s a habit born out of necessity—Jing Yuan’s presence draws attention no matter where he goes, and avoiding the inevitable gawking is simply easier this way. But there’s something nostalgic about it, too, something thrilling. It reminds you of when you were both still young, sneaking away from training and cram school, dodging the ever-watchful eyes of your mentors. Of course, those teachers are long gone now, their scolding voices nothing more than distant memories, but the habit remains. You tug Jing Yuan along by the hand, his red hair tie trailing in the wind as you weave through narrow paths lined with mossy walls and overgrown vines. The stone beneath your feet has witnessed years of hushed whispers and stolen kisses, of fleeting moments where duty was briefly forgotten in favor of something softer. It all started when he was still just a lieutenant, ducking away from Baiheng’s relentless attempts to braid his hair. You remember the exact moment—how he nearly crashed into you in his haste, only managing to sidestep you at the last second. He had turned to throw a quick apology over his shoulder, already scaling the wall with the ease of someone who had done this a hundred times before. Meanwhile, you were left fuming, barely managing to keep your grip on a heavy box of ink blocks, hurling curses at him as he disappeared over the edge. Some things change with time. Others, like the thrill of slipping away from responsibilities, remain the same.

Having said that, you’d still have to be the most self-sufficient, independent, borderline introvert if you want any hope of making your marriage with Jing Yuan work. As much as he dislikes it, his duties as General will always take priority over his role as a husband. Meetings run longer than expected, stacks of paperwork demand his signature, and sometimes, no matter how much he wishes otherwise, he must personally oversee an operation to ensure nothing goes awry. It’s an old reality, one he’s long since accepted—but not without its lingering weight. When he was younger, still just a lieutenant with ambitions far greater than his years, this very fear had shaped his resolve. Back then, he had chosen to lock away any thoughts of romance, dedicating himself entirely to his training. A relationship, he believed, would be unfair—to both his partner and himself. He couldn’t offer them the time and devotion they deserved, and he refused to bear the guilt of that neglect. An afternoon spent together could mean a tomorrow lost, and he was never one to gamble with what he wasn’t willing to lose. He’s always on the clock, even on his registered days off, because there truly is no rest for the Arbiter-General. His position does not allow for long, uninterrupted stretches of peace, and by now, you’ve learned to expect that quiet moments with him are fleeting at best, illusions at worst. Whether it’s in the middle of dinner—just as he’s mid-motion, placing food onto your plate—you’ll hear a knock at the door, a messenger waiting with an urgent report. And the next second? He’s gone, leaving behind the warmth of his presence, and you’re left eating alone, staring at dishes that have already begun to cool. Or perhaps you’re half a step into bed, finally ready to surrender the day’s burdens against his chest, when an alarm starts blaring through the halls, cutting through the serenity. You don’t even get a proper goodbye—just the feeling of his fingers brushing your wrist as he murmurs an apology, his side of the bed still warm but empty.

Chores are technically split between the two of you, following an unspoken law of common courtesy. Whoever cooks, the other does the dishes. Whoever washes the clothes, the other dries. Whoever sweeps, the other mops. It’s a simple system, fair in theory—until reality intervenes. Given Jing Yuan’s relentless schedule and the fact that he is, by all definitions, never truly "free," the balance of responsibility inevitably tips toward you. More often than not, he barely manages to grab a sponge before a knock at the door calls him away. Another urgent matter, another fleeting promise to do better next time. And every time he returns to find the house already spotless, guilt seeps into his chest. He knows you don’t mind, that you understand he isn’t shirking duties on purpose just to lounge around. But still, it must be frustrating, constantly picking up after someone who swears—each time, with complete sincerity—that next time will be different. At this point, you’ve stopped waiting up for him. It’s not that you don’t miss him—you do, terribly—but there’s only so many times you can fall asleep against the headboard, only to wake up alone, the sheets still untouched beside you. Instead, you’ve adapted. You’ve learned to see these moments not as disappointments, but as opportunities. Leftover meals mean less cooking time tomorrow. An empty bed means more space for you to stretch, curling up like a cat or sprawling in a glorious starfish position you wouldn’t otherwise have the room for. And when he does return—exhausted, apologetic, but always reaching for you first—it almost makes up for the nights spent alone.

In times of quiet, when the guilt sits heavy in his stomach, Jing Yuan turns to the simplest, most instinctive solution: coming to you. Communication, after all, is a surprisingly rare skill among his peers, and he knows too many people who lack both the time and the temperament for it. It’s usually when you’re both in bed, your back pressed against his chest, that he allows the restraint to slip. In the hush of the night, his voice is softer, the weight of unspoken thoughts finding form. Are you truly happy with him? Do you ever regret tying your life to his? Do you feel the same quiet thrill he does when someone calls out "Jing," and have it mean the both of you?

In these moments, you’re faced with a simple yet crucial decision: how exactly do you wish to kill your husband? Smothering or strangulation? Rolling over to face him in the inky black of night, your hands move on instinct, reaching out to pinch his cheeks together before capturing his lips in a kiss meant to steal every last breath from him. He barely gets a chance to react before your full weight presses down, ensuring he has nowhere to escape. His muffled protests—something about bruised lips, something about letting him breathe—are swiftly dismissed with a sharp slap to his shoulder. Because what the hell did he just say to you? Did he forget the centuries of pining, the countless nights you spent longing for a single glance from the elusive, white-haired Cloud Knight? Did he forget how you had sobbed—ugly, gasping cries—to the point where he had to hold you, rubbing circles into your back until you could form a single coherent word, all because he had proposed? And most importantly, had he somehow erased from his memory the image of you standing at the doorstep every night for over three hundred years, unwavering in your devotion, waiting with a white lion at your side—a companion who had slowly aged, growing frail with time, until the night came when you stood alone? If he was truly re-thinking everything, he'd better be ready to make up centuries of your life or you'll take it back in blood.

The days when the world finally seems to slow are the most treasured. When Jing Yuan can actually slouch, letting the weight of his title slip from his shoulders as he leans against you, his breaths deep and unguarded. Those days mean far more than the cold nights spent alone and the lukewarm meals left unfinished. Despite his deep-seated worries—that one day, you’ll realize you deserve a marriage far better than what he can offer—you think he’s got it entirely backward. He has no idea how lucky you feel, how absurd it still is that you not only caught his eye but somehow managed to keep him tethered to you. Jing Yuan, the revered Arbiter-General, the man who commands an entire army with effortless grace, yet chooses to rest his head against your shoulder, trusting you to hold him up when the weight of the world bears down on him. Honestly, even now, despite sharing the same family name, it’s a pretty fair assessment to say you still harbor the fattest crush on him. A hopeless, unwavering admiration that hasn’t dulled in the slightest—even when he’s snoring lightly against your collarbone, trapping your body beneath his heavy frame, utterly unbothered by the way you’re struggling to breathe.

[mrs-delaney]

Behind the Lens | Joe's POV | Part One

📸 catch up on behind the lens before reading joe’s pov 🧃

📖 read my masterlist — if you’re into feelings, football, and a little bit of feral

✨ join my tag list if you want to be yelled at every time joe burrow has a feeling ✨

🏈 joe burrow x reader word count: 24.7k

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

Author’s Note: we did it Joe! thank y’all for your patience with me getting this out. i really wanted to make sure i captured it right. apparently joe’s pov is also gonna be wordy… so. let the games begin. i also really tried to make sure i got everyone tagged, but i’m certain i’m missing a couple people—please let me know if i am!

Taglist:@honeydippedfiction @harryweeniee @mruizsworld @cixrosie

July 2020 - Cincinnati Bengals Training Facility 

The media room was just like all the others Joe had experienced since high school. The setup was identical, the atmosphere was familiar, and the orchestrated hustle of people aiming for the "perfect" shot was the same. But this time, Joe wasn't just another player going through the motions of media duties. He was the top draft pick. A Heisman Trophy winner. The franchise quarterback around whom they had spun an entire story before he even played a game. The savior of Cincinnati football—or so everyone kept saying.

Joe surveyed the room as he entered, taking inventory the way he always did. Cameras, lighting equipment, PR staff with clipboards and anxious expressions. Standard operation. He'd done this dance enough times to know the rhythm: smile when directed, answer the softball questions, project confidence without arrogance, give them just enough personality to make good content without revealing anything personal.

His eyes swept across the media team, cataloging faces he'd need to remember, when his attention caught on a woman adjusting camera settings with methodical precision. She wasn't rushing like some of the others, wasn't looking at him with that mixture of nervousness and starstruck anticipation he'd grown accustomed to. She was just... working. Focused. Professional.

"Good morning everyone," he said, nodding to the room generally, but found his gaze drifting back to the woman with the camera.

The photoshoot began predictably. Positions, angles, "Try this," "Hold that," the usual choreography. Joe moved through the motions with practiced ease, but he found himself paying attention to the woman behind the main camera. She gave clear, concise directions without the over-enthusiasm that usually made these sessions feel performative.

Then the assistant fumbled the football.

Joe watched it spiral awkwardly through the air, trajectory clearly wrong, heading straight for what looked like thousands of dollars worth of lighting equipment. Before he could move, before anyone else could react, the woman stepped forward and caught it one-handed. Clean. Natural. Like she'd been doing it her whole life.

The catch itself was impressive. The way she immediately transferred it to her throwing hand and sent a perfect spiral back to him was what got his attention.

"Nice hands," he said, and meant it. The throw had been textbook—tight spiral, perfect velocity, right to his chest.

"Growing up with three brothers," she explained, already stepping back behind her camera. "You either learn to catch or get hit in the face a lot."

Something shifted in Joe's assessment of her. This wasn't just another media person going through the motions. She understood the mechanics of the game, the feel of the ball, the instincts required. When she mentioned her brothers, he caught something in her tone—affection mixed with exasperation, the kind that came from real family dynamics, not media-friendly talking points.

As the shoot continued, Joe found himself responding to her cues differently than he typically did. When she asked for adjustments, he made them without the subtle resistance he usually employed with photographers. When she called for different expressions, he found himself actually considering what she was asking for instead of just cycling through his standard options.

"Can we get a few looking directly into the camera?" she requested, adjusting her position.

Joe met her eyes through the lens. Most photographers wanted him to look at the camera. She wanted him to look at her. The difference was subtle, but it made this feel like a conversation rather than documentation.

"Perfect," she said, voice steady and professional. "Now just a slight smile, nothing forced."

That surprised him. She could see the difference between his media smile and something genuine. Most people couldn't, or didn't care to. They wanted the smile that looked good in print, regardless of whether it meant anything.

Joe let his expression shift, allowing something more natural to surface. Not the careful, controlled smile he'd perfected for cameras, but the hint of amusement that appeared when someone surprised him. When someone actually saw him.

The camera clicked.

"Great," she said, and there was something in her voice—satisfaction, maybe, or recognition. Like she'd captured exactly what she'd been looking for.

As the formal portion wrapped up, Joe found himself lingering instead of immediately heading to his next obligation. The woman was reviewing images on her camera's display, that same focused attention she'd shown throughout the session.

"Did you get what you needed?" he asked, approaching her workstation.

She looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Definitely. That last series will work well for the campaign."

"Thanks for being..." he paused, searching for the right word, "efficient. Some of these shoots can drag on forever."

"Time's valuable," she replied simply. "Yours and everyone else's."

Joe nodded, appreciating the practical approach. No false flattery, no attempt to extend the interaction beyond what was necessary. Just professional competence with a touch of personality.

As he headed toward the exit, Joe caught himself glancing back once. She was already organizing equipment, moving with the same methodical efficiency she'd shown throughout the session. Something about her stayed with him as he walked to his next meeting—the easy catch, the perfect throw, the way she'd asked for a genuine smile and waited until she got it.

Most people in this building wanted something from him. Performance, access, quotes, photo opportunities. She'd simply done her job exceptionally well while making him feel like a person rather than a product.

It was a small thing, probably meaningless in the broader scope of his transition to Cincinnati. But as Joe settled into his next obligation, he found himself wondering what she had thought of those final shots, and whether she'd noticed the difference between his camera face and the real one.

The wondering felt dangerous, and he pushed it aside. But it lingered anyway, a small thread of curiosity about the woman who could catch a spiral and see through his defenses with equal ease.

* * *

August 2020 - Virtual Team Meeting 

Joe adjusted his laptop screen, settling into the home office chair as faces populated the Zoom window. Another virtual meeting, another adaptation to the strange reality of conducting team business through screens. The director of media relations was outlining COVID protocols, but Joe's attention kept drifting to the broader challenge they were facing: how to maintain connection with fans when everything that made football culture meaningful had been stripped away.

"We need to address the fan engagement problem," the director continued. "No fans in the stadium means we're losing that community connection that's central to the Bengals experience."

Joe had been thinking about this exact issue. The energy of a crowd, the visual of packed stands, the sense that the team and city were unified in something bigger than individual games—all of it was gone. How do you build a franchise identity when half the traditional elements were off the table?

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts.

"I have some ideas, if you're open to them."

Joe's attention sharpened. Y/N Y/L/N, the media coordinator who'd handled his photoshoot a few weeks earlier. He remembered her—professional, efficient, the woman who could throw a perfect spiral and didn't try to extend conversations beyond what was necessary. He hadn't expected to hear from her in a strategy meeting, but found himself curious about what she'd contribute.

"Go ahead, Y/N," Kayla encouraged.

Y/N straightened up as she began speaking, and Joe could see her settle into herself. This wasn't prepared talking points—this was someone who knew what she was doing.

"Okay, what if we did cardboard cutouts in the stands? Fans could buy spots to get their photos up there. It gives them a way to be in the stadium, looks good on TV, and we could put the money toward COVID relief here in Cincinnati."

Joe sat forward slightly. The idea was clever—practical but also emotionally smart. It acknowledged the loss while creating something tangible fans could participate in. More importantly, it connected team revenue to community support, which aligned with the kind of impact he wanted to have in Cincinnati.

"Second, the Freedom Center march—that $250k pledge to community programs? We should be documenting all of that. Interviews, behind-the-scenes, make it educational. Show people the team cares about more than just winning games."

Now Joe was fully engaged. He'd been thinking about how to use his platform responsibly, how to support social justice initiatives without it feeling performative or superficial. Y/N was proposing exactly the kind of authentic approach he'd been hoping for—substance over spectacle, education over empty gestures.

"And third, we need to replace in-person interactions with virtual ones. Q&A sessions with players, live-streamed limited-access practices, interactive social media challenges. The fans need to feel part of the Bengals community even when they can't physically be here."

When she finished, Joe found himself mentally reviewing each suggestion. They weren't just creative solutions; they were thoughtful ones. Y/N had identified real problems and offered practical fixes that served multiple purposes—fan engagement, community support, meaningful content creation.

"These are solid, Y/N," the director said, echoing Joe's own assessment. "Particularly the social justice series. Let's form working groups to develop each of these. Y/N, I want you on the social justice content team, coordinating with player involvement."

Joe made a quick decision. "I'd like to work directly with Y/N on the social justice initiative."

The words came out more decisively than he'd intended, but he didn't regret them. If they were going to do this right, he wanted someone who understood both the substance and the strategy. Y/N had just demonstrated she grasped what he was trying to accomplish.

After the meeting ended, Joe stared at his laptop screen for a moment, processing what had just happened. He'd requested to work with Y/N specifically, and he wasn't entirely sure why. Yes, her ideas were good. Yes, she seemed to understand the balance between meaningful action and effective communication.

But there was something else. She hadn't been trying to sell anyone on her ideas—she'd just presented them like they were the obvious thing to do. She wasn't performing passion for social justice; she seemed to actually care about creating something meaningful.

Joe thought about the march to the Freedom Center, about the conversations he'd been having with veteran players about using their platform responsibly. He'd been hoping to find people within the organization who understood that authentic impact required more than just photo opportunities and press releases.

Maybe he'd found one.

As he closed his laptop, Joe found himself looking forward to talking with her again. Y/N had surprised him twice now—first with how good she was at her job, and now with ideas that actually mattered.

It was professional interest, he told himself. The franchise quarterback needed good people around him, people who understood how to translate intention into action. Y/N seemed like exactly that kind of person.

* * *

October 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium 

Joe had an hour to kill before his scheduled film study session. Most days he would have spent it in the quarterback room reviewing notes or grabbing a quick meal, but something had drawn him toward the main stadium bowl instead. Restlessness, maybe, or curiosity about how the space would feel without crowds for the first time in his football career.

Walking through the empty corridors, he heard movement coming from the main bowl. Curious, Joe pushed through the tunnel doors and stopped short.

The stands were filled with people. Thousands of them, sitting motionless in perfect rows, their faces turned toward the field in silent attention. For a disorienting moment, his brain couldn't process what he was seeing.

Then he understood. Cardboard cutouts. Y/N's idea, brought to life.

"This is surreal," a voice said from somewhere among the stands.

Joe turned to find Y/N moving between rows, camera in hand, documenting her creation. She was dressed casually—jeans, Bengals polo, hair pulled back in a ponytail—but there was something almost reverent in the way she moved through the artificial crowd.

"Quite the crowd you've assembled," Joe called out, making his way down toward the field.

She looked up, surprise flickering across her face before settling into that professional composure he was beginning to recognize. "Tough audience though. No matter how well I play, they never cheer."

The response surprised a laugh out of him. "But they never boo either. Built-in supportive fanbase."

Joe found himself walking closer, drawn by the strangeness of the scene and by Y/N's presence in it. This had been her idea, and seeing it executed made him appreciate the emotional intelligence behind the concept. It was eerie, yes, but it was also oddly comforting. Better than empty stands. Much better.

"This was your idea, right?" he asked, gesturing to the cardboard crowd. "From that call back in August."

"One of them," Y/N confirmed, continuing to move between rows with her camera. "Part of our COVID adaptations."

Joe began walking slowly through the artificial audience, studying the faces. Each cutout represented a real person, a real connection to the team. Some wore current jerseys, others vintage gear that spoke to decades of loyalty. The attention to detail was remarkable—these weren't just generic crowd shots, but individual submissions from fans who cared enough to send their photos.

"Creative solution," he said, pausing at a cutout of an elderly man in what looked like 1980s Bengals gear. "Kind of eerie, but better than completely empty stands."

"The team means a lot to this city," Y/N replied, joining him near the older fan's image. "Even when the seasons are rough."

"Especially then," Joe found himself saying, surprised by the conviction in his own voice. "Loyalty means more when it's tested."

The words hung between them. Joe wasn't sure why, but standing here with Y/N in this fake crowd felt like something. Maybe because her idea had actually worked. Maybe because they were alone in a place meant for thousands of people.

They stood in comfortable silence, surrounded by the two-dimensional faces of people who loved this team enough to want their presence felt even when they couldn't physically attend. Joe found himself studying Y/N as much as the cutouts, noting the satisfaction in her expression as she surveyed her work.

"We're setting up for a socially distanced filming session," Y/N explained, gesturing to equipment he hadn't noticed before. "Fan messages to play during the broadcast."

"Need help?" The offer came out before Joe had time to consider it.

Y/N stared at him with obvious surprise. "You're volunteering to help set up a PR shoot?"

Joe shrugged, not entirely sure himself why he'd made the offer. "I've got an hour before film study. Figured I'd see how the other side of this works. I'm usually the one being pointed at, not the one setting things up."

But that wasn't really it. Being here with Y/N, seeing how much she cared about getting this right—he wanted in on whatever she was building. He wanted to understand how she did what she did.

Before Y/N could respond to his offer, her phone rang. She glanced at the screen with the apologetic expression of someone about to take a work call.

"Go ahead," Joe said, already moving toward the lighting equipment she'd brought. "I'll start getting these positioned."

While Y/N was on her call, Joe looked around at all the equipment. He'd done a million photo shoots, but he'd never really noticed how much stuff went into making them work. Lights everywhere, cameras at weird angles—no wonder it took forever to get a good shot.

When Y/N finished her call, she found him adjusting a light stand with surprising competence.

"You've done this before," she observed.

"Enough times to know where the light should hit," Joe replied, testing the angle. "Though usually from the other side."

Working with Y/N was easier than Joe expected. Y/N would point at something and he'd already be moving to grab it. She'd start to ask for an adjustment and he was already doing it. It just... worked.

"My brothers would never believe this," Y/N muttered, almost to herself, as Joe helped position the main camera.

"What's that?"

"The franchise quarterback doing setup work for a social media shoot," she said, looking slightly embarrassed that she'd spoken aloud. "They think I spend my days chasing you around with a camera, not actually doing anything useful."

Joe smiled, enjoying the glimpse into her family dynamics. "Happy to help rewrite the narrative."

He kept thinking about her brothers. The way Y/N talked about them—like they were tight but also annoyed the hell out of each other.  It made him think about what her life was like when she wasn't here dealing with work stuff.

"Which ones?" Joe asked, genuinely interested.

"Which ones what?"

"Your brothers. Where are they in all this?" He gestured toward the cardboard crowd.

Y/N's expression shifted to something between amusement and resignation. "Row 23, I think? Three guys who look suspiciously related to me, wearing vintage Boomer Esiason jerseys."

Joe immediately headed for Row 23. Y/N trailed behind him, looking mortified.

When he spotted them, Joe had to grin. Three guys who were obviously brothers, all wearing the same old-school jerseys and looking ridiculously happy about it. They looked like Y/N—same eyes, same smile.

"The Y/L/N brothers," Joe observed, taking in their faces. "I can see the resemblance."

"God help me," Y/N sighed, but there was affection in her voice.

Joe looked from the cardboard brothers back to Y/N. You could definitely see the family resemblance—same bone structure, same smile—but her brothers looked like the kind of guys who'd be screaming at refs and buying rounds for strangers after wins. Y/N kept hers more contained. She had that same enthusiasm, Joe could tell, but she'd figured out how to channel it differently. Keep it professional.

"You're lucky," he said quietly, and immediately heard the wistfulness in his own voice.

Y/N looked at him with surprise. "Lucky?"

"To have family that supports what you do like that." Joe gestured toward the cardboard brothers, then toward the broader project around them. "To have people who are genuinely excited about your success."

The words came out more honest than Joe meant them to. His own family was supportive, sure, but everything got complicated by his career. These guys had sent in their photos because they loved the team and wanted to support their sister's idea. Not because she worked with Joe Burrow. That was... different.

The stadium doors opened and suddenly the media team was flooding in, killing whatever moment they'd been having. Joe automatically switched back to work mode, nodding at people as they set up equipment. Y/N did the same thing—went straight into boss mode, directing traffic like nothing had happened.

As everyone started setting up, Joe hung around longer than he needed to. Officially he was helping, but really he was just watching Y/N work. She made it look effortless—everyone knew what to do, nobody was stressed.

Joe was ready to head out—he was definitely in the way now. But something held him back.

"Thanks for the help," Y/N said as he gathered his things. "Unexpected but appreciated."

"Good luck with the shoot," Joe replied, already shifting back into the more reserved demeanor he typically maintained around staff.

Joe couldn't get the image out of his head as he walked away—Y/N weaving through those cardboard fans, talking about her brothers like they drove her crazy but she'd do anything for them. The whole thing had felt... different. More real than the usual work stuff.

Standing there helping with lights and talking about family—it was like getting a peek at what normal felt like. Where people weren't constantly managing his image or trying to get something from him.

Walking back through the tunnel, Joe kept thinking about the way Y/N had looked at her brothers' cutouts. Embarrassed but fond. And how she just figured shit out—saw a problem and solved it without making it complicated.

And that moment when he'd said "You're lucky." He'd sounded more wistful than he meant to.

That was the thing about Y/N, Joe realized as he headed to his next meeting. She made him notice what was missing. Made him want the kind of easy, real connections that seemed to come naturally to everyone else.

Which was probably not smart. There were reasons to keep work and personal separate, and Joe had always been good at that.

But sitting down in the film room to watch tape, Joe couldn't stop thinking about standing in that fake crowd with someone who just saw him as a guy who could hold a light steady.

* * *

November 22, 2020 - Paul Brown Stadium

The play looked perfect. Clean pocket, receivers where they should be, Washington showing exactly what Joe expected from film. He stepped up, feeling that groove when everything clicks.

Then Ryan Kerrigan destroyed his leg.

Joe knew right away it was bad. Not from pain—that hadn't hit yet—but from the way his knee went sideways. The sound it made. Like something snapping that wasn't supposed to snap.

Everything slowed down and sped up at the same time. He was on the turf, players crowding around him with those faces. The ones that meant you were fucked. Really fucked.

Medical staff everywhere, teammates looking sick, and of course the cameras were rolling. Because why wouldn't they be? His knee exploding was going to be on every highlight reel for the next month.

But through all the chaos, Joe spotted Y/N on the sideline. She wasn't filming—just watching with her camera down, looking genuinely worried. Not like someone getting content, but like someone who actually gave a shit about him as a person.

Their eyes met for a second as they got ready to cart him off. Joe managed a tiny nod. Y/N gave him that look she did—not dramatic, just there. Just present.

As they wheeled him toward the tunnel, Joe's brain was already spinning ahead. Surgery, rehab, months of grinding to get back. And it would all be documented, turned into some comeback story.

***

Hours of doctors later, Joe finally had a minute to himself. The diagnosis sucked as much as he'd thought: torn ACL, damaged MCL, other shit that meant complex surgery and a long road back.

His phone had been going off nonstop. Everyone checking in, offering support, asking how he was doing. But the call he wanted to make was to the one person who hadn't reached out.

Y/N was smart enough not to contact him directly after something like this. She understood the lines between professional and personal, knew when to stay back. But Joe found himself wanting her to call anyway. Wanting to hear someone who wouldn't bullshit him with false hope or PR-friendly encouragement.

Instead, he called his agent. His parents. His girlfriend. Teammates. Handled all the business of being hurt—surgery dates, recovery plans, logistics. But the whole time he kept thinking about who was going to document this comeback. Who would understand the difference between filming his recovery and creating content.

He already knew who he wanted to do it.

***

When Kayla called about his rehab media strategy, Joe didn't let her get through her whole pitch.

"Y/N's doing it," he said.

"Y/N specifically?" Kayla asked, though she didn't sound surprised.

"She gets it," Joe said simply. "She won't turn it into some inspiration porn."

After hanging up, Joe lay there in his room, leg propped up and hurting like hell even with the pain meds. Thinking about what came next. Months of grinding through rehab, celebrating being able to bend his knee five more degrees, rebuilding everything from scratch.

Joe pulled out his phone and scrolled to Y/N's number. He stared at it for a second—texting her directly instead of going through official channels felt like crossing some line. But fuck it.

Heard you're documenting the comeback tour.

He hit send before he could talk himself out of it. She texted back fast.

If you're sure that's what you want. We can assign someone else if you'd prefer.

Classic Y/N. Never pushed, always gave him space to change his mind.

I want someone who won't make this into a pity story. Someone who gets it.

Then I'm in. We'll document the comeback on your terms.

Reading that, Joe felt some of the weight lift off his chest.

Surgery's next week, December second. We'll get going after that.

Got it. Focus on healing. I'll handle the content strategy.

Joe stared at his phone for a second before typing again.

Thanks, Y/N. For everything today.

He meant the work stuff, obviously. But also the way she'd looked at him on the sideline. How she'd put her camera down when it mattered more to just be a person than get the shot.

Always. That's what I'm here for.

Joe was finally getting sleepy, but he wasn't thinking about the surgery or months of rehab. He was thinking about having Y/N there for all of it. Someone who saw him as Joe, not just injured quarterback content waiting to be packaged.

His knee was fucked. Getting back was going to suck. But at least he wouldn't be doing it alone.

* * *

Early/Mid December 2020 - Rehabilitation Center 

Two weeks post-surgery, and Joe was learning to hate the sound of his own breathing. Every exercise was a negotiation with pain, every movement a reminder of how much he'd lost in a single play. The physical therapist kept saying encouraging shit that all sounded the same, and Joe had started counting ceiling tiles just to keep from losing it.

"Just a few more clips today," Y/N said, adjusting her camera as the PT got ready for the next round of torture. "We'll keep it short."

Joe nodded, grateful she was there for reasons that had nothing to do with filming. Over the past two weeks, Y/N had become part of his routine—showing up, documenting his progress without making a big deal about it. These sessions felt different than their usual work stuff.

Maybe it was because the rehab center stripped away all the bullshit. No media training, no carefully managed anything. Just Joe trying to get his leg to work again while Y/N quietly filmed what a comeback actually looked like when nobody was pretending it was inspiring.

"Ready when you are," she told the therapist, who nodded and turned to Joe.

"Let's work on those quad activations again. Ten contractions, five-second hold each."

Joe gritted his teeth and started the exercise, feeling Y/N's camera following along. She'd figured out when to film and when to back off, never making him feel like a specimen under observation.

Thirty minutes that felt like three hours later, the therapist finally called it quits. As he left to get Joe's chart, Y/N started packing up her stuff with those efficient movements Joe had gotten used to.

"How's it look?" Joe asked quietly, nodding toward her camera.

He wasn't really asking about the footage. After two weeks of this, they'd developed their own language.

Y/N looked up, getting what he actually meant. "It looks like exactly what it is. The beginning of a comeback."

"Pretty boring content so far," Joe said, trying for his usual dry humor even though his knee was throbbing.

"The best comebacks start slow," Y/N replied, zipping her bag. "Makes it better when you actually get somewhere."

Joe shifted on the table, wincing as he tried to find a position that didn't suck. "This part doesn't make the highlight reel, huh?"

"Only the parts where you look superhuman," she said with a small smile. "Not the ones where you call the PT a sadist."

That got a real laugh out of him, though it turned into a grimace when the movement hit his knee wrong. But something about Y/N's honesty—the way she didn't treat him like he might break—felt like the first normal conversation he'd had since getting hurt.

"You don't bullshit me," Joe said. "I appreciate that."

In a world of medical consultations and carefully optimistic progress reports, Y/N's straightforward take felt like he could actually breathe. She didn't sugarcoat anything or feed him fake encouragement. She just saw what was happening and told him the truth.

Something shifted between them with that comment. Like they were both acknowledging these sessions had become more than just work. Y/N showing up had become something Joe looked forward to, not just for the filming but for the few minutes of actual human connection.

"The team wants an update for social tomorrow," she said, steering back to safer territory. "Any preferences for what we say?"

Joe rubbed his thigh above the brace, thinking about how to talk about progress when every victory was too small for social media.

"Keep it simple," he decided. "No dramatic promises. Just... I'm working. Things are happening. Grateful for support."

"Got it," Y/N nodded, making a note. "I'll send you a draft."

"I trust you," Joe said, and realized how true that was. "You haven't overplayed any of this."

The trust felt bigger than their usual work relationship. Y/N had access to his worst moments and never made him feel exploited or managed.

"That's why you requested me, right?" Y/N asked, keeping the tone light though Joe sensed a real question underneath.

"Yes," Joe said, meeting her eyes directly. "You see the person, not just the story."

The honesty in his voice surprised him. But it was true—Y/N had never made him feel like content to be packaged. Even when he was frustrated and hurting, she treated him like a person working through something hard, not a damaged athlete providing footage for his own documentary.

Before Y/N could respond, her phone buzzed with what looked like work.

"I should get this back to the facility," she said, holding up her phone. "Kayla needs the footage by three."

Joe nodded, already missing the conversation even though it hadn't quite ended. "Same time Thursday?"

"I'll be here," she confirmed, collecting the last of her gear.

As she reached the door, something made Joe call after her. "Hey, Y/N?"

She turned. "Yeah?"

"You doing anything for Christmas?"

The question came out more personal than he'd meant it to. But sitting in this place day after day, Joe had started thinking about the people who showed up, who saw him struggling and didn't try to fix it with bullshit platitudes.

Y/N shrugged like it was no big deal. "Staying in Cincinnati. My brother's wife is pregnant, so we're playing it safe with COVID."

"That's tough," Joe said, and meant it. He could hear in her voice that this was harder than she was letting on, the first Christmas away from family made more isolating by circumstances beyond anyone's control.

"It's fine," she said, forcing a smile. "First Christmas away from family, but honestly, not the worst thing happening this year."

She glanced at his busted leg, and Joe appreciated her trying to put things in perspective. But something about her just accepting it bothered him. Y/N spent all her time making sure other people felt supported. She deserved that too.

"Right," Joe said, though his brain was already working on something. "See you Thursday."

After Y/N left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, supposedly stretching but really thinking about their conversation. He couldn't stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone.

But this wasn't just work anymore, was it? These rehab sessions had created something different—more personal, built on trust and actually giving a shit about each other rather than just media obligations.

Joe thought about how Y/N protected his privacy, never made his struggle into content, made these awful sessions feel less isolating. She'd become someone he genuinely wanted to see, not just for work but for who she was.

And she was going to spend Christmas alone.

Joe pulled out his phone and started looking up custom gift places in Cincinnati. He couldn't drive yet, couldn't run around the way he normally would. But he could make calls, get something meaningful made and delivered.

Something that would let Y/N know someone had been thinking about her during the holidays. That her kindness hadn't gone unnoticed.

As he scrolled through shops and artisans, Joe told himself this was just gratitude—thanking someone for exceptional work during a shitty time. The fact that he wanted Y/N to have something personal from him, something that would make her think of him when she looked at it, was just professional appreciation.

Even thinking it, Joe knew he was full of shit. But some lies were necessary, especially when the truth could mess up everything he was trying to rebuild.

* * *

December 20, 2020 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat in his living room, leg propped up, scrolling through search results on his laptop. "Custom snow globe Cincinnati artisan" wasn't giving him much, but one shop kept popping up—some small place downtown that did commissioned pieces.

Olivia was upstairs wrapping gifts, humming Christmas songs while she got ready for tomorrow's celebration with his family. Everything exactly like it had been for the past three years. Comfortable. Predictable.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about Y/N spending Christmas alone?

It had been bugging him for days, ever since their conversation at rehab. The way she'd brushed off her first Christmas away from family, that smile that didn't quite work. Like she was trying to convince herself it was fine.

Joe found the shop's phone number and stared at it. This was crossing a line. You didn't commission personal gifts for colleagues. You didn't spend days obsessing over their holiday plans.

But he dialed anyway.

"Artisan Glass Works," came a voice on the other end.

"Hi, I'm looking for someone who can create a custom snow globe," Joe said, settling back as he explained what he wanted.

The guy—David—listened as Joe described the cardboard cutout project. Paul Brown Stadium filled with thousands of fake fans, Y/N's solution to an impossible problem, the way she'd moved through those crowds with her camera, documenting her own creation.

"So you want a miniature stadium with tiny cardboard people instead of snow?" David asked, already sounding interested.

"Exactly," Joe confirmed. "And it needs to be perfect. Every detail."

As he talked through the specs—orange and black colors, stadium layout, how the cardboard figures should look—Joe found himself explaining more than just the visual stuff. Y/N's first big project with the team, how she'd turned COVID restrictions into something meaningful for fans.

"This sounds like a very meaningful piece," David said. "The recipient must appreciate thoughtful gestures."

"She does," Joe said, then caught himself. "I mean, she's professional. Details matter to her."

"I see. And you mentioned Christmas delivery?"

Joe confirmed the timeline, arranging for Christmas Eve delivery to Y/N's apartment. As David went through the process, something made Joe hesitate.

"Actually," he said, interrupting the cost breakdown, "can you make two? Identical pieces?"

Brief pause. "Two identical snow globes?"

"Yes," Joe confirmed, not sure why he'd said it but unable to take it back. "Exactly the same."

After finalizing everything, Joe hung up and stared at his laptop, processing what he'd just done. Two custom snow globes. One for Y/N, one for himself. Matching pieces that would sit in their homes, reminders of something nobody else would understand.

The second globe was the most honest part. Joe wanted that connection. When Y/N shook her snow globe and watched the orange and black stuff swirl around the tiny cardboard fans, he'd be able to do the same thing. Like they were sharing a moment even when they weren't together.

It was romantic as hell, and that made Joe uncomfortable. This wasn't gratitude for good work—this was what you did when you had feelings for someone you couldn't pursue.

"Who were you talking to?" Olivia's voice came from the stairs as she came down with wrapped presents.

"Just handling some Christmas stuff," Joe replied, closing his laptop too fast.

"For your family?" Olivia asked, starting to arrange gifts under their tree with that methodical way she did everything.

"Work thing," Joe said, which wasn't technically a lie. Y/N was work, and the snow globe was about their project. The fact that his reasons had nothing to do with work didn't matter.

Olivia nodded, focused on making the gift arrangement look perfect. Joe watched her work, noting the careful spacing, how everything would photograph well for their Christmas morning social media. Everything in their relationship had that quality—thoughtful, appropriate, designed to look right from the outside.

But sitting there with his secret commission happening, Joe realized he'd never felt the need to surprise Olivia with something completely unique. Their gifts were nice, expensive, tasteful—but they could have been picked by someone who just knew their basic preferences.

The snow globe was different. It required understanding Y/N specifically, knowing what would mean something to her personally, wanting to create something that captured a moment only they shared.

***

Over dinner, Olivia picked at her salad while Joe worked through his PT-approved meal. The silence was comfortable in that familiar way, but Joe's mind kept drifting to tomorrow's rehab session, wondering what Y/N would film.

"How's the recovery content going?" Olivia asked, like she'd read his mind. "You've been spending a lot of time with that media coordinator. Y/N?"

Joe's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "It's going well. She's professional. Knows how to get the right story without making it dramatic."

"She seems nice," Olivia said, casual but with something underneath Joe couldn't place. "You mention her a lot."

"Do I?" Joe asked, genuinely surprised. He hadn't realized Y/N's name kept coming up.

"During your updates. 'Y/N thinks this will work better,' or 'Y/N suggested we focus on the mental stuff.' Like that." Olivia smiled, but it looked forced. "She seems very... involved."

Heat crept up Joe's neck. "She's good at her job. Gets what I need."

"I'm sure she does," Olivia said, going back to her salad. "It's nice that you have someone who understands. The football stuff, I mean."

The comment sat there between them, heavy with shit Joe didn't know how to handle. Olivia had always been his biggest supporter, been there since college, understood the pressure better than anyone. But Y/N got the day-to-day stuff, the technical side, in a way that was just... different.

"Yeah," Joe said quietly. "It helps having someone who speaks the language."

Olivia nodded, but something in her face had changed. Not jealousy exactly, but like she was seeing distance that hadn't been there before.

Hours later, as they settled in for the evening, Joe's phone buzzed with a text from David: Preliminary sketches ready for approval. Can send photos if you'd like to review before proceeding.

Yes, send them, Joe replied quickly.

The sketches came minutes later—detailed drawings of the mini stadium, tiny cardboard figures positioned just right, how the confetti would move when shaken. David had nailed not just how it looked but the spirit of the whole project.

Perfect. Go ahead with it.

Excellent. Delivery confirmed for December 24th. She'll love it.

Joe stared at David's assumption about Y/N's reaction, wondering what he'd said during their call that made the guy so sure. Had Joe's voice given him away? Had his detailed explanations revealed feelings he was trying to keep professional?

"Everything okay?" Olivia asked, settling next to him on the couch. "You seem off lately."

"Just thinking about the comeback," Joe said, which was partly true. His rehab took up most of his headspace, the slow grind of rebuilding everything. But lately those thoughts were tangled up with looking forward to his next session with Y/N, the easy conversation that made the work suck less.

"You're doing great," Olivia said, curling against his side like she always did. "The doctors are happy with your progress."

Joe nodded, accepting her comfort while his mind went to the snow globe being made downtown. In four days, Y/N would get something he'd had made just for her, something that would sit in her apartment reminding her of their connection.

And Joe would have the matching one, letting him share that moment whenever he wanted, think about Y/N thinking about him whenever she looked at her gift.

It was the most emotionally intimate thing Joe had ever done, dressed up as professional appreciation. And as Olivia dozed against his shoulder, trusting and comfortable in what they had, Joe couldn't make himself regret it.

Some feelings, once you admitted them, couldn't be shoved back down. And Joe was starting to realize what he felt for Y/N went way beyond professional respect or friendly concern.

The snow globe proved it—a beautiful, fucked-up declaration he was sending without the balls to attach his name to what he actually felt.

* * *

January 2021 - Rehabilitation Center 

The PT's notes looked good. Ahead of schedule. Range of motion improving. Strength building. All the numbers pointed to a successful recovery, but Joe couldn't shake the feeling that something fundamental had changed in ways no chart could measure.

"That's good for today," the PT said, scribbling final notes. "You're pushing hard, but remember what we talked about. Don't overdo it."

Joe nodded, though every instinct wanted to tell the guy to fuck off with the cautious approach. Six weeks post-surgery, and he was sick of measuring progress in degrees and pounds. He wanted to know when he'd feel like himself again, when his body would move without him having to think about every step.

"I'll send these notes to the medical team," the therapist continued. "Same time on Thursday?"

"I'll be here," Joe confirmed, his voice controlled despite the frustration building beneath the surface.

As the PT left, Joe stayed on the table, staring at ceiling tiles he'd memorized over the past month. Y/N moved around the room quietly, packing her stuff with that efficient way she had that had become one of the few normal things in his completely fucked routine.

"That looked rough today," she said, keeping it neutral as she put away memory cards.

Joe appreciated that she never tried to spin his bad days into something inspiring. She just saw what was happening and said it without trying to make him feel better about it.

"PT says that's good," Joe replied, hearing the edge in his own voice. "Means we're pushing boundaries."

Y/N nodded, recognizing the bullshit answer he gave to staff and coaches. After weeks of this, she'd gotten good at telling the difference between his various responses—the media ones, the team ones, and the real ones that sometimes slipped out.

"We got good content," she said, shifting to safer ground. "The determination shots will work well. And that resistance band moment shows clear progress from last week."

Joe made some noise of agreement, his mind elsewhere. The content, the narrative, the public story of his comeback—none of it captured what this actually felt like. The doubt that crept in when things got quiet. The fear that he might never move the same way again.

Y/N kept organizing her equipment, giving him space to process. Joe watched her work, noting how she paid attention to details others missed. She got that recovery wasn't a straight line, that some days felt like shit even when the medical data said you were improving.

"What if I can't come back from this the same?"

The question slipped out before Joe could stop it, spoken so quietly he wasn't sure Y/N had heard. He'd been carrying that fear for weeks, letting it build in the space between everyone's encouragement and how his body actually felt.

Y/N stopped packing and turned toward him, her expression shifting from work mode to something more personal. For a second, Joe regretted showing that crack in his armor.

Then Y/N reached for her camera and deliberately turned it off, showing him the dark screen.

"Off the record," she said simply.

Something in Joe's chest loosened. This wasn't going to become content, wasn't going to be turned into some inspiring soundbite about overcoming adversity. Just a conversation between two people, one of whom happened to understand what rebuilding an athletic career actually meant.

"Everyone keeps saying I'll come back stronger," Joe continued, gaining confidence as he realized Y/N was actually listening, not documenting. "The team, the media, fans. 'Joe Burrow's comeback will be legendary.' But what if it's not? What if this changes things permanently?"

Y/N leaned against the table, giving him her full attention in a way that felt different from their usual work stuff. "What does your PT actually say? Not the public version."

"That I'm ahead of schedule but have a long way to go," Joe answered honestly. "That most players come back from ACL tears, but it can take a full season to feel normal again." He paused, voicing the fear that kept him up at night. "If normal even exists after this."

Y/N nodded, thoughtful rather than sympathetic. Joe appreciated that she wasn't rushing to reassure him or offer some bullshit about positive thinking.

"I tore my ACL my senior year," she said, completely blindsiding him.

Joe turned to look at her fully, genuine shock breaking through his self-pity. In all their sessions, through all the conversations about recovery and rehab, Y/N had never mentioned going through this exact thing herself.

"You tore your ACL?"

"Playing soccer at UK," Y/N confirmed. "The rehab was brutal. I used to ice my knee and cry in the training room bathroom so my teammates wouldn't see."

The image of Y/N—composed, professional Y/N—crying in a bathroom over her own injury hit different. She understood this specific hell not as someone watching from the outside, but as someone who'd lived it.

"What changed?" Joe asked, fully engaged now. "How did you get from bathroom tears to playing again?"

"I stopped fighting the process," Y/N said simply. "Started respecting the injury instead of hating it. And I learned that 'same as before' is the wrong goal. You don't get the same body back. You get a new one that moves differently."

Joe absorbed this, recognizing truth in her words. Every session, every exercise, every small step forward was building something new rather than fixing something broken.

"But here's what no one tells you," Y/N continued, "the mental game changes too. You become more strategic when you can't rely on pure physicality. You see the field differently. You anticipate because you have to. Some of my best plays came after the injury, not before."

As she talked, Joe found himself studying her face, noting details he'd never paid attention to before. The way her eyes focused when she was being completely honest. The slight animation in her voice when she talked about something that was important. This wasn't professional Y/N documenting his sessions—this was someone sharing hard-won wisdom from her own experience.

"I didn't know," Joe said, something shifting in how he saw her. "About your injury."

The admission hung between them, more personal than anything he'd said to her before. It was true—Y/N never offered fake encouragement or tried to spin his struggle into something easier to swallow. She met him where he was, acknowledged the difficulty, and gave perspective without making his experience seem smaller.

Y/N held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between them. Then she moved back toward her equipment, gently breaking the spell.

"The comeback narrative isn't bullshit," she said, returning to safer ground while keeping the honesty that had defined their exchange. "It's just incomplete without the struggle." She picked up her camera bag and added, "And Joe? No one who's watched you work these past weeks doubts you'll be back. The question is just who you'll be when you get there."

Joe nodded slowly, processing both her words and the unexpected depth of understanding she'd revealed. Y/N wasn't just documenting his recovery—she was someone who had walked this exact path and come out different but stronger.

"Thanks," he said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond the conversation. "For the honesty. And for turning off the camera."

"Some moments aren't for documentation," Y/N replied, already moving toward the door. "Though if you ever want to talk about the mental side of recovery for the content series, I think it would help people. Athletes don't discuss that enough."

"Maybe," Joe said, his mind still processing everything she'd shared. "I'll think about it."

As Y/N got ready to leave, Joe found himself not wanting the conversation to end. For the first time since his injury, he'd talked to someone who understood both the physical and emotional shit he was dealing with. Not just the public challenges, but the private fears he couldn't voice to coaches, teammates, or even Olivia.

"Hey, Y/N?" he called as she reached the door.

She turned back. "Yeah?"

"Your team ever regret drafting you after the injury?"

Y/N smiled at the question, getting his real concern underneath. "I wasn't exactly first-round NWSL material, Joe. But no. The injury made me a better player. Different, but better."

After she left, Joe stayed on the table longer than he needed to, replaying their conversation. The vulnerability Y/N had shown in sharing her own struggle. The way she'd made his fears feel normal rather than catastrophic. The insight she'd offered from actual experience rather than textbook knowledge.

But what stuck with him most was realizing he'd never had this kind of conversation with Olivia. Not about fear. Not about fundamental change. Not about the possibility that recovery might mean becoming someone different rather than going back to who he'd been before.

Y/N understood him in ways that went beyond work. She saw his struggle clearly, met it with honesty rather than false comfort, and offered perspective that actually helped instead of just sounding supportive.

The realization felt dangerous—acknowledging that someone other than his girlfriend provided the emotional understanding he most needed during the hardest challenge of his career.

* * *

April 2021 - Joe's Home 

The living room buzzed with the nervous energy that always came with draft night. Olivia had set everything up perfectly—good food, comfortable seating, TV positioned so everyone could see the picks. Joe's parents sat on the couch, his phone propped between them so extended family could join virtually, creating the kind of supportive atmosphere that should have made him feel centered.

Instead, Joe felt restless.

Maybe it was his knee, still reminding him of everything he'd lost. Maybe it was the pressure of knowing this draft would shape the team he'd come back to. Or maybe it was feeling like the center of attention while somehow being totally disconnected from everything happening around him.

His phone had been going off all evening—teammates, coaches, agents, reporters. Everyone wanted his reaction to potential picks, his thoughts on team needs, his input on players he'd hopefully be throwing to in a few months. The attention felt overwhelming and empty at the same time.

"They're really leaning toward Chase," his dad said, scrolling through draft speculation on his tablet. "Makes sense with your LSU connection."

"Could go either way," Joe replied, though privately he hoped the speculation was true. Ja'Marr Chase was more than just offensive firepower—he was a connection to the version of himself that had felt invincible, before the injury had fucked with his head.

Olivia squeezed his hand. "Either pick will be great. The team knows what they're doing."

Joe nodded, appreciating her confidence even as he recognized the superficial nature of her reassurance. Olivia understood that this mattered to him, but she couldn't grasp the nuanced implications of offensive line versus receiver, the strategic considerations that would affect every aspect of his return to football.

As the Bengals' pick got closer, Joe found himself thinking about Y/N. She would understand this moment, the way draft decisions affected everything about team building. Their conversations during rehab had shown him how well she got football strategy, how she could see past the surface narratives to what personnel decisions actually meant.

Without really deciding to, Joe picked up his phone and found Y/N's contact.

You watching?

The message felt like reaching for something normal in all this manufactured drama. Y/N meant honest conversation, perspective without obligation to react the "right" way.

Of course. Annual Y/L/N family tradition, now over Zoom.

Her response made Joe smile for real. He could picture her brothers debating prospects with the same intensity they'd probably brought to backyard games growing up. The image felt more real than the carefully orchestrated support around him.

Predictions?

My brothers are arguing Chase vs Sewell. Heated debate in progress. I'm staying neutral.

Joe appreciated her diplomatic approach, even though he could tell she was deflecting. Y/N was too smart not to have strong opinions about the team's needs, but she was careful not to influence him.

Smart. But off the record?

The question pushed at their work boundaries, asking for her actual thoughts rather than the careful neutrality she kept in their official stuff.

Off the record, I think your LSU connection might win out over conventional wisdom.

Reading her response, Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's insight. She understood the intangible stuff that influenced decisions beyond pure analytics—the chemistry between players, the psychological impact of reuniting successful partnerships.

We'll see in about 4 picks. My phone's been blowing up all night. Needed a normal conversation.

The admission came out more honest than Joe had meant it to. Among all the calls and texts from people with various agendas, reaching out to Y/N felt like refuge rather than adding to the chaos.

Happy to talk about it like a regular person. How's the knee today?

Her question shifted focus from the draft spectacle to his actual experience, treating him like someone recovering from injury rather than a franchise quarterback managing public expectations. The difference mattered more than Joe had realized.

Good session this morning. Getting stronger. Doctor says I'm where I should be at 20 weeks.

"Joe, who are you texting? You're missing the debate!" his mom called from across the room, where she'd apparently gotten pulled into his brothers' argument about team needs.

"Just work stuff," Joe replied, the casual lie coming easily despite how personal his conversation with Y/N actually was.

Olivia says hi. She's been impressed with the rehab content series.

Joe typed the message before thinking it through, then immediately regretted casually mentioning his girlfriend. It created an awkward reminder of boundaries that felt increasingly artificial, especially during a conversation that was giving him exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving all evening.

Tell her thanks and hey back.

Y/N's response was characteristically professional, acknowledging Olivia without making it weird. But Joe could sense the slight shift in tone, the way personal conversation had moved back toward safer work ground.

When Commissioner Goodell announced Ja'Marr Chase's selection, Joe's living room erupted. His parents cheered, Olivia squeezed his hand triumphantly, and extended family voices came through the phone speakers with excitement and congratulations.

Joe smiled and accepted the congratulations, playing his part while his mind stayed partially focused on his ongoing text conversation with Y/N.

Like I said, LSU connections matter.

Lucas says you're welcome. Apparently he's taking credit for Chase like he was in the war room.

The image of Y/N's brother claiming responsibility for the pick made Joe laugh genuinely for the first time all evening. Her family's enthusiastic investment in the team, filtered through her amused perspective, felt more real than the manufactured excitement around him.

Tell him I'll let Chase know he's got fans in Louisville. Heading into calls. Appreciate the breather.

Anytime. Congrats on the reunion tour.

As Joe set his phone aside and prepared to handle the inevitable round of post-pick interviews, he realized that his brief exchange with Y/N had been the most genuine interaction of the entire evening. While everyone around him had been performing their roles in the draft night production, Y/N had simply been herself—honest, insightful, normal.

As Joe set his phone aside and prepared to handle the inevitable round of post-pick interviews, he realized that his brief exchange with Y/N had been the most genuine interaction of the entire evening. While everyone around him had been performing their roles in the draft night production, Y/N had simply been herself—honest, insightful, normal.

"That was perfect," Olivia said, settling back beside him as the draft coverage continued. "Chase is exactly what you needed."

Joe nodded, agreeing while recognizing that what he needed went beyond football personnel. He needed people who understood him completely, who could give perspective without agenda, who made him feel like himself rather than like a franchise quarterback managing expectations.

Y/N provided that kind of connection. And the fact that he'd instinctively reached out to her during one of the most important moments of his professional calendar felt like an admission he wasn't ready to examine.

But as the evening continued and Joe handled the required conversations with media and team personnel, part of his mind stayed with that brief text exchange—the easy honesty, the shared understanding, the way Y/N had made him feel grounded when everything else felt like performance.

* * *

July 2021 - Training Camp 

The energy at training camp was electric in a way Joe had almost forgotten. Real practices, full contact, the rhythm of football returning after months of careful rehab. His knee felt strong—not perfect, but functional in the ways that mattered. For the first time since the injury, Joe let himself believe in the comeback story that had gotten him through the dark months.

Y/N moved along the sidelines with that efficient way she had, coordinating her media team while capturing the moments that would become the story of his return. Joe found himself tracking her movement between plays, noting the focused intensity she brought to documenting this milestone.

Their working relationship had changed during his rehab into something more collaborative. More personal. The vulnerability they'd shared during recovery had created trust that went beyond typical player-media stuff. Joe relied on Y/N's perspective not just for content strategy, but for honest assessment of his progress and how he was coming across publicly.

"Looking good out there," Y/N called during a water break, her camera lowered in a way that meant personal conversation, not work documentation.

"Feeling good," Joe replied, meaning it for the first time in months. "Might actually survive a full season."

"Don't jinx it," Y/N warned with a smile that felt familiar and comfortable.

Joe grinned back, and for a moment the interaction felt like the easy friendship they'd developed during rehabilitation—personal connection disguised as professional collaboration.

But something had shifted since those private rehab sessions. The return to normal team operations had brought back barriers and complications that hadn't existed in the controlled environment of recovery. Other players, coaches, media, family members created a context that made Joe more aware of boundaries he'd let blur during his injury.

Including Olivia, who had been mostly absent from his rehab but was now here for the triumphant return phase.

Joe spotted her near the family area, dressed in team colors and chatting easily with other players' family members. She looked beautiful and confident, playing her role as supportive girlfriend with the grace that had always characterized their public appearances.

After practice, Joe was reviewing film with coaches when he noticed Y/N approaching the family area. From his position in the meeting room, he had a clear view of what happened next, though he couldn't hear the conversation.

Y/N had been organizing equipment when Olivia walked up to her directly. Joe watched as they talked, Olivia's body language open and welcoming, Y/N's professional but still warm.

The interaction lasted several minutes, longer than the casual pleasantries typically exchanged between players' family and staff. Joe found himself studying both women's expressions, trying to read the subtext from a distance.

Olivia seemed genuinely interested in talking to Y/N, gesturing occasionally toward the field and nodding at Y/N's responses. Y/N kept her professional composure, but Joe could detect the slight formality that meant she was being careful about boundaries.

When Joe finally escaped his meetings and approached the family area, both women turned toward him with smiles that felt slightly forced.

"Joe," Olivia said warmly, stepping close enough to claim his attention. "I was just thanking Y/N for all her work during your recovery."

"She mentioned how you handled the rehab documentation," Y/N added, her tone carefully neutral. "Keeping it about the work, not turning it into some dramatic story."

Joe felt uncomfortable tension in the space between them, like both women were performing for his benefit while navigating something more complex underneath.

"Y/N understood what I needed from those sessions," Joe said, immediately regretting how the comment might sound to Olivia. "Made the whole process easier to handle."

Something flickered across Olivia's expression—not jealousy exactly, but recognition that Joe was giving Y/N credit for understanding him in ways that Olivia maybe hadn't during his recovery.

"I'm sure it wasn't easy," Olivia replied, her voice maintaining perfect supportiveness while carrying something Joe couldn't quite identify. "Having to document someone going through such a difficult time."

"Joe made it easy," Y/N said diplomatically. "He was committed from day one. Very clear about his goals and boundaries."

The professional language felt strangely distant after months of increasingly personal conversations. Y/N was retreating into formal mode, recognizing the complexity of the situation and responding by emphasizing the professional nature of their relationship.

"Well, the content series has been excellent," Olivia continued. "Really showed his determination without being exploitative."

Joe appreciated Olivia's attempt to acknowledge Y/N's work, but something about the conversation felt wrong. The easy rapport he'd developed with Y/N was being filtered through social expectations and relationship dynamics that made their connection feel fake rather than genuine.

"I should get this footage back for editing," Y/N said, gesturing to her equipment with the kind of professional efficiency that meant the conversation was over.

"Of course," Olivia replied graciously. "It was really nice meeting you properly."

"You too," Y/N said, already stepping back toward her professional role. "Good to see you out there today, Joe. The comeback looks real."

As Y/N walked away, Joe felt a strange sense of loss. The comfortable intimacy they'd developed during his rehab had been replaced by careful professional distance—probably appropriate given the circumstances but disappointing nonetheless.

"She seems lovely," Olivia said, settling beside Joe as they watched Y/N coordinate with her media team. "Very dedicated to her work."

"She's good at what she does," Joe replied neutrally, though his eyes stayed on Y/N as she efficiently managed post-practice documentation.

"You two seem to work well together," Olivia observed, her tone light but with something underneath that Joe couldn't ignore.

Joe turned to look at his girlfriend directly. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing dramatic," Olivia said quickly. "Just that you're comfortable with her. During your recovery, I mean. She clearly understood how to handle that situation appropriately."

The word "appropriately" carried weight Joe wasn't sure how to interpret. Was Olivia acknowledging Y/N's professionalism, or subtly questioning whether their relationship had crossed lines it shouldn't have?

"The rehab was isolating," Joe said carefully. "It helped having someone document it who didn't make it feel like performance."

Olivia nodded, seeming to accept his explanation while maintaining that watchful quality he'd noticed since training camp began.

That evening, as Joe and Olivia settled into their house, the conversation returned to Y/N in ways that felt both casual and loaded.

"I'm glad you had good support during the recovery," Olivia said as they got ready for bed. "I know I wasn't around as much as I should have been."

The admission surprised Joe. Olivia rarely acknowledged gaps in their relationship, preferring to maintain the narrative that they were perfectly supportive of each other's careers and obligations.

"You were dealing with your own work," Joe replied, which was true but not the whole story. The reality was that Olivia's absence during his rehab had highlighted how much he'd come to value Y/N's consistent presence and understanding.

"Still," Olivia continued, "it's nice that Y/N was there for the professional side of things. She seems to really understand the football world in ways that..." she trailed off.

"In ways that what?" Joe prompted.

"In ways that I probably don't," Olivia finished honestly. "I support your career, but I don't always understand the specifics of what you're going through."

The admission created an opening for honesty that Joe wasn't sure he was ready to walk through. It would have been easy to reassure Olivia that her support was enough, that understanding football wasn't necessary for understanding him.

But sitting there in their bed room, thinking about the months of rehab sessions where Y/N had provided exactly the kind of insight and perspective he'd needed most, Joe couldn't bring himself to offer that reassurance.

"Different kinds of support matter at different times," he said finally, trying to navigate between honesty and kindness.

Olivia studied his face for a moment, then nodded with what looked like resignation rather than satisfaction.

"I love you," she said, settling beside him in bed. "I just want to make sure I'm giving you what you need."

"I love you too," Joe replied automatically, the words feeling both true and not enough.

As Olivia fell asleep beside him, Joe stared at the ceiling and thought about the afternoon. Watching Y/N retreat into professional distance when Olivia appeared. Feeling the careful tension of their three-way conversation. Recognizing that his relationship with Y/N had become something that required management rather than simple acknowledgment.

The easy connection he'd developed with Y/N during rehab couldn't coexist simply with his relationship with Olivia. The intimacy he'd found with someone who understood his professional world completely was highlighting gaps in his primary relationship that he'd been able to ignore before.

Joe had always been good at compartmentalization, keeping different aspects of his life properly organized and separated. But lying there beside Olivia while thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and the loss of their easy rapport, he realized that some connections were too big to be contained within their designated boundaries.

The recognition felt dangerous. And increasingly unavoidable.

* * *

January 2022 - Post-AFC Championship Game

The locker room celebration felt surreal. Back-to-back AFC Championship games. A second straight trip to the Super Bowl. The comeback from his injury was complete in ways that exceeded even his most optimistic projections during those dark rehab months.

Joe moved through the chaos of interviews and celebrations with practiced composure, but part of his mind kept drifting to the sideline moments he'd caught during the game. Y/N coordinating with her media team, capturing the reactions that would become the story of this run. She'd been there for every step of his recovery, and now she was documenting how it all paid off.

As the immediate media stuff wound down, Joe found himself looking for her among the crowd of staff, players, and family filling the locker room. He spotted her near the edge of the celebration, camera lowered, watching the scene with the kind of professional satisfaction that came from knowing she'd captured something special.

"Y/N!" Chase called out, waving her over to a group of receivers. "Get this for the official account."

Joe watched as Y/N smoothly shifted back into work mode, directing the players through a shot that would probably become iconic. Her promotion to Social Media Coordinator earlier in the season had been well-deserved, expanding her responsibilities beyond individual player content to the whole team narrative.

The promotion had also created a weird possessiveness in Joe that he didn't want to think about too hard. Y/N wasn't just "his" media person anymore—she belonged to the entire organization now. But Joe still found ways to keep their professional relationship central to her responsibilities.

"Good game to capture," Joe said, approaching as she finished with the receivers.

Y/N turned, her smile genuine and warm. "Congratulations. Back-to-back championship games is no small feat."

"The content team has been killing it this season," Joe replied, nodding toward her coordinator badge. "That promotion was well-deserved."

He meant it, but there was something else underneath. Pride, yes, but also personal investment in Y/N's success that felt more intimate than typical workplace stuff.

"Thanks," Y/N said, looking slightly surprised that he'd noticed the promotion specifically. "Everyone makes it easy to create good content."

Joe gave a small shrug. "Still. You're the one shaping how it's remembered."

The comment carried more weight than he'd intended, acknowledging not just her professional skill but her role in crafting the narrative of his comeback. Y/N had been there for his lowest moments and was now documenting his highest ones.

"Well, my job's bigger now," Y/N said with a slight smile. "I'm not just chasing quarterbacks around anymore."

The reference to their early dynamic made Joe smile, remembering the photoshoot that had started everything. So much had changed since then—his understanding of her capabilities, their working relationship, the trust between them.

But something about her comment bugged him. The idea that she was moving beyond quarterback-specific content, that their professional relationship might become less central to her role, created an uncomfortable reaction he didn't want to analyze.

"Olivia's organizing a team gathering if we make the Super Bowl," Joe found himself saying, the words coming out before he'd fully decided to extend the invitation. "You should come. The whole media team is invited, but..." he paused, searching for the right words, "it would be good to have you there. After everything."

The invitation was supposedly professional—acknowledging Y/N's role in documenting the team's journey. But Joe knew it was more personal than that. He wanted Y/N at his celebration, wanted her to be part of how this all ended.

"Thanks," Y/N replied, her expression suggesting she understood the significance. "That would be nice."

Joe seemed about to say something else when Chase called his name from across the locker room. "Quarterback meeting in five."

"Duty calls," Joe said with a quick smile. "See you around, Y/N."

As he walked away, Joe tried to process what had just happened. Inviting Y/N to Olivia's gathering felt like crossing a line he'd been carefully maintaining. It was one thing to work closely with Y/N; it was another to specifically want her at his personal celebrations.

But the truth was, celebrating the Super Bowl without Y/N there felt wrong. She'd been part of his journey in ways that went beyond typical media documentation. The vulnerability they'd shared during rehab, the trust between them, the way she understood his world—all of it had created a connection Joe couldn't just categorize as work.

Later that evening, as Joe and Olivia discussed plans for the potential Super Bowl gathering, he found himself being careful about how he framed Y/N's invitation.

"I mentioned to Y/N that the media team would be invited," he said casually, not mentioning that he'd given her a specific, personal invitation that went beyond the general team inclusion.

"Of course," Olivia replied, focused on her planning notes. "She's been such a big part of the comeback story. It makes sense to include the key media people."

Olivia's easy acceptance made Joe feel both relieved and slightly guilty. She was treating Y/N's potential attendance as professional courtesy, unaware that Joe's motivations were more personal.

"She's been good to work with," Joe said, which was true but didn't describe the actual nature of their relationship.

"I'm sure she has," Olivia agreed absently, already moving on to other planning details.

But Joe's mind stayed fixed on the moment when he'd invited Y/N, on the way her expression had shifted when he'd made it personal rather than just professional. The anticipation he felt about celebrating with her was dangerous in its intensity.

For the first time, Joe admitted to himself that he was looking forward to sharing his success with Y/N in ways that went beyond professional obligation. He wanted her there not just as the media coordinator who had documented his journey, but as someone who had become important to him personally.

* * *

Early 2022 Season - Bengals Facility 

Joe was reviewing film when Kayla knocked on the quarterback meeting room door.

"Got a minute?" she asked. "Wanted to talk about Y/N's new role and how it affects assignments."

Joe paused the video and turned around. He'd already heard about Y/N's promotion—she'd mentioned it in passing after practice yesterday, trying to downplay how big a deal it was even though Joe could tell she was excited.

"Yeah, of course," Joe said. "Congratulations are in order for her, right? Social Media Coordinator?"

"Exactly," Kayla said, settling into a chair. "Well-deserved for all the work she's done. But with her expanded responsibilities—overseeing all platforms, coordinating with other departments—we need to figure out how to redistribute some of her current workload."

Joe felt his stomach drop. "Redistribute?"

"Well, Y/N's been handling most of your media content personally," Kayla explained. "But with her bigger role, we might need other team members to take on some of those responsibilities. Free her up for the coordinator stuff."

The suggestion hit Joe wrong. The idea of working with someone else, of losing the collaboration he'd built with Y/N, felt unacceptable.

"Has this been discussed with Y/N?" Joe asked.

"Not in detail yet. We wanted your input first. If you're comfortable with other team members handling some of your content, it would help with the transition."

Joe felt something protective rise in his chest. Y/N had become essential to how he handled media obligations. More than that, she'd become someone he looked forward to working with, whose understanding of his approach had become irreplaceable.

"I'd prefer to keep working with Y/N," Joe said, his tone firm. "She understands my communication style, my privacy needs. Starting over with someone new would mess up what we've built."

Kayla studied his expression, clearly noting how strongly he felt about this. "That's something we can work with. Y/N's partnership with you has been really successful."

"It works," Joe confirmed. "I don't want to mess with something that's effective just because her title changed."

"Of course," Kayla agreed. "We'll structure her new role to maintain your existing collaboration."

After Kayla left, Joe sat back in his chair, processing his reaction. The intensity of his response to potentially losing Y/N as his primary media contact had been immediate and strong.

He pulled out his phone.

Heard Kayla might try to reassign some of your workload. Told her I want to keep working with you.

The response came quickly: Thanks. Was hoping our partnership wouldn't change with the new role.

Not if I have anything to say about it.

Appreciate that. See you at practice.

Joe set his phone aside, feeling better about securing their working relationship. Y/N's promotion was great for her, and he wanted her to succeed. But he also wasn't willing to give up the collaboration that had become essential to how he handled his professional life.

* * *

November 2023 - Baltimore Ravens Game 

The hit came from his blind side as Joe released the pass, a clean pocket suddenly collapsing into chaos. He felt his wrist bend in the wrong direction, hyperextending as he tried to brace his fall against the Ravens' defensive lineman. The pain was immediate and sharp, different from the deep, structural agony of his knee injury but alarming in its intensity.

Joe stayed down for a moment, testing his hand and fingers while medical staff rushed onto the field. His wrist throbbed with each heartbeat, and something in the joint felt loose in ways that meant significant damage.

Not again.

As trainers helped him up, Joe's mind was already racing past the immediate injury to what came next: surgery, rehab, months of careful rebuilding. The familiar dread of watching a season slip away, of facing another long recovery that would test everything.

But underneath the frustration and fear was another thought, immediate and certain: he wanted Y/N handling whatever media coverage came next.

The pattern was repeating itself—injury leading to vulnerability, vulnerability leading to his instinct to reach for the person who best understood how to protect his privacy while managing the public story. Y/N had proven during his knee recovery that she could document struggle without exploiting it, could tell a comeback story with honesty rather than bullshit.

More than that, Y/N's presence during rehab had provided something Joe had come to depend on: emotional stability during chaos. Working with her wasn't just about media strategy—it was about having someone in his corner who saw him as a person working through challenges rather than content to be packaged.

Hours later, after X-rays and MRI scans confirmed ligament damage requiring surgery, Joe found himself in the familiar position of planning his comeback before he'd even processed the setback.

"We'll need to coordinate media strategy for the recovery," Kayla said during a meeting with team medical staff and front office executives. "Similar approach to 2020, controlled narrative, focus on the work rather than the setback."

"I want Y/N handling it," Joe said immediately, before anyone could suggest alternatives.

The speed and certainty of his request drew glances around the room. Joe's preference for Y/N wasn't surprising—their previous collaboration had been successful—but the immediate, non-negotiable way he'd said it revealed how much he relied on her specifically.

"Of course," Kayla agreed quickly. "Y/N's experience with your previous recovery makes her the obvious choice."

But Joe caught something in Kayla's expression, a flicker of recognition that his attachment to Y/N went beyond typical professional preferences. The way he'd insisted on her involvement, without considering her other responsibilities or alternative options, had been telling.

Later that evening, Joe was at home with his wrist in a temporary brace when his phone rang. Olivia's name on the screen.

"Hey," he answered, settling back into his chair with the careful movements of someone protecting an injury.

"I just heard," Olivia's voice carried genuine concern. "How bad is it?"

"Surgery next week," Joe replied, the reality still sinking in. "Six to eight weeks recovery, probably longer to feel completely normal throwing."

"I'm so sorry, baby," Olivia said. "I know how frustrating this must be, especially after everything you went through with your knee."

Joe appreciated her support, but found himself mentally comparing her response to how Y/N would handle the news. Olivia offered comfort and sympathy, which was valuable. But Y/N would offer understanding that came from experience, perspective that acknowledged both the physical and emotional challenge of major injury recovery.

"The team's setting up media coverage for the rehab," Joe said, already anticipating her reaction.

"Same approach as last time?" Olivia asked. "Y/N documenting everything?"

Olivia mentioning Y/N so casually made Joe think. After nearly three years together, Olivia had internalized that Y/N was Joe's go-to person for media challenges. The assumption that Y/N would handle his recovery documentation wasn't questioned—it was expected.

"Yeah," Joe confirmed. "She understands how to balance the story without making it dramatic."

"She's good at her job," Olivia agreed, though something in her tone suggested more underneath.

After the call ended, Joe sat in the quiet of his living room, processing both the injury and the conversations around it. His immediate instinct to request Y/N specifically, Olivia's unsurprised acceptance of that choice, the way everyone seemed to understand that Y/N was his preferred media partner—all of it pointed to a relationship that mattered beyond just work.

Joe thought about the months of wrist rehab ahead, all those sessions where he'd have to be vulnerable and patient. Going through that with anyone other than Y/N felt wrong.

His phone buzzed with a text, Y/N's name appearing on the screen.

Heard about the wrist. I'm sorry. How are you feeling?

Joe found himself smiling despite the shitty circumstances. That was Y/N—direct but caring.

Been better. But at least I know the drill this time.

Silver lining: you're an expert at comeback stories now. We'll document this one just as well.

Looking forward to working together again. Even under these circumstances.

Joe sent the message and immediately recognized the honesty in it. He was looking forward to working with Y/N again, to the regular sessions and collaborative planning and shared goals that would define his recovery.

But more than that, he was looking forward to having Y/N back as a consistent presence in his life. The injury was devastating, but it would restore the regular interaction with Y/N that his successful season had reduced to occasional meetings and structured professional encounters.

Me too. Same approach as before—your story, your terms.

Perfect. See you next week.

* * *

February 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat at the kitchen island, mechanically working through his PT-approved dinner while Olivia moved around their kitchen with familiar efficiency. The domestic scene should have felt comfortable—they'd shared thousands of similar evenings over the years together—but Joe found his attention drifting to his phone, which sat face-down beside his plate.

Y/N had texted an hour ago about tomorrow's rehab session, something about adjusting camera angles to better capture his improved wrist mobility. Nothing urgent, nothing that couldn't wait until morning, but Joe found himself wanting to respond immediately.

"How's the wrist feeling today?" Olivia asked, settling across from him with her own dinner.

"Good," Joe replied automatically. "PT says I'm ahead of schedule."

It was the same update he'd given her for the past two weeks. Olivia would ask about his recovery, Joe would give her the medical rundown, and they'd move on to something else.

"That's great," Olivia said, cutting into her salad. "How much longer until you're cleared for full throwing?"

"Maybe two weeks," Joe answered, his attention divided between the conversation and the urge to check his phone.

Olivia nodded, focusing on her salad. They fell quiet, but it wasn't awkward. Just the comfortable silence of people who'd been together long enough not to need constant conversation.

But Joe found himself comparing it to the easy dialogue he'd developed with Y/N during rehab sessions. Those conversations flowed naturally, covering everything from recovery logistics to broader observations about football, media, life. With Y/N, silence felt companionable rather than empty.

His phone buzzed against the counter. Joe glanced at it reflexively, noting Y/N's name on the preview.

Also wanted to run an idea by you for the final recovery video. Think we could capture something more personal than just physical progress?

Joe's pulse quickened slightly. Y/N's suggestion of "something more personal" felt loaded with possibility.

"Work?" Olivia asked, noticing his attention had shifted.

"Just planning for tomorrow's session," Joe replied, picking up his phone despite telling himself he should wait.

What did you have in mind?

He typed quickly, then set the phone back down, trying to refocus on Olivia and their meal. But part of his mind remained engaged with Y/N's message.

You've been spending a lot of time on recovery content lately," Olivia said.

"Y/N's trying to make sure we capture the full story," Joe explained, then immediately regretted mentioning Y/N's name specifically. "The team wants comprehensive documentation."

"Right," Olivia said, returning her attention to her dinner. 

Joe's phone buzzed again, and despite his best intentions, he glanced at the preview.

Maybe something about what recovery means beyond just getting back to playing. The mental side, the perspective gained. You mentioned during your knee rehab that athletes don't talk about that enough.

The message referenced conversations from years ago, Y/N remembering details from their most vulnerable exchanges and suggesting they explore those themes more deeply. The recognition that she'd retained those personal insights felt significant.

"Sorry," Joe said.

But Olivia's expression had shifted, something watchful entering her gaze as she studied his face. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Joe replied, setting his phone face-down with deliberate finality. "How was your day?"

The question was intended to redirect attention, but Joe realized as he asked it that he genuinely didn't know how Olivia's day had been. They'd been in the same house for three hours, had eaten dinner together, but he hadn't asked about her work, her concerns, her life beyond their shared routine.

"Fine," Olivia said simply, her tone suggesting she'd noticed his delayed interest. "The usual client meetings and project reviews."

Joe knew the general outline of her responsibilities, but realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd asked for specific details about her projects, her challenges, her career aspirations.

When had he stopped being curious about Olivia's inner life? When had their conversations become purely functional?

His phone buzzed again, and Joe forced himself not to look, though every instinct urged him to check Y/N's latest message. The effort required to ignore it felt disproportionate to its actual importance.

"Joe," Olivia said quietly, her voice carrying a weight that made him look up from his deliberately ignored phone. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course," Joe replied, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Are you happy?" The question was simple, direct, and completely unexpected.

Joe stared at her, processing the question and his own internal reaction to it. "What do you mean?"

"With us," Olivia clarified, her expression serious but not accusatory. "With this. With how things are between us."

The question hung in the air, demanding honesty Joe wasn't sure he was prepared to give. He thought about their comfortable routine, their shared history, the stable foundation they'd built together. But he also thought about the emotional engagement he brought to his conversations with Y/N, the anticipation he felt about their collaborations.

"Why are you asking?" Joe said, deflecting rather than answering.

"Because you seem distant lately. Not just physically, but emotionally. Like you're here but not really here."

Joe felt a flush of guilt, recognizing the accuracy of her observation. He had been distant, divided in his attention, more invested in relationships outside their home than the one they shared within it.

"The recovery's been consuming," Joe offered, which was true but not the whole story.

"It's not just the recovery," Olivia said gently. "It's been building for a while. Since before the wrist injury. Sometimes I feel like I'm competing for your attention, and I don't know what I'm competing against."

That stung. Olivia had noticed him pulling away even when he thought he was hiding it.

His phone buzzed again, and this time Joe felt Olivia's eyes on him as he fought the urge to check it.

"You want to look at that," Olivia observed, her voice neutral but knowing.

"It can wait," Joe said, though the effort to ignore it felt physically uncomfortable.

"Joe," Olivia said, her voice carrying a sadness that made his chest tighten. "When's the last time you looked at me the way you just looked at your phone?"

The question was devastating in its simplicity, forcing Joe to confront where his emotional investment had been directed. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt eager anticipation about spending time with Olivia, the way he felt about his upcoming session with Y/N.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped, unsure what he could say that would be both honest and kind.

"It's okay," she said quietly, though her expression suggested it wasn't really okay at all. "I just think we need to talk about what's actually happening here. And whether either of us is getting what we need from this relationship anymore."

Joe nodded slowly, recognizing that Olivia was right, that they'd been avoiding a conversation that had become necessary. But sitting there in their kitchen, with Y/N's unread messages waiting on his phone and Olivia's sad, knowing gaze across from him, Joe realized that some truths were too dangerous to voice aloud.

He wasn't happy. Not with their relationship, not with the emotional distance he'd created, not with the way he'd been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

But acknowledging that would require admitting where his emotional focus had actually been directed. And Joe wasn't ready for that conversation.

* * *

Early March 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe knew the conversation was coming before Olivia even asked him to sit down. There had been signs building for weeks—the careful way she'd been watching him, the deliberate quality to her questions about his recovery, the spaces she'd started leaving in conversations that felt like invitations for honesty he wasn't ready to give.

"We need to talk," Olivia said, settling onto the couch across from him rather than beside him.

Joe set his phone face-down on the coffee table, though part of him remained aware that Y/N had texted about tomorrow's final rehab session. Their last official meeting before he was cleared for full activity, and probably their last regular collaboration until the next crisis brought them together.

The thought of losing that consistent contact with Y/N felt worse than whatever conversation he was about to have with his girlfriend of four years.

"Okay," Joe said, settling back and trying to prepare for whatever was coming.

"I've been thinking about what I asked you the other night," Olivia began, her voice steady but sad. "About whether you're happy. Whether either of us is getting what we need."

Joe nodded, having known since that dinner they'd come back to this.

"And I think I already know the answer," Olivia continued. "For both of us."

Joe waited, recognizing Olivia's calm certainty meant she'd already worked through whatever she was about to say.

"The truth is, Joe, I don't think you've been present in this relationship for a long time," Olivia said, gentle but unwavering. "Not just physically, but emotionally. And I don't think it's intentional. I think you've just... moved on. Without realizing it."

Joe felt guilt mixed with recognition. She was right—he had been going through the motions while investing his real energy elsewhere.

"I know you care about me," Olivia continued. "And I care about you. But caring about someone and being in love with them aren't the same thing. And I don't think either of us has been in love with the other for a while now."

The observation was accurate and devastating. Joe did care about Olivia—she was kind, intelligent, supportive. But the passion, the excitement, the investment that characterized real love had faded so gradually he'd hardly noticed.

"Olivia," Joe began, then stopped.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm not angry. I'm just tired of pretending everything is fine when it clearly isn't."

Joe nodded, recognizing the exhaustion in her voice. They'd both been maintaining a relationship that had become more habit than choice.

"I think we've been staying together because it's easy," Olivia said. "Because we work well on paper, because there's no drama, because neither of us wants to be the one to say it's not working."

"But it's not working," Joe said quietly.

"No," Olivia agreed. "It's not."

They sat in silence, both processing the admission that had been building for months.

"Can I ask you something?" Olivia said.

Joe nodded, though something in her tone made him nervous.

"Is there someone else?"

The question made his stomach drop, not because it was unexpected but because it forced him to confront what he'd been avoiding. There wasn't someone else in the traditional sense—he hadn't cheated, hadn't crossed obvious lines.

But his emotional energy, his real investment, his genuine excitement—all of it had been directed toward Y/N for longer than he was comfortable acknowledging.

"Not in the way you mean," Joe said carefully.

Olivia studied his face, clearly noting what he wasn't saying.

"But there is someone," she said.

Joe felt heat rise in his neck.

"It's Y/N, isn't it?" Olivia asked, calm but knowing.

The directness left Joe with no room to deflect. Olivia had been watching, putting pieces together, recognizing patterns he'd thought he was hiding.

"Nothing has happened," Joe said immediately.

"I didn't ask if anything had happened," Olivia replied. "I asked if there was someone else. And I think we both know the answer."

Joe stared at her, recognizing that Olivia understood his emotional landscape better than he'd given her credit for.

"How long have you known?" Joe asked.

"Suspected for a while," Olivia admitted. "But really knew? Since your second injury, when your first instinct was to call for her specifically. The way you talk about her, the way you light up when you mention working together, the way you check your phone constantly when she's texting you."

The list was damning in its accuracy. Joe had thought he was being subtle, but Olivia had been watching, recognizing signs of emotional investment he hadn't even fully acknowledged to himself.

"She's been good for your career," Olivia said, no bitterness in her voice. "But somewhere along the way, it became more than professional for you."

Joe couldn't deny it. His relationship with Y/N had evolved far beyond typical player-media dynamics, had become something he looked forward to, depended on, valued in ways that went beyond work.

"And I think," Olivia continued, "that you've been so focused on maintaining appropriate boundaries professionally that you haven't acknowledged what's happening emotionally."

Painfully accurate. Joe had been so careful about not crossing obvious lines that he'd ignored the deeper truth about where his feelings had been developing.

"I'm not angry about it," Olivia said, surprising him. "You can't control who you connect with. But you can control what you do about it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that staying in this relationship while your heart is somewhere else isn't fair to either of us," Olivia said simply. "You deserve to be with someone who makes you feel the way you feel when you're working with her. And I deserve to be with someone who looks at me the way you look at her."

The truth was devastating in its clarity. Joe did feel different when he was with Y/N—more engaged, more himself, more excited. And Olivia deserved someone who could give her that kind of investment.

"I think we should break up," Olivia said.

Joe felt relief flood through him, followed immediately by guilt about feeling relieved. But Olivia was right—they'd been maintaining something that had become more obligation than choice.

"I think you're right," Joe said quietly.

"I think I am too," Olivia replied, sad but certain.

They spent the next hour working through logistics—the lease, belongings, the public announcement that would inevitably follow. The conversation was practical, civil, tinged with sadness but free from anger or blame.

As Olivia gathered some things to stay at her sister's place, Joe found himself thinking about what came next. About the conversation he would need to have with Y/N, about feelings he'd been suppressing, about the possibility that his emotional investment had been one-sided all along.

"Joe," Olivia said as she prepared to leave, pausing at the door. "For what it's worth, I hope it works out with her. You deserve to be happy. And she seems like someone who could make you happy in ways I couldn't."

The generosity made Joe's chest tighten with guilt and gratitude.

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it.

After Olivia left, Joe sat alone in his living room, processing what had just happened. Four years had ended with mutual recognition that they'd both been going through the motions.

But more than that, Olivia had forced him to confront feelings he'd been avoiding, to acknowledge that his emotional investment had been directed elsewhere for longer than he wanted to admit.

Now he was free to pursue whatever connection existed with Y/N. But he was also terrified that years of careful professional boundaries had concealed his feelings so successfully that Y/N had no idea how he really felt.

The possibility that his feelings had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

* * *

March 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe's phone had been buzzing constantly for three days straight. Teammates offering support, coaches checking in, reporters trying to get quotes, agents discussing damage control. Everyone wanted something—a statement, a reaction, an explanation for why his four-year relationship had ended so quietly.

But the call he wanted to make, the voice he actually wanted to hear, he'd been avoiding.

Y/N would have seen the news by now. Hell, she was probably fielding media requests about it, coordinating the team's response, crafting the careful messaging that would protect his privacy while acknowledging public interest. She was probably handling the crisis he'd created without him even asking, the way she always did.

The thought of Y/N managing his personal mess with her characteristic professionalism made something in Joe's chest tighten. She'd be careful, respectful, protective of boundaries she just understood instinctively.

Joe stared at his phone, Y/N's contact pulled up but the call button untapped. What was his excuse for reaching out? What professional reason could he manufacture for needing to hear her voice when what he really wanted was to tell her that he was free now, that the barrier between them had been removed?

But that conversation felt impossible. Too direct, too presumptuous, too revealing of feelings he'd spent years hiding behind work.

The NBC interview. Joe remembered Kayla mentioning a major network piece scheduled for next week, the kind of high-profile appearance that would require careful preparation. The kind of thing Y/N excelled at managing.

It was a legitimate reason to call. Professional necessity rather than personal want. Even if the real motivation was simpler: he missed talking to her.

Joe hit the call button before he could overthink it.

"Y/N Y/L/N," her voice came through, crisp and professional despite the late hour.

Just hearing her say her own name made something in Joe relax. After three days of managing sympathy, curiosity, and barely concealed gossip, Y/N's voice felt like solid ground.

"It's Joe."

A brief pause, then her tone shifted into something warmer. "Hey. How are you doing?"

"Been better," Joe admitted, settling back in his chair. "But surviving the media circus."

"I'm sure," Y/N said, and Joe could hear the understanding in her tone. She knew exactly what kind of pressure he was under.

"We've drafted a content approach that should help," she continued, already working to solve problems he hadn't even asked her to address.

Joe felt that familiar appreciation for Y/N's instinctive understanding of his needs. While everyone else was asking invasive questions or offering unwanted advice, she was quietly building protective barriers around his privacy.

"Kayla mentioned your strategy," Joe said. "No acknowledgment. Keep it focused on football."

"I hope that aligns with what you want," Y/N said, and Joe caught something uncertain in her voice. "I just thought—"

"It's exactly what I want," Joe interrupted, probably with more emphasis than necessary. Hearing Y/N articulate his needs so perfectly felt like being understood at a level he'd forgotten was possible.

"That's why I'm calling about the NBC interview," Joe continued, seizing on the professional excuse. "I need you there."

"I can assign our best team—" Y/N began.

"I want you there," Joe said, his voice dropping to something quieter, more direct. The truth beneath the professional request.

He needed Y/N specifically. Not just her skills, but her presence, her understanding, her ability to make him feel grounded during what would inevitably be a challenging interview.

"I'll be there," Y/N said, and Joe felt relief flood through him. "We'll make sure they stay focused on football."

"Thank you," Joe said, meaning it in ways that went far beyond interview logistics. "And Y/N? Thanks for not asking why it happened. Everyone else has."

The gratitude was real. Y/N's careful avoidance of invasive questions felt like a kindness everyone else seemed incapable of offering.

After hanging up, Joe sat in the quiet of his house—his house now, not theirs—processing the conversation. Talking to Y/N had felt like the first normal interaction he'd had since news broke. No judgment, no probing questions, no carefully masked concern. Just professional competence mixed with genuine care.

But more than that, the conversation had revealed something Joe was still afraid to examine fully. Y/N's immediate protective instincts, her intuitive understanding of what he needed, her willingness to prioritize his comfort over public curiosity—all of it pointed to someone who cared about him beyond typical professional relationships.

The way she'd said "I'll be there" sounded like a promise, like someone choosing to show up for him personally rather than just fulfilling professional obligations.

Joe thought about the NBC interview, about having Y/N there to navigate the inevitable personal questions. But he also thought about what came after the interview, about whether this crisis might create opportunities for conversations that went beyond their carefully maintained professional boundaries.

He was free now. The six-year relationship that had provided comfortable stability while preventing him from pursuing deeper connections was over. The barrier between him and Y/N had been removed.

But sitting alone in his house, thinking about Y/N's careful professionalism and respectful distance, Joe realized that freedom to pursue something didn't guarantee that something existed to pursue.

Y/N had been nothing but appropriate throughout their entire professional relationship. She'd never crossed lines, never made their collaboration about anything other than work, never given him reason to believe her feelings extended beyond professional respect.

The possibility that his emotional investment had been entirely one-sided felt almost worse than staying in a relationship that had run its course.

But for the first time in years, Joe had the freedom to find out. And despite the fear of potential rejection, the thought of finally being honest about his feelings felt like a risk worth taking.

* * *

April 2024 - Local Cafe

"This isn't for work," Joe clarified as Y/N settled into the seat across from him at their usual corner table. "I mean, we can talk about work if you want, but that's not why I asked you here."

Y/N paused, her coffee cup halfway to her lips, something shifting in her expression. "Oh. Okay. That's... nice."

The slight flush that crept up her neck didn't escape Joe's notice. It was subtle—Y/N was too professional to let much show—but it was there.

"How are you doing?" Y/N asked, settling back in her chair. "Really, I mean. The honest version."

Everyone had been asking about the breakup for weeks, but their questions felt like they were fishing for drama rather than genuine concern.

"Better than I expected," Joe said honestly. "The relief surprised me. I thought I'd feel more... I don't know, sad about it ending."

"Relief can be its own kind of answer," Y/N observed, then seemed to catch herself being too insightful. "I mean, that's what I've heard."

Joe studied her face, noting the way she'd pulled back from offering personal wisdom. "You've been through breakups before."

"Haven't we all," Y/N replied with a slight smile, deflecting without being dismissive.

The conversation flowed differently than their usual professional exchanges. Without the structure of injury updates or content strategy, they found themselves talking about broader things—books, music, family dynamics, observations about Cincinnati as a city. Joe discovered that Y/N had opinions about everything from local restaurants to the psychology of social media engagement, insights that were sharp and funny and completely separate from her professional expertise.

"Your brothers still giving you grief about working with me?" Joe asked, remembering her mentions of their teasing from years past.

"Constantly," Y/N laughed. "Though now it's evolved from 'don't embarrass us' to 'we can't believe you get paid to hang out with Joe Burrow.'"

"Is that what this is?" Joe asked, gesturing between them. "Hanging out?"

Something flickered across Y/N's expression—hesitation, maybe, or recognition that they were defining something that had been carefully undefined for years.

"I guess it is," she said, not looking away. "That okay?"

 "More than okay," Joe said, then caught himself. 

"Sorry, that sounded weird. Yeah, it's good."

As their lunches became regular over the following weeks, Joe found himself looking forward to them in ways that had nothing to do with work. Y/N was easy to talk to, made him laugh, challenged his perspectives without making it feel like confrontation.

But more than that, Joe started noticing things that suggested Y/N's interest went beyond friendship.

The way she remembered details from previous conversations—his mention of preferring morning workouts, his offhand comment about missing certain Louisiana restaurants, his observation about the difference between Cincinnati and LSU fans.

The way she'd automatically order for both of them when he was running late, knowing exactly what he wanted.

The way she'd lean forward when he was talking, giving him her complete attention in a way that felt different from polite interest.

The way she'd laugh at his jokes—not polite chuckles, but genuine amusement that reached her eyes.

Most telling was what happened when other people interrupted their conversations. If someone approached for photos or autographs, Y/N would politely step back, creating space. But Joe caught the way she'd watch, making sure he was comfortable, ready to intervene if needed. Not jealous or possessive, but protective in a way that felt personal.

During one lunch in late April, Joe was telling Y/N about his off-season training when a young fan approached nervously.

"Mr. Burrow? Could I get a picture?"

"Of course," Joe said, standing to accommodate the request. The interaction was brief and friendly, routine.

When Joe returned to the table, Y/N was smiling in a way that looked almost proud.

"What?" Joe asked, settling back down.

"Nothing," Y/N said, still smiling. "You're just good at that. Making people feel special without making it feel like an obligation."

The observation was specific, personal, the kind of thing someone noticed when they'd been watching closely enough to understand the difference between genuine engagement and professional performance.

"You've been studying my fan interaction techniques?" Joe asked, keeping his tone light but feeling something significant in her attention to details most people wouldn't notice.

"I notice things," Y/N said simply, then seemed to realize how that sounded. "Professional habit."

But that didn't really explain it. She'd been watching him, noticing things that had nothing to do with work.

That evening, Joe found himself replaying the lunch conversation, particularly Y/N's careful deflection when she'd revealed too much awareness of his personal habits. The pattern was becoming clear: Y/N knew him well beyond their professional interactions, had been paying attention in ways that suggested feelings she was trying to keep contained.

Y/N had feelings for him. Probably had for a while.

Her professional boundaries weren't just about maintaining appropriate workplace relationships—they were about protecting herself from wanting something she thought she couldn't have.

The careful way she'd always maintained distance, the professional language she used even during personal conversations, the way she'd never presumed anything beyond their official collaboration—all of it made sense if she'd been managing feelings while he was in a relationship.

Joe thought about their years of working together, the trust between them, the way Y/N had consistently prioritized his comfort and privacy even when it might have been easier to push for more access.

She'd been protecting not just his boundaries, but her own. Creating safe distance from feelings that couldn't be appropriately expressed.

But now things were different. He was free to pursue connections he'd been suppressing, and Y/N was free to acknowledge feelings she'd been carefully hiding.

The question was whether either of them was brave enough to cross the line they'd been maintaining for years, to risk the professional relationship by trying to turn it into something more.

Sitting in his house that night, thinking about Y/N's smile when she'd watched him interact with a fan, about the way she'd pulled back from offering personal insight, about the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him, Joe realized he was finally ready to find out.

But he also realized that Y/N's years of practiced professional distance might make it difficult for her to believe that crossing those boundaries was safe, even with his relationship status changed.

If he wanted to explore what existed between them, Joe would need to make the first move. And he'd need to make it clear that he was interested in her as more than just a friend or colleague.

The thought was terrifying and exciting in equal measure. After years of careful boundaries and professional collaboration, the possibility of something real and personal with Y/N felt like stepping into completely uncharted territory.

* * *

May 2024 - Joe's Home 

Joe sat in his living room at 2 AM, staring at his phone and the draft text he'd written and deleted seventeen times. Each version felt either too casual or too intense, too presumptuous or too vague. How did you ask someone to dinner when the implications could fundamentally change everything?

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

He'd written it, deleted it, rewritten it with different phrasing, deleted it again. The simple message felt loaded with significance that terrified him.

Because this wasn't just about dinner. This was about crossing a line he and Y/N had been carefully maintaining for years. This was about risking the most important professional relationship of his career for the possibility of something personal that might not even exist.

What if he was wrong? What if Y/N's careful attention was just exceptional professionalism rather than hidden feelings? What if her knowledge of his preferences came from years of working together rather than personal investment?

Joe set his phone down and ran his hands through his hair.

The professional complications alone were staggering. Y/N was a key member of the Bengals organization, someone whose career could be affected by her relationship with players. If things went badly, would she feel pressured to transfer to another team? Would the organization question her judgment?

And what about the media attention? Joe's relationships had always been scrutinized, analyzed, turned into public entertainment. Y/N had spent years carefully maintaining her privacy, staying behind the camera. Dating him would thrust her into a spotlight she'd never sought, subject her to the kind of invasive attention that had contributed to the end of his relationship with Olivia.

Joe thought about Y/N at team events, how she moved efficiently through crowds without drawing attention to herself, how she'd perfected the art of being essential while remaining invisible. Being with him would end that anonymity forever.

But the professional and media complications weren't what kept him awake at night. The real terror was more personal.

Y/N saw him completely. Not just the public persona or the carefully managed image, but the person underneath—his vulnerabilities, his fears, his recovery struggles, his need for authentic connection in a world full of surface-level interactions. She'd witnessed him at his lowest points and never made him feel weak for having them.

That level of being known was intoxicating. It was also terrifying.

With Olivia, Joe had been able to maintain certain emotional boundaries, to keep parts of himself protected behind professional obligations and public responsibilities. Their relationship had been comfortable partly because it didn't require complete vulnerability.

Y/N already knew too much for him to hide behind those defenses. She'd seen him cry in frustration during rehabilitation, had witnessed his fears about never being the same player, had been present for moments of doubt he'd never shared with anyone else.

Being in a romantic relationship with Y/N would mean emotional nakedness in ways Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for. No professional boundaries to retreat behind, no public obligations to use as shields. Just him, completely exposed, with someone who already knew exactly where all his weak spots were.

The thought made his chest tighten with something between anticipation and panic.

And what if it didn't work? What if they tried to transition from professional collaboration to personal relationship and it ruined everything they'd built? Joe couldn't imagine navigating his career without Y/N's understanding and support. She'd become essential to how he managed his public image, his media obligations, his connection with fans and teammates.

Losing her as a romantic partner would be devastating. Losing her as a professional collaborator would be catastrophic.

Joe picked up his phone again, the draft message still waiting.

Want to grab dinner this weekend? Somewhere that's not our usual lunch spot.

Such a simple question. Such enormous implications.

He thought about Y/N's smile during their recent lunches, the way she'd leaned forward when he was talking, the careful attention she paid to details that mattered to him. The signs that suggested she might be interested in something beyond friendship.

But he also thought about her years of practiced professional distance, her careful maintenance of appropriate boundaries, her skill at protecting both his privacy and her own. Y/N was someone who thought strategically, who understood consequences, who wouldn't risk important relationships for uncertain outcomes.

Maybe she'd been maintaining professional boundaries not just because it was appropriate, but because she'd recognized all the same complications he was spiraling through now. Maybe she'd calculated the risks and decided their professional relationship was too valuable to jeopardize.

Maybe Y/N had been protecting both of them from exactly the kind of emotional chaos Joe was experiencing right now.

Joe deleted the message draft and set his phone aside, admitting defeat for the night. The rational part of his mind understood that every relationship involved risk, that meaningful connections required vulnerability, that staying safe often meant staying isolated.

But rational was being overpowered by fear. Fear of rejection, fear of complication, fear of losing something essential by trying to turn it into something more.

And underneath all the practical concerns was a deeper terror: Y/N mattered to him in ways that went far beyond professional collaboration or even romantic attraction. She'd become someone he couldn't imagine his life without, someone whose understanding and support had become fundamental to how he navigated challenges.

The stakes felt impossibly high. Not just the risk of romantic rejection, but the possibility of losing the person who knew him best, who'd been there for his worst moments and never made him feel inadequate for having them.

Joe had always prided himself on calculated risk-taking, on making strategic decisions under pressure. But when it came to Y/N, every option felt dangerous. Pursuing her risked everything they'd built together. Not pursuing her meant potentially missing the most meaningful connection of his life.

As he finally headed to bed, Joe realized he was trapped in analysis paralysis, cycling through the same fears and possibilities without reaching any conclusions.

Maybe the smart thing was to do nothing. To appreciate what they had without risking it for something that might not even be possible.

Maybe the safe choice was the right choice, even if it felt like cowardice.

But lying in bed, thinking about Y/N's laugh and her protective instincts and the way she'd made him feel seen and understood for years, Joe knew that safety wasn't the same as happiness.

The question was whether he was brave enough to choose happiness over security, vulnerability over protection, the possibility of everything over the guarantee of nothing changing.

* * *

July 2024 - Alo Sponsorship Event, Los Angeles 

The Alo event in Los Angeles was exactly the kind of obligation Joe typically endured rather than enjoyed—beautiful people in athletic wear pretending to care about mindfulness while networking and taking photos for social media. But it was part of his endorsement deal, so he smiled and posed for content and made conversation with influencers and executives who mattered to his business interests.

The West Coast fitness scene felt like a different world from Cincinnati, full of people who understood personal branding as naturally as breathing. Joe moved through the outdoor event space with practiced ease, fulfilling his obligations while mentally counting down until he could escape back to his hotel.

"Excuse me, are you Joe Burrow?"

Joe turned to find a young woman approaching with the kind of confident smile that suggested she was used to getting positive responses when she introduced herself to strangers.

"That's me," Joe replied, automatically shifting into public interaction mode.

"I'm Ellie James," she said, extending her hand. "I just wanted to say I've been following your comeback story. Really inspiring stuff."

Joe nodded politely, recognizing the slight positioning that suggested Ellie had her own social media presence. She had that polished look of someone who spent considerable time crafting her image—perfect makeup, strategically casual athletic wear that was expensive but designed to look effortless.

"Thanks," Joe said. "Are you from LA?"

"New York originally, but I'm based here now," Ellie said. "I do content creation—fashion, lifestyle stuff, some modeling."

Joe nodded. She definitely had that polished LA influencer look down.

"LA seems like the place for that," Joe said.

"It really is," Ellie replied. "The energy here is incredible. So much more chill than New York."

There was something refreshing about Ellie's directness, her lack of complicated history or predetermined expectations. She was beautiful in an obvious way—young, blonde, with the kind of curated perfection that photographed well and drew attention without effort. But more than that, she seemed genuinely interested in the conversation they were having.

"How long have you been out here?" Joe asked, noting how other guests kept glancing their way as they talked.

"About two years now," Ellie said, tucking a strand of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. "It took a while to build my following here, but the collaborations are incredible. Everyone's so focused on wellness and authenticity—well, their version of it anyway."

As the evening progressed, Joe found himself returning to conversations with Ellie between his required interactions with sponsors and executives. She was easy to talk to in a way that required no emotional investment, no careful navigation of professional boundaries, no awareness of complicated history.

With Ellie, Joe could just be charming and interested without the weight of years of suppressed attraction and professional collaboration. There was no risk of devastating consequences if the interaction went badly, no possibility of losing something essential if he misread signals.

"I should probably mingle a bit more," Ellie said during one of their conversations, glancing around the room at other networking opportunities. "But this has been really nice. I don't get to meet many people outside the influencer bubble."

The comment felt like an opening, and Joe found himself responding before fully considering the implications.

"Maybe we could grab dinner sometime when I'm back in LA," he offered. "If you're interested."

"I'd really like that," Ellie smiled, and Joe could tell she meant it. The interest was clear but not presumptuous, straightforward in a way that felt refreshing after months of analyzing every interaction for hidden meaning.

They exchanged numbers with the kind of casual efficiency that felt entirely different from the careful professional boundaries that defined his relationship with Y/N.

As Joe flew back to Cincinnati the next day, he found himself thinking about the contrast between his easy interaction with Ellie and his complicated feelings about Y/N. With Ellie, everything felt simple, clear. She was beautiful, interesting, available, and interested—everything should be straightforward.

But simple felt like settling.

Joe thought about Y/N's protective instincts, her intimate knowledge of his needs, the way she'd been present for his most vulnerable moments without making him feel weak for having them. The depth of understanding that had developed between them over years of collaboration and careful trust-building.

Ellie represented safety. No risk of professional complications, no possibility of losing something essential, no requirement for emotional vulnerability that Joe wasn't sure he was prepared for.

Y/N represented everything Joe actually wanted but was terrified to pursue.

When Ellie texted the next morning—a casual message about the Alo event and a funny observation about LA wellness culture—Joe responded quickly, committing to a relationship that felt manageable rather than meaningful.

It was cowardice disguised as pragmatism. But it was also self-preservation in the face of feelings that felt too big and too risky to pursue.

For the first time in his career, Joe Burrow was choosing the safe play over the one that might actually win the game. And he knew, even as he made the choice, that he would probably regret it.

* * *

July 2024 - Training Camp 

Training camp came in hot, literally and figuratively. The facility pulsed with familiar chaos—players returning, rookies getting hazed, schedules compressed into brutal efficiency. But this year felt different, weighted with complications Joe had created for himself during a weekend in LA that now felt like a mistake disguised as a solution.

Three weeks into whatever was happening with Ellie, and Joe was discovering that choosing the "safe" option didn't eliminate emotional complexity—it just redirected it.

On the field, everything clicked. His wrist held up under pressure, throws had their old precision, timing with receivers falling into place like muscle memory. This was the part of his life that still made sense.

Y/N moved through the chaos with her characteristic efficiency, camera over her shoulder, coordinating her team while tracking the key moments that would become the story of another season. Joe found himself hyperaware of her presence in ways that felt both familiar and newly complicated.

"Wrists looking a lot better," she called as he passed during a water break.

"Good," Joe said, rolling his shoulder.

"Wrist's holding up better than expected."

"Keep it that way," Y/N said.

He grinned despite himself, and for a moment it felt like spring again—when they'd been texting about random things, meeting for lunch, when everything between them had felt easy and full of possibility. Before he'd panicked and chosen emotional safety over authentic connection.

But Joe caught himself, the smile fading as he remembered the distance he'd been carefully maintaining since returning from California. It wasn't fair to Y/N, this withdrawal without explanation, but he didn't know how else to handle the guilt of being with someone else while still wanting to be around her.

The truth was, he'd been pulling back deliberately. Their lunches had stopped. His texts had become less frequent, more focused on work. He still sought her out during media obligations—old habits were hard to break—but the familiar rhythm between them had changed.

Y/N had noticed, of course. She was too observant not to pick up on his withdrawal, too professional to call him out directly, but he caught the questions in her glances, the careful way she'd started approaching their interactions.

Joe told himself it was necessary. Camp was intense, demanding tunnel vision. But even he didn't believe his own rationalization. The distance was about Ellie, about the guilt of developing something with someone else while still thinking about Y/N constantly.

Days blurred together in the familiar grind—practice, meetings, film study, recovery. Joe threw himself into preparation with an intensity that bordered on obsessive, using football as refuge from thoughts he didn't want to examine. His phone buzzed throughout each day with messages from Ellie—photos from LA, updates about her work, casual observations that felt designed for social media as much as personal connection.

Most evenings, Joe stayed late in the facility, reviewing film until his brain finally quieted enough to sleep. It was during one of these sessions that Y/N found him, alone in the film room with game footage frozen on the screen.

"Don't you ever take a break?" she asked from the doorway.

Joe looked over, offering a tired half-smile. "Not this time of year."

She stepped inside, sliding into the chair next to him with the easy familiarity that had defined their relationship for years. "Even quarterbacks need to let their brains cool off."

"Says the woman who's been here since dawn," Joe replied, nodding toward her camera bag.

"Touché."

They sat in comfortable silence, the room lit only by the frozen frame on the screen. For a moment, Joe allowed himself to simply enjoy her presence without the weight of guilt. This was what he'd been missing—not just Y/N's company, but the ease of being around someone who understood his world completely.

"You've been kind of MIA lately," Y/N said lightly. "Everything good?"

The question was carefully neutral, but Joe heard the real concern underneath. Y/N had noticed his withdrawal and was giving him space to explain without demanding answers he couldn't give.

Joe didn't answer right away, his eyes staying on the paused film. "Yeah. Just... camp mode. Lot to lock in."

Y/N nodded, accepting his non-answer. "If you need a break from all this, I'm around. We could grab dinner, talk about literally anything but football."

The offer hit Joe like a physical blow. Y/N was extending exactly the kind of connection he'd been craving, the easy companionship that had made their spring lunches the highlight of his weeks. But accepting would mean spending time with her while secretly involved with someone else.

"I'd like that," Joe heard himself saying, the truth slipping out before he could stop it. "Maybe next week? When it slows down."

"Deal," Y/N said, standing and grabbing her bag. "Don't stay too late."

As she walked away, Joe remained in the film room, staring at the frozen screen. Y/N had noticed his distance, had reached out anyway, had offered exactly what he wanted but felt guilty accepting.

The mess was entirely of his own making. He'd chosen Ellie to avoid the complications of pursuing Y/N, but instead of simplifying his life, he'd created a situation where he was being dishonest with everyone—Ellie about the depth of his feelings, Y/N about why he'd pulled away, himself about what he actually wanted.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from Ellie, something light from her day in LA. He read it without responding, then set the phone aside and returned his attention to the film, using football analysis as distraction from the recognition that he'd made the wrong choice and was too much of a coward to admit it.

Y/N was giving him space to figure out whatever was happening with him, even though his withdrawal was probably hurting her in ways she'd never express directly.

* * *

November 2024 - Team Flight Back from Dallas 

Joe was trying to sleep on the team flight when his phone started buzzing incessantly. First one call, then another, then texts flooding in faster than he could read them. The victory over Dallas should have felt satisfying—another step toward the playoffs—but the sudden barrage of notifications sent ice through his veins.

The first missed call was from his security company. The second from his neighbor. The third from Ellie, timestamped twenty minutes ago.

Security breach at residence. Police dispatched. Contact immediately.

Joe's heart stopped. Ellie was supposed to be at his house—she'd flown in to see him and was waiting for his return from Dallas. But something had gone terribly wrong.

His phone rang again. Ellie's name on the screen.

"What happened?" Joe answered, keeping his voice low to avoid waking teammates nearby.

"I'm so sorry," Ellie's voice was shaky, clearly rattled. "I got to your house and found the window broken, things missing. Someone broke in before I got there. I called the police immediately."

Joe felt relief that Ellie was safe and anger that someone had violated his home. But that was immediately replaced by a different kind of panic as the implications hit him.

"Are you hurt? Did you see anyone?"

"I'm fine, just scared. I got here after it happened. The police are taking statements, trying to figure out what was taken. But Joe..." Ellie hesitated. "There are photographers outside now. Someone must have heard the police scanner. They're asking questions about why I was here, what my relationship to you is."

The blood drained from Joe's face. "What did you tell them?"

"I tried to say I was just a friend, but they're not buying it. They can see I have a key, that I was expected here. The police needed to know my relationship to you for their report."

Joe closed his eyes, already imagining the headlines, the speculation, the invasive analysis that would follow. Worse than that, he thought about Y/N finding out this way—not from him, but from police reports and social media investigation.

"I didn't know what else to tell them," Ellie continued. "I had to be honest with the police about why I was here, that we're... together. But now it's going to be everywhere, isn't it?"

It wouldn't matter how vague she'd been. The internet was relentless when it came to connecting dots, especially when it involved celebrities and attractive women. Within hours, someone would identify Ellie, trace their connection, piece together a timeline that would make their relationship public knowledge.

"I should have called you first," Ellie said, her voice small. "But I was scared, and the police were asking questions, and I didn't know what else to do."

"Don't go back to your place tonight," Joe said, his mind already working through logistics. "I'll get you a hotel room. Somewhere nice, away from all this. Text me when the police are done and I'll send you the details."

"Are you sure? I could just fly back to LA—"

"No," Joe said firmly. "I want to see you, make sure you're okay. We'll figure this out together when I land."

After hanging up, Joe stared at his phone, watching notifications multiply as the story spread across social media platforms. Someone had already posted photos of police cars outside his house, of Ellie talking to officers, of the broken window that had started this entire mess.

His relationship with Ellie, which he'd kept carefully private for months, was about to become public in the worst possible way. Not through a planned announcement or gradual revelation, but through crisis and speculation and invasive coverage of what should have been a simple break-in.

But worse than the media attention was the thought of Y/N learning about Ellie this way. After months of working closely together, of sharing professional intimacy and careful friendship, of the growing distance he'd created without explanation—Y/N was going to discover the reason for his withdrawal through tabloid coverage and social media detective work.

Joe thought about their conversation in the film room just months ago, when Y/N had offered dinner and he'd deflected with promises of "maybe next week." He thought about all the times she'd noticed his distraction, his emotional distance, his reluctance to maintain the easy connection they'd developed. She'd been too professional to push for explanations.

Now she'd get those answers whether he was ready or not.

His phone buzzed with a text from his agent, then his publicist, then team management. Everyone wanted to know what was happening, how to handle the situation. But Joe found himself thinking about one person who probably wouldn't reach out directly, who would handle this news with the same professional composure she brought to every crisis.

Y/N would see the headlines, piece together the timeline, understand why he'd pulled away from their friendship. She'd realize that while she'd been wondering what had changed between them, he'd been building a secret relationship with someone else.

The team plane began its descent into Cincinnati, and Joe's phone continued buzzing with calls he didn't want to answer. Outside the small aircraft window, the city lights looked the same as always, but Joe knew that by morning, everything would be different.

His carefully maintained privacy was about to be shattered. His relationship with Ellie would become public knowledge through the worst possible circumstances. And Y/N—the person whose opinion mattered most, whose friendship he'd been too cowardly to protect and too scared to pursue—was going to learn about his emotional betrayal through internet speculation and crisis management.

As the plane touched down, Joe realized that in trying to avoid complicated conversations and difficult choices, he'd created a situation far worse than any of the scenarios he'd been trying to prevent.

* * *

November 2024 - Bengals Facility 

Joe hadn't slept. After meeting Ellie at the hotel, after holding her while she cried about the break-in, after dealing with police reports and security companies and insurance claims, he'd spent the remaining hours staring at the ceiling and dreading this moment.

Walking into the Bengals facility at 9:30 AM felt like entering a war zone. Staff members looked up as he passed, their expressions carefully neutral but eyes full of questions. Everyone knew. The story had exploded overnight exactly as he'd feared.

But worse than the general scrutiny was the thought of facing Y/N. She would have seen the headlines, pieced together the timeline, understood why he'd pulled away from their friendship without explanation.

Joe's phone buzzed with another message from his agent, his publicist, his family. Everyone wanted to know how to handle this. But the only conversation he was dreading was the one with Y/N.

He knocked on the press prep room door at exactly 10:15, steeling himself for whatever he might see in her expression. When Y/N looked up from her notes, her face was perfectly professional, but Joe caught the brief flicker of something—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before she smoothed it away.

"Hey," he said, the inadequacy of the greeting obvious even to him.

"Hey," Y/N replied, her tone carefully neutral. "You okay?"

The simple question hit harder than it should have. Y/N was still looking out for him, still prioritizing his wellbeing even after discovering his betrayal of their friendship.

"Been better," Joe admitted, taking the seat across from her. "I'm guessing you've heard."

"It's been a busy morning," Y/N confirmed, and Joe noted how she didn't acknowledge the personal impact, didn't ask the questions she had every right to ask. "The team's concerned about how to handle the media today."

Joe nodded, studying her face for any sign of what she was really thinking. But Y/N had perfected the art of professional distance.

"What do you think I should do?" he asked, genuinely wanting her perspective but also hoping to gauge her emotional state.

Y/N took a deep breath, and Joe watched her deliberately push aside whatever personal feelings she might have.

"I think what happened was an invasion of privacy in more ways than one," she said carefully. "First the break-in itself, then the public speculation. You don't owe anyone anything, Joe. Not explanations, not confirmations, not details about your personal life."

The immediate protective response was pure Y/N—even hurt and blindsided, her first instinct was to shield him from further violation. Joe felt his chest tighten with gratitude and guilt.

"That's what I figured you'd say," he said, meaning it as recognition of how well she understood him.

Y/N continued outlining strategy with the same competence she brought to every crisis, giving him tools to maintain his boundaries while managing public pressure. But Joe found himself studying her face, looking for cracks in the professional facade.

"Thank you," Joe said when she finished. "For understanding. For not..." he hesitated, "not asking questions yourself."

Something flickered across Y/N's expression at that—a flash of pain quickly suppressed. Joe realized too late that his gratitude for her professional distance might sound like relief that she wasn't demanding explanations he didn't want to give.

"That's my job," Y/N said simply. "To help you navigate the public aspects of your career while respecting your private ones."

The response was perfectly professional and completely devastating. Y/N was retreating behind job descriptions, creating distance that felt like punishment even though Joe knew he deserved it.

They spent the next fifteen minutes reviewing strategy, but Joe felt the weight of everything unsaid hanging between them. Y/N was helping him protect his privacy while probably wondering why he'd never trusted her with the truth.

As they finished, Joe found himself desperate to bridge the growing gap between them.

"You know, in all these years, you're the only one who's never tried to frame me according to what others want to see. Who's never pushed for more than I wanted to give."

It was true, but as soon as he said it, Joe realized how it might sound to someone who had just discovered he'd been hiding a relationship from her for months.

"Everyone deserves privacy," Y/N managed, her voice carefully controlled. "Even you."

Something in her tone—resignation, maybe, or hurt acknowledgment—made Joe want to explain everything. But before he could find the words, it was time for the press conference.

* * *

The Press Conference

Standing at the podium, looking out at the room full of reporters waiting to dissect his personal life, Joe felt a familiar calm settle over him. This was the part he could control—his response, his boundaries, his narrative.

He caught sight of Y/N in the back of the room, her expression focused and professional as she monitored his performance. Knowing she was there gave him the confidence to speak from the heart rather than from their prepared talking points.

"I know there's been a lot of attention around my name in the past twenty-four hours," Joe began, his voice steady and clear. "Out of respect for the people involved and for myself, I'm going to say this once. I feel like my privacy has been violated in more ways than one, and way more is already out there than I would want out there and that I care to share."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the room.

"I'm here to talk about football. That's what I'll be answering questions about today."

The boundary was clear and non-negotiable. Joe held firm as reporters tried various angles to return to the personal story, calmly redirecting every question back to football. When it was over, he looked toward the back of the room, catching Y/N's eye for just a moment—a silent acknowledgment of their shared understanding.

* * *

Later That Day - Y/N's Office

Joe stood outside Y/N's office for several minutes before knocking, trying to find the right words for a conversation he should have had months ago. When he finally entered, Y/N looked up with that same professional composure, but Joe caught the slight tension in her shoulders.

"Got a minute?" he asked.

"Of course," Y/N replied, though something in her tone suggested this was the last conversation she wanted to have.

Joe closed the door and sat across from her desk, studying her face and finding nothing but polite professional attention. The easy warmth that had characterized their friendship was gone, replaced by careful distance.

"I went off script," he said, testing the waters.

"It was better," Y/N replied honestly. "More authentic. Set a clearer boundary."

Joe felt a brief moment of satisfaction that she approved, followed immediately by sadness that they were discussing his press conference performance rather than the personal earthquake that had brought them to this point.

"I wanted to thank you for how you handled everything this morning," he continued. "Sam mentioned you shut down the suggestions to make some official statement about... everything."

Y/N just shrugged, keeping her expression neutral. "I just did what you would have wanted. Protected your privacy."

"You always do," Joe said quietly. "Even when others don't."

The silence that followed felt loaded with everything they weren't saying. Joe could sense Y/N's hurt beneath her professional composure, could feel her pulling away even as she maintained perfect courtesy.

"The coverage should die down soon," Y/N said, gesturing to her monitor with the kind of efficient subject change that indicated the personal portion of their conversation was over. "We'll maintain regular football content, no acknowledgment of the personal angles. The usual approach."

But Joe wasn't ready to retreat to safe professional ground. Not when he could feel Y/N slipping away.

"Look, Y/N... about Ellie."

"You don't owe me any explanations," Y/N interrupted quickly, and Joe caught the slight acceleration in her breathing that suggested his attempt at honesty was causing her pain. "Your personal life is your business."

"I know, but given everything..." Joe struggled to find words. "We've been friends. Having lunch, talking. It feels weird not to acknowledge it."

Friends. Joe watched Y/N's face as he said the word, noting the slight flinch she couldn't quite hide. It wasn't the right word for what they'd been to each other, but it was the only safe word he had.

"It's really okay, Joe," Y/N said, her voice carefully modulated. "I understand why you'd keep your relationship private. You always have."

Joe studied her face, looking for any opening to explain that his relationship with Ellie wasn't what the media was making it seem, that it had been a mistake born of fear rather than genuine connection.

"It's complicated," he said finally. "More complicated than what people are assuming."

Something flickered in Y/N's expression—curiosity, maybe, or hope—before she deliberately suppressed it.

"Complicated or not, it's yours to share or not share," she said carefully. "On your terms. When and if you want to."

The response was perfectly appropriate and completely devastating. Y/N was giving him space to explain while making it clear she didn't expect his explanations. She was protecting herself while still protecting him.

Joe felt desperate to bridge the gap between them, to return to the easy connection they'd shared before he'd ruined everything.

"I was thinking maybe we could grab lunch soon," he said, the invitation spilling out before he could stop it. "Like we used to. I miss our conversations."

The offer hung between them, and Joe watched Y/N's face carefully, looking for any sign that she might accept.

"Let's see how the schedule looks," Y/N replied, her tone neutral but her message clear. "Things are pretty hectic right now."

It was a gentle rejection, professionally worded but final nonetheless. Y/N was drawing boundaries, protecting herself from the kind of emotional confusion Joe had created.

"Sure," Joe said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "Just let me know."

As he stood to leave, Joe realized he'd lost more than just Y/N's friendship. He'd lost her trust, her easy companionship, the person who understood him better than anyone else in his professional life. His attempt to avoid complications by choosing Ellie had created far worse complications.

Walking back through the facility, Joe's phone buzzed with messages from teammates, family, media contacts. Everyone wanted to know about Ellie, about the relationship that had been exposed.

But the only person whose understanding he actually wanted was the one he'd already lost through his own emotional cowardice. And the text he most wanted to send—explaining everything, apologizing for the secrecy, asking for another chance—felt impossible to write.

* * *

Game Day Scene

Joe spotted Y/N on the sidelines during warm-ups, camera in hand, moving with that focused efficiency he'd watched for four years. But something was off about her positioning—she was deliberately staying in areas where their paths wouldn't cross, keeping her lens trained on everyone except him.

She was avoiding him. Not just the awkward small talk or professional distance—she was actively managing her movements to minimize contact.

He jogged over during a break in drills, helmet tucked under his arm.

"Avoiding me?" The words came out more direct than he'd intended.

Y/N turned, and for just a split second he saw something raw cross her face before the professional mask slid back into place. "Of course not. Just focusing on the content plan."

Bullshit. Joe had been reading Y/N's expressions for four years. He knew the difference between her being busy and her being careful.

"You haven't answered my texts. Declined two lunch invitations. That's new."

Her composure never wavered, but he caught the slight tightening around her eyes. "It's been a busy week. Lots of media management after everything that happened."

The diplomatic response rankled more than anger would have. This was what she did with difficult players, with media members she didn't trust. Professional courtesy wrapped around a steel wall.

"Right," he said, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Y/N, if something's—"

"You're about to play a game." She cut him off, her tone gentle but firm. "That's where your focus should be. Not on lunch plans or texts."

The dismissal stung, but she was right about the timing. His head needed to be in the game, not on whatever this distance was about. Still, he couldn't let it go completely.

"We're talking about this later."

He started to turn away, then heard her voice.

"Joe?"

He looked back, hoping for something—an opening, a crack in that professional armor.

"Good luck out there."

The corner of his mouth lifted despite his frustration. Even when she was pulling away, she couldn't help caring about his performance. It was so fundamentally Y/N that it made his chest tight.

"Thanks. I'll need it against this defense."

As he jogged back to the quarterback group, Joe tried to shake off the conversation and focus on the game plan. But part of his mind stayed fixed on Y/N's careful positioning, the way she'd deflected every attempt at real connection.

During the game, he found himself glancing toward the sideline more than usual, tracking her movement between plays. She was doing her job with the same excellence she always brought—capturing key moments, coordinating with her team, creating content that would bring fans closer to the action.

But there was something different in her body language. More contained. Like she was holding herself apart from the energy of the game in a way she never had before.

When he threw the touchdown pass in the third quarter, his automatic reaction was to look for her reaction. But Y/N was already turning away, camera focused on the celebration around him instead of him directly.

The post-game interview felt hollow without her usual follow-up questions or the brief eye contact that had become their private ritual. She was there, professional as always, but the easy connection they'd built over four years felt severed.

Back in the locker room, Joe's frustration finally boiled over. He pulled out his phone and typed without overthinking it.

We need to talk. For real this time. Not about work.

He watched the three dots appear and disappear several times before her response came.

I'm heading out of town tomorrow. Family visit. Can it wait until next week?

The deflection was so obviously a delay tactic that it would have been insulting if it wasn't so unlike her. Y/N didn't run from difficult conversations. She met them head-on with the same directness she brought to everything else.

Which meant this wasn't about professional boundaries or busy schedules. This was about him.

If it has to. But Y/N, I hate how things are between us right now.

The response took longer this time.

We'll talk when I get back. Good game today.

Joe stared at the message, recognizing the careful balance between acknowledgment and distance. She was giving him credit for his performance while firmly maintaining the boundary she'd established.

As he drove home that night, Joe replayed every interaction they'd had since the break-in. The way she'd handled the crisis meeting with perfect professionalism. The careful preparation for the press conference. Her composed reaction when he'd tried to explain things in her office.

He'd been so focused on managing the situation, on containing the damage to his public image, that he'd missed what was happening right in front of him. Y/N hadn't just been doing her job during those conversations. She'd been protecting herself.

From him.

[thef1diary]

I've been thinking about cornstarch!daniel today. Is he doing like OF type of content because if he is...

It'd be super fun to see something about reader interacting with him trough the chat in the stream or maybe a private chat. Maybe she sends him a tip and requests certain actions on stream or something.

- 🍒

— yess he streams occasionally, mainly posting videos but when he’s there on your screen, live, it’s a whole different level of filth. 18+ content below

Dan didn’t stream often, but when he did, it felt like he was doing it just for you.

The timing was perfect. Right when you’d finish your day—settling into bed, bare under the covers, with nothing but your phone and your fingers teasing at your already damp folds—it would happen. A notification would light up your screen: Dan is live

You didn’t think too much about the coincidence; maybe you were just lucky. But tonight, the anticipation buzzed hotter under your skin as you clicked into the stream, quickly putting your headphones in.

The screen loaded, and there he was. His signature angle—a faceless shot of his chest, abs, and that insanely beautiful cock already hard and heavy in his hand. The lighting was dim, highlighting every dip and ridge of his muscles. His voice, rich and low, hummed through your headphones.

“Well, look who’s here,” Dan purred, a teasing edge in his tone. “Couldn’t stay away, could you?”

Your cheeks heated as you typed a reply in the chat—using both hands, leaving your cunt clenching around air—knowing he wouldn’t see your face but feeling exposed anyway. You sent a tip first—nothing too extravagant, just enough to catch his attention.

“Ah, a little something from my favourite,” he murmured, glancing at the screen. “You spoil me, baby. What do you want tonight? You know I like to make it worth your while.”

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, and before you could second-guess yourself, you typed: Stroke it slow. I want to see you tease yourself for me.

He chuckled, low and sinful, as if he’d been waiting for your request. “Mm, slow, huh? You’ve got a filthy little mind. I like that.”

Dan shifted slightly, reclining in his chair as his tattooed hand slid lazily along his length. He let out a soft groan, the sound vibrating through your headphones and straight to your cunt.

His movements were slow, deliberate, every stroke a display of restraint that made your thighs tremble. The slick, wet sound of his hand working over his cock filled your ears, syncing with the way your fingers teased your folds.

“Like this?” he asked, his voice thick with arousal. “You like watching me take my time? Imagining what it’d feel like if it were your hand instead of mine?”

Your breath hitched as he obeyed, his strokes deliberate and teasing. His thumb swirled over the head, smearing the glistening precum that dripped down the length of him.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his hand pausing at the base before sliding back up. “I bet you’re already wet for me, aren’t you? I can practically hear you, baby. Legs spread, already touching yourself. Don’t be shy, moan for me.”

You obeyed instantly, his name leaving your lips in a breathless gasp as your fingers continued teasing your cunt. You swallowed hard, your other hand typing out another request sent with a larger tip: Talk to me. Tell me what you’d do if I were there.

Dan groaned again, this time louder, his hand tightening around his cock. “If you were here? God, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you. I’d lay you out on my bed, spread those pretty thighs, and make you beg for it. You’d look so good under me, squirming, all needy and desperate.”

You bit your lip, your fingers spreading your folds, gathering the wetness before smearing it all over your pussy. His voice was a lifeline, dragging you deeper into the haze of pleasure.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured, his pace picking up just slightly. “I’d bury my face between your legs first. Make you cum on my tongue before I even think about giving you my cock. You’d take it so well, wouldn’t you? God, I’d ruin you.”

Your moans spilled freely as you thrust your fingers in and out of your soaking cunt in time with the steady rhythm of his strokes on the screen.

But then, the attention shifted. Someone else in the chat tipped, their request popping up: Show me how rough you can get.

Dan obliged as he gripped himself tighter, his hips bucking into his hand. His groans grew louder, filthier, and your stomach twisted in jealousy. It was silly; this was a stream with all his followers, after all. But the way his focus shifted away from you stung.

Without hesitation, you sent an even larger tip, accompanied by a bolder request: Slow down, Dan. I want you to edge yourself for me—keep that cock dripping but don’t you dare cum until I tell you.

His laugh was low, almost incredulous, as he read your message. “Oh, you’re something else, aren’t you? Got me wrapped around your little finger. Fine, sweetheart. Just for you.”

He adjusted his grip, slowing his strokes, teasing himself with soft, deliberate touches. The precum glistened, trailing down his length, and his head tipped back slightly as he let out a guttural moan.

The chat buzzed with activity—other tips, other demands. Someone tipped for him to pick up the pace, another begged for his degrading words. For a moment, you worried he might shift his focus away again, but his eyes—those unseen eyes—seemed to skim past everything except for your tips and requests.

Each message of yours pulled him back in. Every time another name popped up in the chat, he would glance at it briefly, then return to the one that mattered. You could feel his attention narrowing, locking onto you as though he couldn’t help himself.

You tipped again, adding: Keep talking. I want to hear every filthy thing you’d do to me.

His strokes faltered for a moment, a quiet groan slipping past his lips. “Fuck, baby. You’re dangerous.”

He picked up the rhythm again, his hand sliding over the thick, veined length of his cock. Precum glistened at the tip, dripping down his knuckles as his thumb teased over the sensitive head. His groans were low and guttural, a symphony of pleasure that made your thighs quiver.

“You’re sitting there, aren’t you?” he murmured, his voice rasping with need. “Touching yourself, thinking about me. You’d look so good spread out, your pussy dripping, begging me to fill you up.”

Your moans spilled freely now, your fingers sliding deeper into your cunt, curling and stroking in time with his movements on the screen. The wet, obscene sound of your arousal filled your room—sounds you didn’t pay attention to because his breathy moans and his words filled your ears.

The chat blurred around you, messages scrolling too fast to follow, but none of it mattered. Dan was fixated on you now, his pace shifting in perfect sync with the rhythm you’d set for him.

You were close, the pressure building like a tidal wave ready to crash. Your free hand trembled as you typed one final message: Cum with me. I want to watch you fall apart.

His reaction was immediate. His strokes turned desperate, his hips jerking into his hand as he worked himself toward the edge. The camera caught every detail—the flex of his abs, the way his cock throbbed in his grip, the beads of precum slicking his skin.

A low moan tore from his throat as he obeyed, his cock twitching violently in his hand. Thick ropes of cum spilled over his knuckles, dripping down his length as he rode out the waves of his orgasm. The sight pushed you over the edge, your body arching as you came, your moans mingling with his through your headphones.

For a moment, the world seemed to still. Your chest heaved as you caught your breath, your body trembling from the intensity. Dan leaned back in his chair, his hand still wrapped loosely around his spent cock, his breathing heavy.

The stream ended shortly after, and as you lay there, catching your breath, your phone vibrated with a private message:

Jealousy looks good on you. But maybe next time, we skip the crowd. Just you and me. Private stream. You tell me everything you want me to do. What do you say, sweetheart?

want more pornstar!dan? send me an ask with your filthiest thoughts and it’ll get answered during one of my dirty drabble days

[vienssunshine]

Raising the Stakes – Part Two

pairing: Sylus x fem!reader nsfw: suggestive, grinding wc: 3.5k author’s note: ok so I watched and enjoyed like 4 hours of Sylus content. i’m obsessed with him yessss. i don’t usually write multiple parts for fics, so this was a great challenge. also, i foresee a final part three to wrap this story up. description: so, did you win or lose that troublesome wager of yours? thank you for the support and requesting a part two: @satorubabee @itsalexiabth @dummiebunny @pemhpredo read part one here

Mmmm, it smells nice. Smells like him. 

He’s here right now, sitting beneath you on the plush armchair, lidded red eyes watching yours. You angle your face into the crook of his neck, taking a deep drag of his scent. God, he’s delicious.

Your lips kiss his pulse, and he gasps, deep and guttural, one of his big hands tightening around your forearm. You smile against his skin, and then open your mouth so your teeth graze his neck. You want to devour him.

His breathing is growing rapid, his chest rising and falling underneath your hand. It only encourages you, and you start moving your hips against him with intention, tracing your clothed cunt up and down his length that's straining against his slacks.

It feels so good. He feels so good. An orgasm is building up in your core and you haven’t even taken him out of his pants. Yes, you need that next, so you drag your hand down his torso—his abdomen tightens as you go over it—until you get to the button on his waistband. 

“Do you want it?” Sylus’ voice echoes through your head, close and distant simultaneously. You nod, mind foggy with pleasure. Your hand pops open the button of his pants and—

A knock on your door.

You jolt up in bed. The scenery before you is drastically different. 

“Sylus?” you say.

He’s leaning against the doorway of your bedroom, arms crossed. 

But he was just—

“You’re late for breakfast, kitten,” Sylus says, “The twins miss your company.”

“Breakfast?” you repeat back. Red and orange rays of light stream through the dark, translucent curtains of the window by your bed. Right, it’s sunset. It’s time for breakfast in the N109 zone. 

“Most important meal of the day,” Sylus says. 

“Uh, okay. Yeah, I’ll be right down,” you say, folding your blankets out of the way.

Sylus’ eyes are pulled to the spot right next to you, and when you follow his gaze, you see it too. 

His vest is tangled in your sheets.

Your mouth gapes. How–? What–? 

Sylus looks down, shaking his head with a smirk. “I’ve already eaten, so it’ll just be you and the twins. Don’t keep them waiting long.” 

“Okay!” you say, your voice weak.

He shuts the door behind him and your face falls into your hands. What the fuck? You're certain the vest was on the other side of the room last night, how did you wake up with it underneath your blankets? It doesn’t make any sense, nothing in the N109 zone does. 

You grab the vest from your sheets and walk it over to your desk, stuffing it in a drawer and slamming it shut. Too bad the drawer doesn’t lock. 

In the bathroom, you splash some water on your face and stick your toothbrush in your mouth, brushing more harshly than you should be. Despite not wanting to think of it, the scene re-emerges in your mind. You and Sylus on the armchair, kissing, grinding, and almost fucking. It was just a dream, right? Yes, a dream, though it was based in reality. You had been on top of him last night, with his body heating yours, his hands massaging your forearm, and his erection pushing up against you. And then you ran away. But, in your dream, you hadn’t, and it went further, with your mouth on his skin and your fingers unzipping his pants, traveling down to take him out. There was no confusion, no shame; it all felt so good. Just thinking about it has the sappy warmth returning, smoothing and relaxing your muscles, making you pliant, open, and ready.

You spit your toothpaste out. You’re working, it doesn’t matter how you feel. The top priority is the Aether Core, and a good Hunter wouldn't let their emotions get in the way.

You sit yourself down on the toilet to pee, resting your face in your hands once more so your palms press against your closed eyes. 

It’s simple: your body had a natural reaction to the physical proximity and the dream is as insignificant as all the others you’ve had. It’s nothing to get worked up about, nothing worth distracting you from your goal.

Your hands drop down from your face and you see the gusset of your underwear. You groan. Fuck, it’s a mess.

You hop in the shower, setting it to a colder temperature than normal and roughly rinse off the wetness between your thighs. You can’t wait to get out of here.

——

The shower only makes you more late and by the time you’re dressed and downstairs, the twins are clearing the table.

“I’m here, I’m here,” you say, hurrying into the dining room, “I’m sorry I’m late.” 

There’s still a plate left at the table for you filled with fruit and toast. You walk over to the chair in front of it. 

“We were so worried you wouldn’t show up for breakfast,” Kieran says. 

“Just Kieran,” Luke interjects, raising a finger, “I had faith in our beloved guest.”

“You were acting so strange last night,” Kieran says, looking down, “Almost knocking us over and running away. We thought you hated us.”

“Not we,” Luke repeats, taking an empty plate from Kieran’s hands and vanishing it, leaving a trace of black smoke. “There had to be a reason!”

“Oh, I could never hate you two,” you say, “Or waste a delicious breakfast you worked so hard to make. Will you still join me? And we can talk it out?”

Luke looks to Kieran, who crosses his arms. The plague masks cover their expressions, but from their body language you need to add a:

“Pretty please?”

“Oh, all right!” Kieran says, throwing his hands in the air, “If you insist.”

“He would’ve been heartbroken if you didn’t ask,” Luke says, sitting down at the table as you do. “But I wanna know too, why were you in such a rush?” 

“You didn’t even say hi,” Kieran adds.  

“It was because of the bet,” you say, taking a bite of the cut fruit on your plate, “How I had to find the brooch that Sylus hid?” 

Kieran frowns. “You could’ve asked for our help, y’know. Instead of almost plowing us down.” 

“Yeah,” Luke adds, “We know all of the boss' tricks. You shoulda talked to us!”

“Thanks,” you say, laughing, “If I’m ever in a situation like that again, I’ll know who to call.” 

“So,” Kieran says, leaning forward on his hands, “Didja win?”

“Uh…” Did you win? You found the brooch, but ended up running away before you actually took it from him. “I don’t know.”

“How do you not know?” Luke asks.

“I half-won, I think. I need to talk to Sylus about it.” 

Kieran sits back in his chair, folding his arms. “You’d know for sure if you let us help you.”

You smile. “Stop pouting, I already promised you you’ll help with the next one.” 

“Okay,” Kieran grumbles. 

You take another bite. “So, do either of you know where I can find Sylus?” 

“He’s out at a meeting right now. Should be back for lunch, right, Kieran?” Luke says.

“Think so.” 

“Okay,” you say, “I’ll chat with him then.”

Only, lunch comes and goes, and your sole company is the twins once more. This would be fine since you enjoy spending time with them, especially in comparison to their boss, but you’re getting antsy. The auction is tonight and you don’t know if Sylus is going to help you. If he doesn’t, you won’t have his knowledge, protection, or reputation, putting you at a major disadvantage. You’ll need to change your plan entirely to account for the loss.

Damn it, without Sylus, you don’t even have an invitation. 

No, you’ve got to find him. Convince him even. Like it or not, you need his help. No matter how awkward talking to him may be. 

You find the twins in the parlor playing a board game.

“Maybe his meeting ran late,” Kieran says, moving his piece three spaces over the board. 

“You rolled a two, not a three,” Luke says.

“Such a rule-follower,” Kieran responds, moving his piece back.

“So he’s still out?” you say. You’re not prepared to enter the N109 zone all by yourself to hunt him down, but it’s getting late and you don’t have anything: an answer, a dress, or a plan. 

“Nah, I saw him come back earlier today,” Luke says, rolling the die. “I think he’s at the gym.” 

“There’s a gym here?” you ask. God, this is the same as the elusive laundry room. 

“Yep, but the boss really doesn’t like it when we interrupt his workouts,” Luke says, moving his piece five spaces.

You groan. “Okay, how long will he be there?”

The twins shrug. 

You check your watch. The auction is in three hours. 

“Well, I can’t sit around waiting,” you say, half out the door, “So I’ll see you two later.” 

“We warned you!” one of them calls after you. 

You brush it off. With so much stuff up in the air—the exchange in the study, the vest’s supernatural appearance, the strange dreams—at the very least you need clarity on what will happen tonight.

After a few guesses, you find the door to the gym and walk through it. The walls are matte black, without decoration or windows, and illuminated by a few strips of lighting glowing overhead. Though the gym is filled with an assortment of machines you recognize from the Hunter Association training facilities, it’s a boxing ring, raised off the ground and surrounded by red roping, that takes center stage. 

You follow the sound of muffled impacts and controlled breathing around the corner of the ring to find Sylus working on a punching bag chained to the ceiling and floor, his back to you.

He’s in a tight tank top and loose shorts. It’s a reasonable outfit to wear to the gym, but the clothing choice stirs something in your stomach. The cut of his tank emphasizes his large shoulders and built biceps, and even where he is covered the outline of his muscles show through the fabric. You’re getting that feeling again, that heat in your core, but this time you're not running away from discomfort. You’re a Hunter on a mission.

You walk over to him. Just get your answer and get out of there. 

“The twins told me I’d find you here,” you say, placing your hands on your hips. 

“Revealing all my secrets, are they?” Sylus says, giving the punching bag a solid hit.

“Just the most important ones,” you say, adding a half-laugh. You’d like to come across as pleasant, agreeable, someone to attend an auction with. 

“So, what can I do for you?” A sharp kick to the black bag has it rattling against the chains.

“Well, I wanted to follow up on last night.” 

Sylus pauses, dropping his fists by his side. “Oh?”

“Yeah.”

He turns around to face you. “What about last night did you want to follow up on?” he says, starting to re-wrapping the white tape covering his palms and knuckles. 

“Our deal.” Your hand runs along your forearm. “I wasn’t sure who won.” 

“You found the brooch before the time limit. I’d award the win to you.” 

“Really?” you say, “Even though…the methods I used–”

“We never said any type of method was against the rules. You played fair.” 

Right. It was just a game, nothing more. He agrees.

You clasp your hands together and tilt your head. “So that means you’ll go to the auction with me tonight?”

He finishes wrapping his hand and looks up, “I won’t go back on what I promised you.” 

So you stand a chance tonight! You’ll be able to follow your lead on the Aether Core and finally find it. You’re so happy, you could hug him. You kill the thought immediately. Nope, no blurred lines, you’re a professional.

“Thank you,” you say, very professionally. 

“Save your thanks for when we find the Aether Core,” Sylus says, turning back to his punching bag, “Is that all?” 

“Yeah, that’s everything,” you respond.

It should be. You were here for one thing, an answer, and you got it. 

“All right, then.” Sylus says, returning to his workout.

You turn around as well, walking through the collection of metallic machines to the door. 

So why do you want to keep talking to him? 

“I wish I’d known you had such a good gym,” you say.

The punches pause once more. “I didn’t mean to deprive you of a good workout, I thought you had other things on your mind.” He chuckles. “Attempting to kill me at the top.”

You scoff. “That was only one time.” You lift your chin. “Besides, you’re more useful to me alive than dead.”

“Seems like failing worked out for you then.”

“What did you just say?” You walk over to him.

He looks back at you. “You heard me.” 

“I heard you imply that I couldn’t beat you.”

“Your ears are working. How fortunate.”

You’re reminded of why you tried to kill him in the first place. Arrogant, out-of-touch, condescending–

You huff, and cross your arms. “You don’t know anything.” 

“Nothing at all?”

“Correct. Nothing.”

He turns around fully now, a smug smirk on his face. You hate it. “So, given another chance, you’d win?”

He’s instigating, intentionally appealing to your competitive streak, which he must know you have after last night. 

But you can’t help yourself. “Of course,” you say, rolling your eyes.

“Let’s spar then,” Sylus says.

“Hm?”

“It’s a win-win: you get the workout you’ve been craving, and I get to see you put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I’m not…I don’t have any workout clothes.” 

“Wear some of mine,” Sylus says, nodding to a locker in the wall.

“But don’t we have to go get ready for the auction?” 

“There’s time. You’re not making excuses, are you?” Sylus challenges, leaning down and towards you.

You step back and put your hands on your hips, your weight off-balance. “No, I’m not—you know what, you stay right there.” 

You open the locker and grab a t-shirt and shorts, changing in the corner while Sylus finishes his bout with the punching bag. 

The fit is big, similar to the oversized things you put on to workout. It would’ve been nice to wear a sports bra, but you’ll manage. You complete a short but effective warm-up of dynamic stretches and a few bursts of movement to get your heart rate up. When your breath is at a heightened but comfortable rhythm and your muscles are warm and lax, you walk over to the ring.

Sylus is already in the arena, leaning against his corner without a care in the world. Arrogant.

You step underneath the ropes to enter the corner opposite of him and find a water bottle and towel already sitting there. Hm. 

“We can’t be too rough since we’re going to the auction tonight,” you say, stretching your arms while walking into the center of the ring, “So don’t leave any marks.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sylus answers. 

The hazy fantasy resurfaces, you on top of him, hand traveling down his chest–

You press your lips together. He may be powerful, but he’s not a mind reader. It was mere coincidence that he said that. 

“Let’s do first to pin the other for a three-count wins,” you say, sinking into the posture you learned from training: your feet planted shoulder-width apart and your hands up and out in front of you.

“Sounds good to me,” Sylus says, mirroring your positioning by staggering his feet and bending his knees. Even in a lowered stance, he’s still a large opponent, which is okay, you’ve fought people bigger than you during Hunter training countless times. The easiest way to take him to the ground is to knock him off balance and let his weight do the work for you. So, getting his leg out from under him will be your goal.

You take a few cautious steps forward, angling your body sideways. He’s not backing up as you encroach on his space, so you move until you're just out of his reach.

“Taking your time, sweetie?” Sylus says as you inch even closer to him, now entering his range. He could grab you, but he’s not. Instead he’s baiting, trying to get you to move first so he can take advantage of a mistake. You can’t do that, you need your attack to be unexpected, so you keep your eyes on his and your hands by your face, seemingly defensive despite lining up for a grapple.

“Come a little closer then,” you say, beckoning him with your raised fingers. He wouldn’t respond to just that, so you double-bluff, feinting with a quick half-step forward and extension of your arm.

He engages, stepping his front leg forward and moving to block a punch that never intended to land. You drop down a level, lock your arms around his waist and use your leg to hook his ankle up off the ground. Then you drive forward, using your momentum to push him back. 

The two of you topple down onto the mat, with him taking the blunt of the impact. You hold on tight, scooting your body up so his leg stays pinned while you add your forearm flat across his collarbone and use your other hand to twist his arm down to the floor. His free arm presses against your clavicle, keeping you from getting too close, but you still lean your entire body weight forward, only needing to keep him down for 

One…two…

His pinned hand twists out of your grip, disengaging around your arm and capturing your wrist from the other side. He pulls your wrist out and away while his other arm locks around your shoulder, pushing your face flat against his chest. You turn your head, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but both of your arms are trapped, one underneath you and the other captured by his hand. But there’s still a chance, he can’t win without you pinned to the ground, so you writhe and push, looking for a weakness in an otherwise ironclad hold.

Then he starts twisting his body. Fuck, you can’t let this happen. If he gets on top of you, it’s over. You release your hold on his leg, shoving one knee up into his hip and straightening the other to plant your foot into the mat, halting his rotation.

It’s a hasty, short-sighted move because he simply starts turning in the other direction. 

Your body slams against the mat and his weight is soon pressing down on you. Your right arm is pinned between your chest and his, but the rolling has released your left arm. You rake your fingers down his back, searching for a grip you can leverage to pull him off of you. 

“Kitten’s got claws?” Sylus chuckles. He’s not even out of breath.

You grunt, trying to buck your hips up and against him but barely getting them off the ground, he’s too heavy. 

He leans his head down into the crook of your neck, which he doesn’t have to do to keep you subdued, but it lets you hear him loud and clear as he whispers into your ear. “Three…two…one.”

His voice is low, and it reverberates through your body. There it is, that thrilling, terrifying feeling from the night before. It mixes up with the bitter anger from losing and gives you one more ounce of energy that you spend leaning forward and biting down on the shell of his ear. 

Sylus sharply inhales before pulling away, his face a delightful mix of confusion and intrigue. His fingers graze the attacked area. “I thought we agreed on no marks?”

“You can heal it,” you say, brusque and sore. 

He does, the broken skin threading together until it’s smooth over the curve of his ear. “Not the outcome you hoped for?” Sylus asks, an amused lilt in his voice.

“Shut up,” you say, untangling yourself and rolling over so you don’t have to face him anymore. You’d like to get out of here, but your aching muscles can't bear to move.

He leans over your curled form, caging you in with his arms. “That doesn’t sound like an apology for biting me.”

Your narrowed eyes stare straight ahead, refusing to look up at the man looming over you. "You're not getting one."

Sylus moves closer and your chest tightens. His voice is inches from your ear once more when he says, “Then maybe I should give you a taste of your own medicine.” 

Your breath catches. This time, there's no urge to run. In fact, your eyes flutter closed and your head tilts up towards his hovering lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if–

Sylus leans back. “Regretfully, I'll have to wait. We have an auction to prepare for.”

Your eyes open. God damn it. You need to stop slipping-up like this.

Pushing him off of you, you scramble to your feet, not looking at him when you say, “Right. The auction. I’ll see you in a bit then.” Your voice is cold, unfeeling. It's professional.

You leave him there in the ring, on his knees despite being the victor.

Once back in your room, you're quick to pull his clothes off, piling them in the corner of the bathroom. Damn it, you still smell like him. You shower for the second time today, setting it even colder than before, and scrub your body viciously. Your skin is raw when you step out, so you coat yourself in lotion once dry. 

When you return from the bathroom, there’s a red dress hanging in your room. You scoff. It’s the same fabric as the vest in your drawer. 

[ijustwannabecool]

Under the Radar

Carlos Sainz x Team Chef!Reader

Summary... She’s the team chef. He’s the star driver. Their relationship is five years strong and completely off the grid. Until someone posts a blurry kitchen photo.

A/N: enjoyyyy. request are open (: I hope you guys enjoy this story. like, comment, reblog, enjoy

you can support my writing over on my Ko-Fi!

─── · 。ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

They never meant to keep it a secret.

Not really.

It just… happened. A quiet kiss after a chaotic race weekend. Her hand in his under the table in a dim-lit Madrid bar. Long-distance phone calls turning into midnight visits. Then, somehow, five years slipped by.

And not one soul in the paddock had any idea that their golden boy was head over heels in love with the team’s private chef.

Not even Lando. (Which still blows Carlos’s mind.)

It wasn’t about shame. It wasn’t even about the media. It was about keeping something just for them. Something untouched by cameras or rumors or PR managers who thought a bachelor driver sold better than a devoted one.

So they made a quiet deal: no photos, no soft launches, no slip-ups. She had her own job, her own identity. And Carlos—Carlos had his career, his fans, his carefully polished image.

But it only takes one blurry photo.

----

The image surfaces on a Tuesday. Posted in the corner of a carousel dump by a friend of a friend of someone from the hospitality team. It’s not even meant to be about them. It’s a vibe photo, plates of food, warm lights, kitchen banter. But in the third picture, in the back corner, you can just make them out.

Carlos is standing at the pass, elbow propped against the steel counter, body angled toward her. He’s smiling, no, laughing. That open-mouth, eyes-crinkled kind of laugh he only does around her. She’s mid-motion, pouring olive oil into a pan, but her face is tilted toward him with the softest grin.

No tags. No caption. Just one blurry moment.

But the fans? They notice.

“Carlos Sainz Spotted Flirting with Team Chef?” “New Paddock Romance Incoming?” “Who is the woman in the kitchen?”

She finds out when her phone starts buzzing nonstop. It takes three group chats, two missed calls from her cousin, and a text from the team’s media officer before she sees the photo.

Her stomach drops.

She scrolls through the comments, heart hammering. Some are harmless. Some invasive. A few kind ones. A few ugly ones. All of them loud.

When the door to the kitchen swings open, she already knows who it is.

Carlos walks in, cap low, sunglasses still on.

She doesn’t say anything, just wipes her hands on her apron and waits.

He slides off his sunglasses. “You saw it?”

She nods. “You?”

“Of course.” He steps closer. “Do you want me to talk to the team? Ask them to get it taken down?”

She hesitates. “Would it even matter? People already screenshot it. It’s everywhere.”

He sighs. “I didn’t want it to come out like this.”

“I know.”

Silence settles between them like flour dust in the air.

Then, Carlos reaches for her hand. “But maybe… it’s time.”

Her eyes flick up. “You sure?”

He nods, steady and certain. “I’m tired of pretending you're not the best part of my life.”

She smiles, small and nervous. “Even if the world goes crazy?”

“I don’t care.” His thumb brushes over her knuckles. “Let them. I’ve had you to myself for five years. I can share… a little.”

The post goes up that night.

-

@carlossainz55: Five years, twenty circuits, one kitchen, and a thousand meals later. About time you all met the woman who feeds my soul and steals my hoodies. Te amo, cariño. (Love you, Darling) 📸 [photo of you laughing in the kitchen, this time taken on purpose—crisp, golden light, unmistakable joy] ❤️

-

The comments explode. So do the likes. But the best thing of all?

----

The next morning, she walks into the paddock hand in hand with Carlos. No more sneaking. No more hiding.

Just them.

And he doesn’t let go once.

[vevobly]

not sure if ur taking requests rn but was wondering if you could do yellowjackets w someone who does photography/yearbook?

Yellowjackets With Photographer Reader!

A/N: I apologize in advance If I got your request wrong! I'm mainly writing headcanons these days, so that's what I went along with. Still, I hope you enjoy and devour this.

Jackie Taylor:

Jackie absolutely adores the attention you give her when you photograph her. Whether you told her yourself or not, she will insist that she's the best subject you've ever had. She'll suggest stuff like poses or candid shots she thinks would show her natural charm every once in a while.

Jackie is not particularly knowledgeable about photography but still, she'll try to impress you with comments like “That angle looks professional, right?” from time to time—she doesn't care if it may or may not make her look like an absolute idiot who is in love with you, she'll still do it.

When you tell her that you care more about capturing genuine moments, she's surprised. While you do like photographing Jackie from time to time, she always looks so guarded when you capture her. But after what you told her? She starts relaxing and letting her guard down around you.

Jackie secretly keeps any polaroid or printed photo you took of her tucked into her journal or locker. It's silly, she knows. But she doesn't want anyone else other than her to know about what you guys do. What you guys have seems like something special, and she'll be damned if she lets someone ruin it for her.

Shauna Shipman:

Shauna is fascinated by the way you see the whole world through your camera. She asks about your process from time to time. And just loves listening to you ramble on about all things involving or related to photography like lighting and composition.

She’s shy about being in front of the camera at first but eventually she does let you take a few pictures of her. And those pictures? All of it quickly becomes her favorite. Though, she wouldn't admit it right away to you—insisting she loves all of your pictures and not just those of her or with her.

If you ever show her a particularly good shot, she’ll quietly murmur stuff like “you’re really talented” with this small genuine, soft smile plastered on her face. There's a whole lot more she wants to tell you, but she isn't sure herself if you'd like to hear it or not.

When you're developing film in your darkroom, Shauna offers to help you even though she’s completely clueless about it. Why? Well, the heart makes you do silly things. And she just wants to spend time with you. Even if it could make her look like an idiot for it.

Taissa Turner:

Tai loves your photography and how it gives you this kind of unique perspective on certain things. She respects how much effort you put into it. And guess what? She's the one often encouraging you to enter competitions or submit your work to the school paper.

She's so proud of you and your own talent that it's to the point she ends up bragging about you every once in a while to her friends without even realizing it. She isn't aware of that herself until someone points it to her or after she's done with bragging about you to them.

Tai is camera-shy. Though despite that, she’ll agree to let you photograph her during soccer practice. But only when the team is winning and such! She'll tell you stuff like “no one wants to see me looking exhausted!” and so, when you're around photographing her.

If she notices you focusing on other people too much, she'll playfully tease you about why she isn’t your main subject yet. Or if she doesn't tease you about that, she'll tease you about how your eyes keep wandering to other people when it should be on her, your muse.

Van Palmer:

Van would think what you do is the coolest thing ever, even if you thought otherwise. No doubt, she would constantly joke about being your favorite subject. Aside from that, she'd probably pose funny and pull a ridiculous face in most photos you take of her.

She doesn't know much about your stuff but she's genuinely curious about it, especially the technical side of it. She would ask you a ton of questions and maybe even offer to help you develop your photos if you needed it (even if she knew only a little of it).

Van would suggest these fun places for you to take photos, always outing with you and basically having these mini photo expeditions with her. Besides those, she would help your gear without any complaints. But with that comes the endless jokes about photography!

She will always be the first one to hype up your work, just proudly showing it off to her friends and telling everyone how talented you—her lover is. If you ever doubted your work, Van would be there to remind you of all the great shots you've taken and just how amazing you are at what you're doing.

Natalie Scatorccio:

Natalie would lowkey be fascinated by the stuff you do. BUT! She wouldn't want to come off as too interested in it. So, she plays it cool. Saying things like "that's pretty badass" when you share your work to her. She loves all of your works but those raw shots you have are mainly her favorites.

She volunteers every once in a while to help scout interesting places for your shoots, using it as an excuse to just spend more time with you. If you wanted to take pictures of her, she'd act indifferently about it. But she's not fooling you, you know she secretly loves it.

Nat would be hella reluctant to take any photos you took of her, even if you told her it's no big deal and such. But she always budges in the end. She keeps any photos you took of her real closely, practically tucking them away like precious treasures she doesn't want anyone else to see.

She appreciates how you see beauty through photography. And aside from that, she really admires how you can find something meaningful or beautiful in ordinary moments. In ordinary things. You offered to show her how to use a camera once, and now she can't stop herself from taking pictures of you when you allow it,

Lottie Matthews:

Lottie would be extremely supportive of your photography. I mean, photography is a form of art and self-expression after all. And Lottie, contrary to what some people think, is a woman of art. She's always asking to look through your portfolio or recent shots.

She'd love being photographed by you, especially if it focused on more natural candid moments. Oh, and if it was set in natural settings like fields or forests. Besides the fact that your shots make her feel seen in a way no one else does. Your pictures of her are always oddly intimate and comforting to her.

Lottie has a lot of connections. So whether you expected it or not, she's almost always talking about you and recommending you to well-off people she knows would love to have their photos taken. Bet your ass that you're almost always being dragged to these fancy meetings between well-off people.

If you ever doubted your talent or got insecure about your work, Lottie is immediately marching up to you and reassuring you about it. She'll tell you all about how your photos have a lot of deep meanings (whether they do or don't) and that your talent is a gift that's meant to be shared.

Laura Lee:

Laura Lee would see your photography as a beautiful talent given to you by the man from above. She wouldn't fully understand the artistic side of it but she would appreciate your passion and dedication towards it though. She'll often encourage you to take shots of beautiful things, kissing you after it as a thank you.

She'd be a bit shy about being photographed but she would always let you take pictures of her if it made you happy. The thing is that she'd almost always ask to see every photo you took of her though, just to make sure she looked appropriate in it and so.

Just like Lottie, Laura Lee would love being photographed in natural settings like fields or forests. Why? Well, nature is one of the first creations of the man from above after all. Besides that, she really loves it when you capture her through meaningful moments between you guys.

If you ever felt discouraged with photography, she would encourage you to trust in your talent and in the man from above's plan. She would definitely offer you prayers and reassurance about it. Laura Lee in general believes in you a lot and aside from that, she sees what you do as something inspiring. Something joyful.

Misty Quigley:

Misty would be incredibly enthusiastic about your photography, probably a little too enthusiastic. She'd want to know every detail about the process and might even try to involve herself in it more than you'd want her to. She'd ask a lot of questions about it, like how you choose your subjects and so.

She would absolutely adore being photographed by you and she'd take it without a doubt as a sign of how deeply in love you are with her. She'd probably get a little possessive from time to time, especially when you're focusing your camera on someone else. She wants you to focus it on her more than anyone else.

Misty definitely would insist on being your main subject a lot, posing exaggeratedly over it while trying to be your muse. Her efforts come off as overbearing a lot. But hey, this is the girl that you saw and decided to like. The girl you choose to take out as your girlfriend. No complaints!

Despite how intense she could come off as sometimes, she genuinely does admire your talent and even goes to extreme lengths behind your back to help you succeed whether you asked for it or not. If you ever shared your photos with others, Misty would brag about it as if you're up and coming prodigy of some sort.

[cevansbrat0007]

There is a trend on some social media where the wife/Gf gives her man a full plate and only her self a little saying that is all that was left. How would Andy and Ari act in that situation?

What's Eating You, Mr. Levinson?

Summary: You decide to test your man's patience with a prank you saw on TikTok. CLICK HERE to read Andrew Barber's reaction to the same prompt.

Warnings: Mature Themes, References to Smut, Ari Being A Menace, Brat!Reader, TikTok Hijinks, Brief Mention of Calorie Counting, Bickering, Manhandling, Threats of Spanking/Punishment, Discussion of a Sex Tape, Cursing, Minors DNI

A/N: Prompt brought to you courtesy of a Reader Request. This fic features Ari Levinson from my Sweet Renegade Series. Semi-proofread, not beta'd. All mistakes are my own. Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated. Thanks for reading!

You weren’t quite sure what possessed you to do this. If anybody asked, you would claim temporary insanity. But right now you were about to get up to some mischief. 

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” You mutter under your breath as you adjust the position of the camera you hid tucked away behind a plant. Pleased with the angle, you make a mental note to revisit the world of Harry Potter sooner rather than later. 

It was officially time for a reread. 

Tonight you were gonna play a little joke on your bounty hunter boyfriend. One that you’d come across the other day after accidentally straying from the wonderful world of BookTok. You just hoped he would find it as amusing as you did. In fact, you were certain that he would.

Eventually.   

Hands on your hips, you do an about-face and traipse back into the kitchen to get started on dinner. On tonight’s menu was a Tuscan pork roast, complete with red wine mushrooms and Haricots Verts – also known as French Green Beans. And for dessert, you’d decided to whip up your man’s favorite: key lime pie 

So, even if he got pissed at you later, you were confident you had something that would soothe his ruffled feathers. 

Fingers crossed.

Later that Evening…

The heady thrum of excitement hits you the moment you hear the open and shut of your front door. Having anticipated his arrival, you’d even thrown on a new dress and cued up a little music. While it wasn’t your usual style, you knew without a doubt that Ari would appreciate your efforts. 

“Bird?” 

The sound of your nickname has a smile forming on your lips before you even realize it. Smoothing your hands over your skirt, you make your way towards your mudroom, eager to greet your handsome bounty hunter. 

His eyes light up the moment he sees you. He stands there for a moment, drinking in the sight you clad in your new black dress and wedge heels. 

“Well, get a look at you.” He breathes, allowing his bag to drop at his feet next to his forgotten boots.

“You like?” Biting your lip, you give into temptation and do a little spin. 

Confidence blooms when you hear his appreciative whistle. But that’s nowhere near enough for your man. Because now that you’d gone and given him a show, he wanted more. 

“Oh baby, I love.” 

Pulling you into his arms, his mouth quickly descends upon your own. His tongue wastes no time finding yours, exploring every inch, every corner of your mouth. He lets you know without words that he’s so unbelievably happy to be home holding you like this. 

You cling to him, your hands roving beneath the soft fabric of his t-shirt to run along the sculpted plane of his back. When he finally lets you up for air it’s so he can nuzzle his nose in the crook of your neck, inhaling your sweet, unique scent.    

“You’re beautiful.” He rasps, pecking your lips once more, his large hands come up to frame your face. “So beautiful. Can’t wait to take this dress off you later, see what you might be hiding underneath.”

“All in good time, Beast.” Your lashes flutter closed as you lean into his touch. “All in good time.”

“What if I don’t wanna wait?” His husky growl rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest as he fiddles the material of your skirt. 

“Well, you’re gonna.” Comes your cheeky response. “So go on and wash up for supper. We’re having something yummy.” You bat as his hands, intending to shoo him up the stairs.

The look that flashes across your man’s face makes it clear that he’d much rather have you for dinner instead. He boxes you in, slowly crowding you with his much larger frame as he backs you against a nearby wall. 

However, you refuse to let yourself be swayed.

“I mean it, mister.” You repeat, poking him in the chest. “Now, be a good boy and go wash up.” Ari’s eyes darken at your words. His head dips without warning as he bites your finger, sucking the digit into his mouth, making you gasp. 

“Alright, Duchess. Have it your way.” He growls once he finally deigns to release you. “You’d best be ready for me when I get back.” With that, he gives you his back as he strides off in the direction of the stairs.

“I ain’t scared of you.” You tell his retreating form, waiting until you hear his heavy footfalls sounding on the floor above you. Only then do you move, intending to finish setting up for dinner. 

‘Alright, sugar.’ You think, taking a second to fluff your curls. ‘Time to earn yourself an Oscar.’ 

Fifteen Minutes Later…

You’ve just finished hiding away what’s left of your meal when you hear Ari make his way into your tiny dining room.

“Have a seat, Beast!” You call out, hoping that the act you were about to put on was at least mildly convincing. “I–I’ll be right in.”

Blowing out a breath you snag your bounty hunter’s plate, along with a glass of wine, and head into the next room. Although he admittedly wasn’t much of a wine drinker before he met you, he tended to enjoy whatever selection you paired with your meal. 

Tonight you’d picked a lovely pinot noir.       

This time when you see him, you’re treated to the sight of a freshly showered Ari lazily sprawled in one of your slightly too small chairs. His still damp hair is pushed back off his face as he waits for you, patiently biding his time while he plans his next move.

Or so you assumed, anyway.

“Here you are.” You sing as you approach. “Tonight I bring you an expertly roasted Tuscan pork loin, complete with a garlic and mushroom risotto and french-style green beans.”

“Smells good, baby.” He absentmindedly scratches at his jaw while he surveys the mountain of food on his plate. 

“Hopefully it tastes good too.” You lean down to press a quick kiss against his temple. “I’ll, uh, be right back with mine.” The handsome brute smacks your ass when you turn to depart, making you yip.      

“Hurry back.” He grunts, letting out a chuckle when he sees you trying to rub the sting out of your butt.

Seconds later you return with your food before quietly taking a seat at the table, all the while refusing to make eye contact. Picking up your napkin, you make a show of draping it across your knee, and then…

You wait. 

It doesn’t take long for Ari to notice the differences between your respective plates, and it takes even less time for him to speak on it – much to your internal satisfaction.

“What the–?” Ari pushes his plate aside so that he can get a better look at your virtually empty one. “Where the hell’s the rest of your food, baby?” His deep voice comes out deceptively soft.  

“Huh?” You cast him a sheepish glance, feigning embarrassment. “Oh this? It’s fine.”

“That’s not what I asked, Bird.” The quiet steel in his voice is impossible to miss.

“I know it wasn’t. But this was all that was left, so…” You trail off, averting your gaze in favor of using your fork to push food around your plate. “It’s fine.”

“There’s that damn word again.” You hear him grumble under his breath, his nostrils flaring in frustration. “I got news for you, Bird. It ain’t fine.” He grouses, reaching for you even as you shift away.

“But it is.” You sing, daintily fanning yourself with a napkin. 

“No it isn’t.” He sings right back, clearly not understanding your game. Which was a good thing. It meant that you two could play a little longer.  

“Look, if this is about you feeling like you need to start counting calories again…” Ari goes to rest his elbows on the table, his own meal all but forgotten. “Then please believe me when I tell you that you look phenomenal. And not just tonight, baby. I mean every night.”

You feel your cheeks heat as your body responds to his praise. That familiar warmth soon spreads, pooling in your belly while you mentally preen at his words.  

“Thank you, Ari.” 

“Oh don’t thank me, sweet girl.” His already husky voice dips another octave. “I just want you to eat.” You stifle a small shiver when the roughened pads of his fingertips lightly graze over your hand. “Now, do me a kindness and take your pretty little self back into that kitchen and fix yourself a proper plate.” 

And there it was. He thought you were lying about there not being any leftovers. He was right, of course. Just not the way he thought he was. 

“I would if I could, sugar.” You stretch out your legs beneath the table as you prepare to really sell the narrative. “Honest. But there really isn’t anything left. I…accidentally only bought one pork loin instead of two. And then I misjudged the recipe for the risotto, but that was most likely on account of the fact that I was in my feelings about the state of Herb & Twine’s green beans selection. It wasn’t very good.”

Ari doesn’t tell you this, but he’s actually impressed by your ability to speak that fast without so much as taking a breath. Instead all you receive is a gruff “uh huh” for your trouble.  

“So,” You forge on, now fully committed to the bit. “I salvaged what I could out of the meal I planned and then gave most of it to you.”

“Why?” 

Boy, he did not look happy. Which was great news for you

“Because…” You draw out the word, wincing when you belatedly notice the sudden tick in his jaw. “I just…felt like you shouldn’t have to suffer for my mistakes.”

“Oh.” He hums, pursing his lips as he mulls over your story. “Well, I reckon we’ll just have to fix that.”

Unsure of what he means, you open your mouth to keep talking, only to let out a shriek when Ari suddenly reaches over to grip the back of your chair to drag you, and it, over closer to him.  

“Christ, Beast!” Your hand flies to your still-heaving chest as you will your heartbeat to calm down. 

But your man’s not done yet. 

You scarcely have time to catch your breath before you’re hauled into his lap. Immediately your arms go to weave themselves around his neck to keep you from falling. Not that Ari would’ve ever allowed that to happen.

Seemingly unbothered by your rather dramatic response, Ari seeks to balance you on top of his muscled thighs as he leans over again to retrieve your plate. You watch in confusion as he unceremoniously dumps the contents onto his own dish before setting yours aside once more. 

“Hate to break it to you, Duchess.” He seamlessly adjusts your positions so that he can grasp his knife and fork. “But I don’t need all this food. So it looks like we’ll just have to share.” 

Momentarily stunned by this turn of events you can only nod as he feeds you a tender bite of pork. It takes a moment for you to find your voice, but when you finally do, it’s to utter two simple words. 

“Ari, wait.” 

“‘Fraid I’m not really in the mood to wait.” Your impatient bounty hunter warns. But he does pause his efforts, his fork hovering mere centimeters from your mouth. “You’re nuts if you think I’m the kinda man who would even consider stuffing himself while his lady sits by and starves.”

“I know.” You assure him before rearranging your body so that you’re facing him, your thighs  now straddling his hips. “And I think that’s awfully sweet.”

“Great. So how about you –”

“But since this is a prank…” The grin you’re sporting threatens to split your face in two. “It looks like you get to keep your food.”

Ari blinks back at you, his mouth briefly opening and closing in a way that very much reminds you of a fish. You feel positively giddy as you press your hands on either side of his bearded face so you can plant a kiss on his full lips while he tries, and fails, to make sense of what you just said. 

“Run that by me one more time.” His quiet snarl is enough to have you soaking your panties.

“I saw this thing on TikTok, where these women all decided to prank their boyfriends by serving them this big ol’ plate of food, while pretending to give themselves only a little bit and claiming that was all that was leftover. They filmed their reactions and posted ‘em for everyone else to see.”

“What the hell is a fuckin’ TikTok?” 

“It’s this app where you…” You pause as you try to find the right words. “Where people can, um–”

“Post dumb shit?” He quirks a tawny brow as he tries to remain serious, even though you’re also pretty sure that you just saw his lips twitch. “Come up with new and inventive ways to torture the men that love them?”

“I mean, that’s not all it is.” You take a moment to whisper kisses along his chiseled jaw. “But I guess that’s a pretty accurate description.”

“Hmph.” Your grumpy bounty hunter continues to glower at you, even as his large, warm hands move to settle on your hips. “And am I right to assume you’re recording this?”

“Maybe…” You giggle, not bothering to hide just how funny you found this all to be. “Oh – but I was never gonna post it. Promise.” 

You hold up your pinky, trying your hardest to look solemn. But the look Ari gives you lets you know that he’s done falling for your act. 

“I’m warning you, Duchess.” He grunts, lightly bouncing you on his lap. “I swear to God, if I catch myself on that fuckin’ tock clock…thing…you have my word that I’m gonna redden that ass.”

“I already told you I wasn’t gonna.” You reassure him once more, resting your forehead against his. “By the way, thanks for bein’ such a good sport about the whole thing.”

“No problem.” He flashes you a feral grin, revealing his pearly white teeth. It shoots straight to your core. “But the way I see it, you kinda owe me one. Don’t you?” He leans in close as his hands begin gently kneading your curves. 

“Um…I don’t think–” You let out a soft whimper when he drags his nose along the delicate column of your throat.

“Oh, but I do.” He nips at your jaw. 

“I suppose that’s fair.” 

“Trust me, it is.” His sensual growl has you practically shivering with need. “Which is why you’re gonna show me where you hid that camera.” His lust-filled gaze drops to your cleavage as he openly begins undressing you with his eyes.

“Now hold on a minute, Beast –” You stammer once realization dawns. 

“Aw, don’t fret.” Ari’s rueful chuckle lets you know that you will never win this battle. “You’ll have your turn to direct our little movie.” Ari suddenly stands without warning so that he can gently deposit you back in your own chair. “Especially now that I know how much you love performing for the camera.

Oh, the man had you there. Sometimes your Beast was a bit too cunning for your liking. 

“I don’t think–” You try again, now feeling shy. “What we do in the dark has no business being on film!”

“Hm, guess we’ll just have to keep the lights on. But for now, let’s get you fed.” He drops a kiss on your head before picking up your empty dish and sauntering off towards the kitchen. “We’ll talk lighting and camera angles once you’re finished.” 

Good Lord on high. What had you just gotten yourself into?

“Here we are.” Ari continues upon his return a few minutes later. He sets your down in front of you before taking your napkin and redraping it across your lap. “But I’d eat fast if I were you.”

“Um…why?” You ask, eyeing him warily. 

“Because.” He winks at you before taking a seat and enthusiastically spearing a piece of meat onto his fork. “Tonight’s dress rehearsal starts in thirty minutes.”

END

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[tammyu-2]

hiii i have another request pleaseeee 2012 leo meeting for the first time!

I love these.

This one is a bit cleche I must admit. But cute over all

TMNT 2012 LEO MEETING YOU FOR THE FIRST TIME

No mention of gender, gender neutral, some swearing, no mention of y/n, Leo being a dork, unproof read.

Leo was actually my first fav when I started watching tmnt

You were a very busy person. And by busy, I mean you procrastinated so much that it made you busy. And you were living in an apartment building. Luckily for you it's normally quiet cause not a lot of people stay there. However, a new couple just moved in next to you recently, and unfortunately, while you were trying to cram in the last missed assignments, you what you heard were some.... interesting... noises coming from the couples room. And it was NOT quiet what so ever.

You shrugged it off and went to go fetch your headphones, and you saw it with your cat on your windowsill. You went to go grab it, and while looking at you dead in the eyes, your cat knocked it out the window as it fell from lots of floors and landed in the busy traffic. You looked at your cat with the most deadpanned face as it innocently meows at you as if it hadn't just broken your most valued option. No more expensive cat food for a week.

So you tried to go back to your assignments, but unfortunately, the couple decided they would be going non-stop all night. So to clear your head you went our your apartment and climbed up the stairs till the door to the top of the buildingm of course you weren't allowed on there but as if anyone is actually gonna check up here in the middle of the night.

So, as you enjoyed the fresh air and the city lights, you didn't know a certain turtle was behind you.

Leo went out on petrol alone because, unfortunately for him, his brothers were being roady, and he couldn't meditate in peace. So he went out on petrol alone for some sort of relaxation. That's when he jumped on your apartment building. You had been sitting on the edge dangling your feet over the building while looking up at the stars. It would be wrong to say that he wasn't caught off guard at first.

So, against his better judgment, he stayed a bit, leaning on a wall just admiring you. But like it's not just you! It was also cause he had to take a break from climbing... yeah... totally that...

After a bit, you decided to stand up and go back, hoping the noisy couple decided that they won't go for the 10th round. Unfortunately for Leo, he was too caught up in his creeping her snapped back to reality just as you turned around and saw him.

"...."

"..."

Holy shit this is awkward.

"Um.. hi?"

What does Leo say at this moment in time?? "Hey, don't be scared. I'm just a walking talking turtle that's actually also a ninja!" Or even "this is your hallucination! You didn't wash your mug properly, so you drank your coffee with soap this morning!"

"Uh, hello..."

The silence was so deafening and so awkward.

"So... you come around here often?"

What type of question is that??? Because that TOTALLY is the angle I was looking at. Nice job.

"No..?"

"..."

"..."

Extrovert of the year, guys.

"Your not gonna run away?"

"I'm too sleep deprived for that shit to be honest with you. Should I be running away? Are you gonna kill me or something?"

"What- no! I won't I promise!"

"Good cause if you were, I have some pepper spray here in my pocket, and you would not like to see that go down."

After a few minutes, you guys were just talking about anything and nothing. He joined you in sitting on the edge of the building as you two just talked about what was on your minds. Of course, Leo wasn't easily one to spill things, so he would avoid questions that would compromise him too much. Plus, he knew he would be in trouble anyway. He wasn't supposed to let you see him... but for some reason, he trusted you a little bit.

"So, what are you?"

"I'm actually a turtle that got mutated into this."

"That explains alot. So do you like remember when you were just a turtle?"

"Not really. It's like when I was still super young. It would have been hard to remember. Plus, I doubt normal turtles have mindsets at all."

"Good. I doubt my old class pet would have wanted to hear all the bullshit the class clown spewed from his mouth."

"I doubt I'd want to be trapped in a classroom hearing kids talk about the darnest stuff anyway."

It was so easy to talk to you. The conversation always just flowed on nicely. You guys spent long on the roof till the sky turned orange. He eventually had to leave but not before giving you a small salute with an endearing smile as you waved him bye.

After that you passed into your bed once you made it. You would have to do your pressing assignments later. Right now you need to catch up on your already horrible sleep schedule.

Meanwhile Leo practically skipped into the lab with a bright smile. And even when Raph made a jab at him for being out too long Leo just shrugged him off and gave Raph a pat on the shoulder.

"And the leader finally decides to arrive. What took so long? You tripped down a building on the way here?"

"Okay buddy."

"What the fu-"

You two regularly met each other and made certain days where you two just stay up on the roof. One day, you two found out you liked the same comic book series. So you guys set up a little picnic blanket with some snacks and a nice view on the roof where you two just went on a debrief on what your favorite moments were and your favorite characters. You even invited him to your apartment, and you two watched sci-fi movies.

Of course, the turtles were suspicious of all the time he was out and how smiley he had been recently, but they could have never caught him in the act somehow.

Throughout this, Leo had been absolutely denying any thoughts that popped up about how romantic some of these hangouts were. But let's be honest. He deffo likes you.

This was short but sweet. This is so cute AH I'm jealous of something that doesn't exist 😔

But hope you enjoy your meal

TOODLES

~Tammy<3

[thewintersoldierdisaster]

a/n: i’m almost shocked at how fast this fic got written?? thanks to anon who indulged my fun little request for a new hockey to write about (inspired by @wyattjohnston ‘s post earlier about how there’s only fics for certain hockeys in the nhl fic tag and also bc i have so much fun writing for new guys in the fic exchanges!!)- how could i resist vancouver’s own prince charming? hope you guys enjoy because i had fun writing! ☺️

word count: 2.7k

tw: single dad!brock, nanny!reader, dirty talk, minor daddy kink, fingering (f receiving), handjob, dirty talk, nipple play

summary: you’re nothing but the nanny for brock’s daughter, until one night all the lines get blurred

Kya snuggles closer to you in her sleep, blonde hair tickling the underside of your chin. Her cheek is pressed up against your collarbone and her little body is hot, making you feel all sweaty where she’s connected to you.

The TV casts the room in a faint blue light, the low volume serving as white noise along with Kya’s little puffed air snores.

You think about moving her to her bed, but she’s so soft and cuddly when she hasn’t been lately and you can’t find it in your heart to get up. Unfortunately, the four-year-old has your heart in a vice-like grip and you’d do anything for her. Including being a human mattress.

So you stay on the couch, stroking her back and humming softly when she stirs briefly. Eventually, the clock ticks over to the eleven o’clock hour and you know it’s only a matter of time before Brock’s home and your shift is over. Not that you have to go very far to get home - your pool house turned bachelorette nanny pad is practically spitting distance from the back door. If you tilted to the left a bit and angled your neck, you’d be able to see the little planter with multicolored flowers that Kya had helped you plant last week.

And by help, you mean crushed a few daisies in her little fists and ate a mouthful of dirt before you could stop her.

A+ nannying for sure.

You’re still thinking about it when a familiar voice startles you from your thoughts.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Brock’s voice rumbles through the dark room, laughter around the edges.

Without thinking, you reply, “just thinking about the handful of dirt I let Kya eat last week.” Then you wince, wondering why Brock’s presence always makes you say the stupidest things.

He laughs fully now, stepping around the couch and dropping into the armchair. He’s in his post-game look - rumpled suit pants and button down with the sleeves rolled up, bare feet with his loafers kicked off in a pile at the front door, and blonde hair darkened from his shower. His palm rasps over the few days’ worth of stubble growing on his chin and his face splits into one of those smiles that makes Twitter (and you) swoon.

“She’s gotta get vitamins and minerals from somewhere, right?” He teases and your cheeks heat.

This.

This is why he makes you say the stupidest things. Because he’s a real-life Prince Charming with the personality to match.

You smile back at him, a reflex. “There are some leftovers in the fridge, if you’re hungry and want to get in your own vitamins and minerals,” you joke back, shifting Kya on your chest when she starts to slip.

Brock shakes his head. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll take Princess Ky upstairs and you can get some rest,” he stands, arms out to grab Kya.

Weirdly, you shift and hold her closer. “It’s, um, I don’t mind. She’s been really snuggly today and it’s nice,” you shrug one shoulder. “She watched a little bit of the first.”

“Yeah?” Brock’s face lights up. He loves it when you bring Kya to games and he gets to wave at her during warmups.

“Mhm,” you smirk, “she was obsessed with Quinn.”

Brock narrows his eyes at you, scrunching his nose in disgust. “Real nice,” he shakes his head, “making fun of the guy that your best friend over there belongs to.”

Your cheeks lift in a smile, your arms holding Kya comfortably. “Don’t be jealous of my bond with Ky. Daddy’s still her favorite.”

Something flickers across Brock’s face, there and gone before you can analyze it. He chuckles, says, “I better be since I pay for all those chicken nuggets she inhales like a freaking vacuum,” and excuses himself upstairs to change.

You watch him leave, chewing at your lower lip while you study the curve of his ass in his slacks, feeling awful even as you’re appreciating his form. Kya mumbles in her sleep, nonsense words and a ‘Daddy’ and your name, eyelids twitching as she dreams.

Brock’s back a few minutes later, comfortable in sweats and a threadbare t-shirt. Still barefoot, now he smells like mint toothpaste in addition to the locker room soap. “Sure you don’t want me to take her?” He asks, sitting down on the couch with you, a cushion’s worth of space between your bodies. “Feels like I should let you off the clock and hold my kid now that I’m home.”

“I really don’t mind,” you promise him. “Kya’s…she’s exactly what I want my own daughter to be one day.” You think maybe you’re over sharing, but it’s late and Brock just looks so domestic and comfortable. It’s easy to pretend when he looks like this. His eyes soften as he studies you and the way you’re holding Kya.

“She’s a pretty cool little girl,” he agrees warmly, reaching out to run a hand over her head. His palm

makes her hair staticky, fine strands lifted into the air. You blow at them gently, giggling when they stick to your face even after you try smoothing them back with a hand.

“You know,” he says too casually after a comfortable pause, “she, the other day when you were off, she said that she never wants you to leave.”

A little piece of your heart breaks with his words because you know one day you’ll have to leave. It’s easy right now, nannying for Kya while you get your Master’s, but what happens next year when you’re finished with school and you have to find a real

job.

Your face must show your distress, because Brock coughs slightly and rushes to say, stumbling over his words, “I didn’t mean, she’s four. You know, they say stuff all the time. When you do have to leave, it’ll be okay. She’ll be okay.”

He means well, you know that, but it doesn’t help and to your horror, your nose starts to burn and tears well in your eyes. You don’t really want to cry in front of Brock, not over something that’s at least a year away, but you feel the dam starting to break.

“Um, I do think I’ll head out for the night,” you say quietly, trying to not let your voice crack. You shift Kya in your arms and transfer her to Brock’s, making sure she stays asleep. “She really should be out for the night. So, um, I’ll see you in the morning.”

He takes her easily, arms practiced with adjusting her weight against his chest and her head on his shoulder. You jump up from the couch and wave over your shoulder, heading for the back door, ignoring Brock’s whispered shout of your name.

It’s so silly, to get so emotional about Kya outgrowing her need for a nanny, her need for you. But you’re more attached to Ky and Brock than you’re willing to admit, even to yourself.

Right now, your best option is to play your sad music playlist and cry, just to get it out of your system before getting back to normal in the morning.

The music helps. The crying helps more. The two glasses of wine help the most.

And then there’s a knock on the door, scaring the ever living shit out of you. It’s so late your visitor can only be one person.

“Brock?” His name is a question on your lips when you open the door, your brow furrowed.

“Hi,” he looks upset and your brain works sluggishly to figure out what could be bothering him. “Can I-?”

He gestures a little and you nod, stepping back automatically. “Yeah, of course. It’s your pool house,” you say. “Is Kya asleep?”

He nods, holds up the baby monitor. You can see Kya’s little body sprawled out on her bed and a smile curls your lips - she sleeps like a starfish, arms and legs akimbo. “She’s done for the night,” he replies quietly, setting the monitor on the little table you have next to the door for your keys.

Brock’s been in the pool house before, a million and one times. But this time, the air crackles like it does before a thunderstorm, your nerves on edge.

“What are -“

“I’m sorry.”

You and Brock speak over each other, words getting jumbled in the air. You giggle a little and Brock smiles, his shoulders relaxing.

“I’ll go,” he says, still smiling. His hands run through his hair, the strands flopping over his forehead before getting pushed back into place. “I’m sorry, for what I said. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Oh,” you aren’t expecting the apology and you start to excuse him, “I didn’t -“

“You did,” Brock cuts you off. “Your eyes are all red and I’m so sorry. I just thought, Ky loves you so much, that you’d want to hear what she said about you. I wasn’t thinking about - about you leaving.”

“I’ll have to eventually,” you shrug, the wine dulling the sharper edges of your emotions.

Brock’s jaw works and you wait for him to speak, patient like he’s Kya. A few seconds go by and he scratches at the back of his neck. “I’m not good at - I want you here, as long as you want to be here. I don’t care if Kya is a grown woman with her own kids, I’d want you here.” He pauses and his words sink in, battering at the boundary you’d built around your heart.

“What?” You whisper, hands fluttering at your sides. You suddenly don’t know what to do with them.

“I…I think, no, I am. I am definitely falling for you,” Brock says, tone firm and eyes soft, crinkled at the corners. Those damn blue eyes that have starred in a fantasy or two of yours. He reads your silence as negative, apparently, because he frowns and continues, “if I just made this uncomfortable, we can forget it ever happened.”

“No!” You nearly yelp, Brock’s eyes widening at your sudden increase in volume. “No,” you repeat quieter. “I don’t want to forget this happened. I’m just … surprised. I didn’t think you thought of me as anything but Ky’s nanny.”

His smile is contagious and you’re both grinning like idiots at each other.

“You haven’t been Ky’s nanny in my head for a long time,” he confesses. “Just been hoping you felt the same way.”

“Definitely feel the same way,” you giggle, feeling hysterical.

“Can I -?” He steps forward, into your space, and you nod, knowing what he’s asking. And then all you know is Brock’s mouth on yours, his hands warm on your waist, his hair soft under your fingertips. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, teeth nipping at your bottom lip when you open your mouth. A groan fills the air and you’re not sure if it’s yours or his.

Your chest crushes against Brock’s, bodies flush against each other. His cock is prominent against your thigh, hard and hot through the layers of fabric separating the two of you. For months, you’ve fantasised about this, wondered what it would feel like to get your hands on Brock and it’s better than you ever imagined. Hot and hard, his lips soft against yours, his hands gripping at your ass, dragging you closer and closer. Your hips chase his, involuntarily moving for relief.

“Brock,” you whine his name, surprising yourself with the neediness that colors your tone. He growls against your jaw and lifts you, arms braced under your ass, settling you on the countertop in your tiny kitchenette. He steps into the space created by your spread legs, your thighs at his hips, ankles locked at his lower back.

“Shit, wanted to do this for months,” he mumbles against your skin. His lips mark a hot trail down your neck and over the heated skin of your chest. His hands are down the back of your shorts, kneading at your ass.

His cock presses against your heated core and you moan, loudly and unashamed. Brock’s laugh is clearly delighted and he presses himself against you harder, drawing a strangled moan from your throat.

“Making such pretty noises for me,” he croons, dragging one hand up your side to grope at your breast, rolling your nipple until it’s a stiff peak. “What other noises are you going to make for Daddy?”

“Oh my god,” you keen, arousal flooding your panties. “Brock, oh my god, I need you to touch me.”

“What’s the magic word?” He replies, ducking his head to suck at your nipple over your shirt. The scrape of his teeth and the wet fabric makes you shiver, clit throbbing.

“Please,” you wail, grinding your hips against his.

“Please…?” He trails off and your heart pounds in your chest, pleasure coiling low in your stomach.

You sigh, a shaky exhale. “Please, Daddy, touch me. Please make me come,” you whisper the words in his ear, nipping at his earlobe.

Brock whips your shirt off, tossing the fabric to the floor. You’re not wearing a bra and normally you’d be self-conscious, but Brock’s staring at you like you’re the first woman he’s ever seen and you’ve never felt hotter. “Christ,” he mutters, palming your breasts and kneading them tenderly. “So fucking gorgeous. Just, just fucking stay with me forever, please?”

You nod, agreeing. “Yours, I’m all yours, I promise,” you cradle his face in your hands and kiss him deeply, leaning in as close as you can.

Somehow, his shirt ends up on the floor with yours and your fingers can trace each muscle on his chest and stomach. You drag a nail over his nipple and his skin erupts in goosebumps, so you do it again, skimming your nails over his skin and scratching at his biceps.

“Mark me up,” Brock encourages you, lifting your ass off the counter with one hand so he can tug at your shorts and panties. “Make sure everyone knows I’m yours.”

He’s certainly doing the same, sucking bruises onto your skin. There’s a bite mark over your breast and it feels like his fingers dug bruises into the flesh of your ass.

“Just want you,” you blink away a sudden rush of tears, still in disbelief that this is happening. “Been thinking about you for so long, Brock.”

Your fingers dance down to the waist of his sweats, pushing at them until his cock springs free and you can get a good look at it. It’s just as perfect as his face, thick and long and hard as steel.

“Come on, honey,” his fingers swipe at your clit, making you inhale sharply and arch your back. “Put your hands on me. Touch me.”

You obey, wrapping your hands around his cock and stroking him. Softly at first until Brock grunts and wraps his hand around yours to increase the pressure and speed. “Like that,” he instructs you, leaving his hand in place and using the other to smear your arousal over your clit and inner thighs.

“I don’t have any condoms!” You gasp, Brock’s index finger teasing at your entrance. The thought hits suddenly, annoyingly.

“Doesn’t matter,” he replies, kissing the moan from your mouth when he plunges his fingers into your cunt. “I’ll make you feel good just like this.”

Brock’s a man of his word.

He makes you come twice, once on his fingers and one on his tongue. The first time you make a mess of the counter, dripping all over the place. The second time he’s got you laid out on the couch, his stomach splattered with his own come from the handjob you’d given him.

And then he cuddles.

Wipes between your legs with a towel and wraps

you in his arms under a throw blanket. Kisses the crown of your head and tells you all the filthy things he’s thought about doing to you.

“Hey,” you pipe up, amusement bubbling in your chest, “do I get a bonus for every blowjob I provide?”

Brock’s surprised laughter vibrates at your back, shaking your entire body. His arms wrap around your chest and squeeze. “No,” he deadpans, sounding like he’s struggling to hold back his laughter, “but we probably should talk about your job.”

“Tomorrow,” you insist. “I love taking care of Ky. So we’ll work on a transition.”

The transition from Ky’s nanny to Brock’s wife and Ky’s mom takes about six months less than you anticipated.

“Best job promotion ever,” you tease Brock at the altar, Kya practically glued to your side and shouting her excitement when you kiss for the first time as husband and wife.

[graciedollie]

hii hi, could you make one where grayson and reader are wives and work together as council guards until one day reader arrives injured and grayson becomes extremely worried. I would really be happy if you did that! ❤️‍🩹, I love your writing, do it in your own time!!

Complications

Pair: Grayson x FemCouncilGuard!Reader

Summary: It was a pretty normal day while you were doing your normal duties, having to be sent to make an arrest in the grimy streets of Zaun. The arrest wasn’t going to go smooth obviously, but it definitely wasn’t supposed to go this way either.

Warning(s): Description of injuries (stab wound) ,mention of bleeding, swearing (ofc), reader being stubborn, Grayson scolding reader, fluff added too ofc <3, reader is kind of a smartass

A/N: I love writing for my bbg <3 also feel free to leave any requests

The sun was slowly turning in for the late evening, casting a beautiful hue of orange and purple across the hazy skies. You were handling your usual duties before you were requested by the councils, figuring it would be about handling a certain case. It didn’t take you long before you stumbled upon the large room, seeing all the members and your wife, standing attentively.

Grayson looked over at you as you stood next to her, flashing you a small smile before turning her serious focus back to the council members before one of them spoke, who happened to be council Mel Medarda.

“There have been reports of a group—preferably from the Undercity—causing havoc among our city, leading to the people being understandably upset. I trust that you will sort this problem, yes?”

Before Grayson could even speak, you quickly agreed with a swift nod and eager words. “Yes ma’am, of course. I can assure you this little mishap will be sorted.” In return, Mel gave you a soft smile and a firm nod before dismissing the both of you.

As the two of you soon left and walked along the long hallways, you were suddenly stopped by the large hands of your wife on your shoulders. You turned to look at her with a confused expression before she started to speak, “Sweetheart, I think it’s best if you let me take this one with you, yes? I know you’re well on your own, but you haven’t gone much in the Undercity as much as me.”

You couldn’t help, but grunt in slight irritation at her words, knowing she only worried for your safety—you were her wife for God’s sake. “Baby, I can do just as fine on my own. I’ll just take Marcus and backup with me, it’ll be fine.”

She narrowed her eyes at you, obviously not fond of the idea of not being partnered up with you for this case—especially such as these. Her eyes stared in yours intensely before softening, nodding slowly with a sigh.

“Alright…but, if I hear one bad thing goes down there..”

“It’ll be fine, Honey. I can handle it, plus I’ll have hep with me.

How hard could this possibly be? All you were doing is going down to the Lanes and making an arrest, nothing out of the ordinary.

Oh honey, you were wrong.

The night took over the golden sky, leaving the sky blanketed in a dark cover. Venturing into Zaun wasn’t the most extravagant thing, if you’re being honest. It was grimy. People giving you dirty looks. And definitely different from Piltover. Neon lights and signs crowded the dark streets, every angle except the dingy alleys.

The more and more you ventured into the streets, the more you realized how this arrest was going to be anything, but easy. You and your crew walked through the streets, looking around with hardened gaze at the peering standbys—obviously noticing the fiery glares.

Based on the information you and your crew were given, it seem that the group hung around a certain abandoned building—which didn’t take too long to stumble upon. You glared at the group, seeing how their teeth were yellow and how buffed they looked.

“We can make this easy or not so easy. All your choice.”

The group looked around at each other with disbelief before turning back to you with a chuckle, eyeing you as if you were prey—which you definitely seemed so to them. “Would ya look at that? Think you’re gonna take us in? We’re not going down without a damn fight.”

Sometimes you wondered why you even chose this damn job sometimes.

“Let me make this clear.”

That was all you said before you and another of your crew pulled your guns, aiming them directly at the group, earning a grunt of shock and irritation.

“Last chance.”

The group scowled at your crew as the rest of the crew pulled out the restraints, seeing how they dangled dangerously in their grasp. All of sudden, one of the members charged at you before you quickly aimed at the man before..

WHACK.

You don’t know how it happened or what did it come from, but all you knew was that you were on the floor and had blood dribbling down your lips—most likely from being brutally punched. Your eyes glared at the mysterious person, seeing them emerge from the shadow and saw that it was woman. You quickly shuffled onto your feet, looking over at your crew while they were busy handling the others before focusing your attention back to woman.

She had a nasty grin on her chapped lips, slipping a sharp knife from the back of her pants as she eyed you steadily—seeing how you were focused solely on her. “Oh c’mon, can’t handle a little punch?”

You grunted at her taunt before trying to reach for your gun, but saw that it was fucking gone? Fucking great. Luckily, you had close combat experience. You were steady on your feet, keeping eye contact with the woman before she lunged at you with her knife, causing you to lean back and grab her arm to pin it behind her back as she stumbled to the ground and the knife clatter out her hand.

“Made this way harder than it had to be.”

Your eyes narrowed down at the woman as you pinned her wrist behind the small of her back, only moving one hand to reach for the cuffs, but that was your biggest mistake. The woman quickly reached for a knife on her side and sliced you on the side of your stomach, earning a pained yelp as you scrambled back from the woman.

“Wonder how you made it this far..”

You sneered at the woman, panting heavily as you applied pressure to the bleeding wound before slowly standing up as did she. It started to feel that maybe—just maybe—you should’ve listen to your wife.

The woman chuckled lowly before quickly charging at you, but was quickly clocked in the back of her head by Marcus with a gun—specifically, your gun that was scattered to the side—successfully cuffing her. The rest of the crew cuffed the rest of the group, herding them back. He added the woman in with the her group as they were escorted away, shouting out streams of profanities and whatnot.

His eyes immediately snapped back to you as you huffed heavily, seeing the blood seep through the clothes onto your hand gradually. He quickly helped you, throwing your arm over his shoulder as he helped you walk.

“Shit—you ok? What the hell happened back there?” He grunted lowly as you both shuffled back through the grimy streets and onto the bridge, crossing over to piltover.

“Some fuckin’—shit—girl came from nowhere and just punched me…and stabbed me..” Your voice was strained and heavy, trying not to wince too much as the slash only continued to bleed heavily.

“God…do you have any idea how stupid it was to take this case? You know Grayson is already going to be on mine and your ass.”

“Mhm, I know…let’s just focus on me not dying, yeah?”

and brother, was he right.

You laid in the infirmary, laying slightly uncomfortably as the slash on your side was still recovering. The blood loss wasn’t too bad, but scary and a blessing that you survived. The infirmary was nice and quiet, despite having doctors check in on you and here and there, but that didn’t last long until..

“What the hell were you thinking?”

Your eyes shot up quickly at the familiar voice, seeing your absolutely enraged wife rushing over to your side, quickly embracing you before caressing your face with a firm grasp and stern glare.

“Baby, listen—“

“Don’t give me that! I told you that I didn’t feel right about you going there. I trusted that you could handle it. Do you have any idea how worried I was when I was informed to hear that my wife was in the infirmary—being treated for a stab wound? Do you really?”

Her voice was stern, but held a edge of obvious concern and worry—though she was pissed. You frowned slightly as she scolded you, which was definitely expected from her, but you knew she was only concerned and worried for you.

“Honey, I know you’re upset, but I handled a good bit on my own…” Your voice was raspy and low, due to being sleep for a good while or so. She let out a heavy sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose, looking at you with a gradually softening before her hand caressed her cheek.

“I know and I’m proud that you did, but still, it was a risky idea to even take that case in a first place…you could’ve let me handled it.”

Though she was pissed, she still was worried and highly concerned for her dear wife, who happened to look like an angel despite being injured. Her thumb brushed over your cheek, gazing at you with obvious fret in her eyes as she murmured softly, “I swear I have to keep my patience in check with you…”

“Aww, I know you still love me.”

She couldn’t help, but chuckle at your cocky little remark, looking at you with a raised brow and an amused smile etched on her lips before brushing her hand over your thighs.

“Of course, I do, love. Though sometimes you make me want to strangle you..”

“Like how that woman wanted to before she stabbed me?”

Her eyes widened in surprise at your worst-timing joke, glaring at you with a tight pursed frown on her lips as she pointed a finger at you, “That is not funny.”

“What, you brought it up!?”

It would definitely be a wild before you ever got a case to go back to Zaun…it was definitely for the best to avoid complications.

hope you enjoyed and hoped this was to your liking, anon <3

[multi-fandom-imagine]

So, but of an elaborate request, but-

Reader that works for Vox as an actress or any other type of TV celebrity being comforted by either Alastor, Husk or Angel because Vox yelled at her, practically cussed her out and made her cry.

(Love your fics btw!!)

A/n: You're so sweet 😩, also why not all three 👏.

•Alastor•

Alastor knew it was you the moment you stepped into the Radio broadcast room. He could see tears running down your cheeks and he already knew what fucker was to blame.

Stepping close to you, the demon did his best to push away his anger. He knew Vox was taking his anger out on you because of him. What he wouldn't do to ring his scrawny little neck.

Brushing away a tear, Alastor clicked his tongue then pulled you into his body. He had to bend down to hold you but he did his best to comfort you.

"Now now dear, do not fret nor worry about what that clout chasing mediocre podcast says about you."

Letting out a few more sniffles you looked up at him smiling weakly. "Really?"

"Oh course dear, now let me deal with Vox. He will never make you shed anymore tears."

•Husk•

You were quiet when you sat down on the bar stool, your head resting on the table. He could see you held tears in your eyes, that you were doing your best to not sob. He hated seeing you cry, hated it because it meant that he couldn't do a thing about it.

He felt useless, he felt like a loser.

Wings twitching he made his way over to you, you looked so pretty in that dress. You had so much talent, to much talent for that jackass. Shaking his head he let out a grunt pulling you into his chest not caring about your tears soaking.

"He yelled at me again, the things he said....I'm so fucking stupid. Why do I keep doing this Husk? I just want to sing, I like what I do but I dont know how much longer of this I can take."

Frowning, Husk let his head rest onto of your head as he let his claw run down your back gently. "Forget what that freak says to you. You have more talent than that hack darling." Maybe he go do something to fuck Vox up, ya that's what he'll do.

He'a not gonna let that bastard get away with making you cry.

"Now can you give me a smile? Don't let that prick ruin the fun we might have."

Letting out a weak laugh you looked up at him with a weak smile. "Fun? What kind of fun."

"Whatever you like love."

•Angle Dust•

<Friendship pairing>

If there was one thing Anthony understood was the shared pain he felt with you. He did his best to hide the abuse he received from Valentine, just like you did the same with Vox. But he hated it, he hated that someone with your talent was being wasted on that bastard.

Peaking at your crying face, he knew you were trying to stay strong and he hated it. He hated it because you helped him through everything and you were doing this for him so he wouldn't worry.

"Why ya cryin over a freak like that!" Anthony did his best to cheer you up but it seemed to make you even more miserable. "Come on hot stuff."

Taking a step towards you, Angel dust gave you a grin pulling you close. "I got a sexy little number for ya to make a certain bar tender to stumble over his words. You guy's will be makin babies soon enough.."

A light laugh escaped your lips, Vox'a treatment of you completely vanishing through your mind. "You really think me wearing this would make Husk lose his mind?"

"Sugar, if it doesn't then you always have Lucifer." Anthony gave you a wink as he shoved the skimpy number in your arms. "Now hurry up and change...I gotta see his reaction."

[mixingandmelting]

bonjourrrrrrrrrrrr

can I request a scenario where joker, hyuk and wooin react to their crush falling down during a race and getting back up while breathing like a mess trying to overtake the other crew?

Hyuk:

He can’t keep still, tugging his bottom lip as his eyes stay trained on the screen. He’s seen your skills, knows how you race - after all, that’s what had led to his obsession with you in the first place. So when he watches you get back up, sweat and dirt on your skin as you pant, it lights a fire in him. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, heart pumping in anticipation. A larger part of him wither in agony that he’s not the one you’re racing against, those eyes that you’re making aren’t on him. The reason for him not to break the rules and take you on there and then stems from his relief that you’re not hurt, meaning he could always track you down and poke you into a mini-race afterwards (well, that and he didn’t really want to get nagged by Wooin). 

That being said, scenarios of how the mini-race fills his mind, lips curling up and stretching to the point it resembles a certain Batman villain as he continues watching you make your comeback. 

“…And he tells me I’m twisted.” Wooin grumbles, having sensed what was happening next to him since the very start. 

Vinny and Joker could only nod their heads in silent agreement, deciding it was better to leave the Grim reaper up to his own accord rather than getting tangled up in whatever he was planning. 

Wooin: 

“Ha!”  His grin sharp and pupils in slits. 

You're heaving from exhaustion, the angle of the camera hiding the expression you’re wearing at the moment. Yet, based on the tension rolling off of you as you carefully pick your helmet back up and slapping on your head, you’re far from giving up. And, no surprise, he’s right. 

A shiver travels down his spine, recognizing the glint in your eyes once you look back up and jump on your bike. 

“This turns me on.” He mumbles, a forked tongue peeping out and wetting his lips from excitement while he tosses the stick of his finished lollipop harshly into the trash can next to him. 

The frustration, anger, vexation- he loved seeing that from you. Hell, he even wishes he was the one that had caused it. Then, all of your attention would’ve been on him from being both the cause and target of your wrath. Starting as an intrusive thought, if he manipulates things just right, he could probably be able to play you right into his palm. That thought alone gives him the thrills, especially in your current messy state. 

Hence his shamelessness, not at all bothering to censor himself as he watches you getting back at the cyclist that had caused you to crash in the first place. All while ignoring the rest of the team shuffling away from him with a look on their faces. 

Joker: 

He doesn’t grin unless it’s something interesting. What you’re doing right now? It’s more than interesting. Not bothering to even dust off the gravel on you after your fall, you’re up and pedaling at a cadence that could match his with complete focus on the opposing team’s cyclists. 

Lips stretching from one ear to the other, it’s enough to cause everyone who glances at him to flinch as well as giving them another reason to call him by his nickname. Heat builds up and exudes from him, the desire to go one-on-one in sprinting giving him thoughts where he’s considering cashing in a favor to have him pin against you in the next strategizes if team Sabbath were to go against yours. That or simply forgoing whatever was planned so he could race against you (that’s what they tend to do most of time anyways - winging it as they go). 

His fists clench and unclench at the same time you suck and puff out air, so, so hungry that grows the more he watches you take the other crew on. 

“What’s wrong with him…” Hearing Vinny’s mumble, Wooin looks up only for his expression to turn flat. 

“Don’t mind it. He’s always like that when he gets excited by something.” 

It does little to comfort the red head, expressing his regrets in joining the team once again with a new reason under his breath.